A blog is a log, before it is anything else. Into the log goes everything: the tides, the wind, the weather; condition of the sea; the status of the standing and running rigging, of the sails; the mood of the crew; any and all untoward incidents that migh subsequently have significance.
As a log, this blog fails. It ought, if it is a log, to be possible to reconstruct from it where I was and when, what I did, in broad terms at least, while I was there, what my direction was as I set out towards new destinations. I fail in this simple task because it seems dull, and mechanical - but a moment's thought suggests that, as far as any usefulness in concerned, it is the dull and mechanical stuff that counts.
Thursday and Friday were D-days. D repays every effort; the more I pour into her, the more I get back. It feels, sometimes, rather like betting, and so as if the ruck will run out some time. But most of the time, I am sure that she has in her hand something that is at least a match for what I have in mine.
A good record would list what she had, and what I had, and how we played the hand. But that kind of detailed direction and recording appeals to me no more (no less, either) than than any other, and I cannot do it anyway.
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I was both drunk and stoned when I wrote this post - hence the dropped letters, the strange but suggestive misspelling, the repeated words. I would correct these, but then the post would fail as a record in another way. So I will leave it as it is.
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