blathering

Getting a touch annoyed with my complete inability, or rather, my disinterest, in using the blog genre as anything other than a cheap, partially disposable confessional. Perhaps I lack the discipline to become the essayist I once fantasized about becoming (whilst young, naive, and reading the complete essays of Montaigne. Heady stuff.). Or lack the interest. Or lack the discipline to resolve the lack of interest in uttering clearly articulated, well written, observant, thoughtful, witty sharp posts on topics cultural and literary, academic and international. Or lack the interest to resolve the lack of discipline. Or I just get off on cheap word play.

Hurry up and wait. For my mole to inform me how the candidate behind door number four did/is doing. Then, armed with information, I will know nothing more about the black box at the other end of this process than I do now. But it will give me more to fret about, to analyze obsessively. That's not a bad thing, now, is it...