Empathy is to solipsism as Texas Hold 'Em is to ______

Empathy is to solipsism as Texas Hold 'Em is to _______?

Ray Bradbury
in 1975

In part as the result of a conversation with someone I didn’t know and to whom I had demurely down-played the virtues of my writing in general, and in another part due to the fact that it strikes me as one of those truisms that smacks of verisimilitude, I came suddenly to the realisation that writing (and writers) starts (and start) with solipsism and move outwards from there. [Notice how I’ve made a syntactically permissible but nearly unreadable sentence there by the use of distracting and in terms of agreements uncomfortable parentheses! What a cock.] One writes of what one knows (and can prove) – the self. Only when enough time has passed in practice can that inward gaze be slowly turned outwards, and only with constant vigilance will it stay thus. Ray Bradbury reminded me recently, writing in the introduction to a book of essays on creativity that I half-remembered existed from my time as a bookseller, and which I picked up for free thanks to those kooky free-book-nerds who leave books lying on benches in Roath Park with messages therein about releasing them into the wild for others to enjoy etc etc, that writing is comparable to music. If you (as a maestro) don’t practice for one day, you’ll know. Two days and your agent will know. Three days and your audience will know. He also says that a new simile struck him one morning – that of writing being like a landmine onto which you jump in the morning and as a result have to spend the rest of the day putting yourself back together. How that fits I don’t know, but then I’ve not been practicing for a while.

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Rage, rage against the piling up of shite.

It’s Local Election Day in Cardiff, and on my way out with the dog, I am greeted by the smiling faces of the Liberal Democrats’ Plasnewydd Focus Team. I had naively believed that I might go one day without being harassed by the Liberal Democrats, but obviously today was not going to be that day. Nonetheless, it was the final straw for me and my paper-thin patience. A little history, and some contemporaneous comment, would be useful right about now I think. The Lib Dems have led the council in Cardiff since 2004. My sources in the Welsh Conservative Party have indicated that they are about to take a complete pasting in today’s local election, with Labour way out in front, likely to come close to the 50 members they had back in 1999. In my opinion, this is a justified spanking. And yet I am unable to justify this on a political level. According to some of the bombastic nonsense that comes through my door unbidden every single day of the week and often on weekends too,

There's a bit missing...

Stay angry, people.

Ed's dead, baby. Borrowed, with thanks, from the Independent I was unsure whether or not to write a post, post-election, on my post-election blues. For the most part, this was because I'm sure that political commentators, bloggers, activists, and people with far more understanding of the political landscape and the effect that the latest result would have on the lives of those for whom the spectre of a Tory government was only a bad dream, a shade that haunted at night when the lights burned low and the wolves howled at the door, had already used all of the adjectives and metaphors of despair in ways far more eloquent than anything I might come up with. I find however that I must say something, even if it doesn't help matters, to explain to myself more than anyone else why it is I feel so miserable. I will probably have no right to bemoan a Conservative government - my country still has a socialist leader, in theory if not in practice - particularly as I did very littl

There's a bit missing...

Four more years...

I was excited to have remembered my own 4th wedding anniversary this past week, especially as I have a habit of forgetting such things (sorry mum). That said, I barely made it in time with a celebratory laurel tree, thanks to a very lovely lady at Covent Garden Flowers , for my gorgeous and under appreciated wife. She, on the other hand remembered well in advance and got me what she thought was the most appropriate gift imaginable. At this point I should probably reference Wikipedia's anniversaries page , at which I found out that I was in the the correct customary area in my choice of gifts. Year 4 in the UK is traditionally fruit and flowers, and my laurel tree was in flower - see the handily appended table below. Year U.S. U.K. 1 st Paper 2 nd Cotton 3 rd Leather 4 th Linen, silk Fruit and flowers However, she on the other hand had missed her mark. "One is paper," she said authoritatively, "whereas two is something like cloth, or crinoline, and

There's a bit missing...

From The Centrifuge

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