Sunday, 23 July 2017

Hookworm

For two weeks, I am silent.

It's an odd feeling. I've been writing this blog for nine and a half years. At Eroticon this year I ran a session about how to keep writing blog posts. I have been trying, using each one of my methods, to keep writing at least one a week during the months afterwards - ideally more than one. Two. Three. I'd post every day if I could. I should.

And then I come here and I sit behind a firewall which blocks everything. Not just Blogger - but Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Skype, IRC, and so many others. I have no idea how the staff cope. I'm only here for a month.

So I open Notepad. I write a couple of blog posts. I'll post them, I tell myself, when I get around this block. There's a way around it - there's always a way around it. Well-meaning people tell me of VPNs, or proxy bypassing sites, or tunnels. They are all blocked. I cannot view them; I cannot download anything. My usual tunnel - through 47's server - is not available, even if through some miracle I remember to have PuTTY here (whether it can connect, however...).

Two increasingly desperate weeks pass and I manage to get around the block. It's a fluke, and it's unstable, but I don't care. This is my dad's old laptop; mine is safe back home. I can read sex blogs; I can download porn if I want to. I can post my blog. I can go on IRC. I can even browse Tumblr - not that I do that very often, but still.

My fingers hover over the keys. What do I blog about? The sex I've been having? No, I haven't been having any. Recent sexual happenings? I'm not sure there have been any. Sex news? I haven't read any - I've been blocked. Shock revelations? I don't know. There's been a game of I Have Never recently, but there's nothing new there. It's hardly a surprise, really, for a sex blogger to say that he's had sex in a stationary car, or a disabled toilet, or by the side of a swimming pool. Not that anyone here knows I'm a sex blogger, of course.

So what do I say? What do I do? I want to blog... but how?

Paper. Pencil. Get some ideas down, ILB. Sort through your dickbrain and your Rolodex of memories. There's got to be something. Something. Anything.

Halfway through a morning of work I start jotting down some ideas for tweets. It's a start. Later in the day, I get a cup of tea and a biscuit, I sit down and I start to write. It's far from perfect... but I am writing.

I am very tired this month. I am working hard. Too hard. Everyone here is - with no space to breathe or time to spare. I'm not horny, or excited, or enthused. I am burning out. Yes, yes I am.

But if I can write... then that's one thing to which I can cling.

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