Blog stats and Paris diaries 2
So, I've become obsessed with my blog stats. I never looked at these until yesterday. Since yesterday (pm), I've looked at them seven times.
This is what they look like (that little dark green guy is where I am!):
United Kingdom - 86United States - 24Spain - 3France - 3Australia - 1Brazil - 1Germany - 1Israel - 1India - 1
Could it be possible that they are real? How do you stop checking your stats? Anyway, now I know about this element of blogging, the gamey element, I'm probably going to be doing a whole lot more of it.
So, Paris diaries 2 for your bemusement:
12 Janvier
As ever, when faced with total freedom, I feel an intense need to plan. I must put restrictions on myself immediately. Why is this? No one knows. But here's the plan:
EVERY DAY YOU MUST... write [this is your priority, dickhead, don't forget]; learn some French; take a bottle of water out with you; eat fruit; walk; take photos [when your camera arrives].
*
Strange night's sleep. Couldn't get up to wee (no toilet in library) so spent a lot of time battling with my psyche/bladder. You do not need a wee, I told them. They wouldn't believe me. Could hear the bells of Notre Dame. The novelty wore off. Got up at 8, washed, packed everything away, helped open the bookshop, went to get coffee and pain au chocolat with another tumbleweed. Needed to say, This guy is next, in French. Instead, stood there like a moron gesticulating weirdly. Today, LEARN SOME FRENCH.
*
Ha! Been walking Paris for an hour, looking for somewhere to stop and have a drink. Trop cher! (with an e? who knows?) In the end, after thirty windows, each one making me feel like a freak or subspecies who definitely didn't belong, I found a bar. I now have a pint!
The strangest thing is that before I got to this place, as I walked around, I had a million thoughts and nearly all of them were self-hating or world-hating. Soon as I sit down, in a warm place, with a drink I am entirely happy. All that anger, was down to me wanting my basic needs met. Is this normal? Unlikely. [Maybe in our part of the world]
Wow, I really don't have a brilliant mind.
Here is what a real writer, Henry Miller, has written in their diary while in Paris [actually, a letter to Anais Nin]. The contrast is astounding.
"...a writer could... baffle a psychologist: not only that, but [a writer] is more of a psychologist than the other since he ramified the mysteries, extended them, developed them, and left the answers to go hang, because the answers weren't important, it was the drama, the mystery, the undecipherable pattern that was essential."
Perhaps I should address my diaries to Anais Nin?
This is what they look like (that little dark green guy is where I am!):
United Kingdom - 86United States - 24Spain - 3France - 3Australia - 1Brazil - 1Germany - 1Israel - 1India - 1 Could it be possible that they are real? How do you stop checking your stats? Anyway, now I know about this element of blogging, the gamey element, I'm probably going to be doing a whole lot more of it.
So, Paris diaries 2 for your bemusement:
12 Janvier
As ever, when faced with total freedom, I feel an intense need to plan. I must put restrictions on myself immediately. Why is this? No one knows. But here's the plan:
EVERY DAY YOU MUST... write [this is your priority, dickhead, don't forget]; learn some French; take a bottle of water out with you; eat fruit; walk; take photos [when your camera arrives].
*
Strange night's sleep. Couldn't get up to wee (no toilet in library) so spent a lot of time battling with my psyche/bladder. You do not need a wee, I told them. They wouldn't believe me. Could hear the bells of Notre Dame. The novelty wore off. Got up at 8, washed, packed everything away, helped open the bookshop, went to get coffee and pain au chocolat with another tumbleweed. Needed to say, This guy is next, in French. Instead, stood there like a moron gesticulating weirdly. Today, LEARN SOME FRENCH.
*
Ha! Been walking Paris for an hour, looking for somewhere to stop and have a drink. Trop cher! (with an e? who knows?) In the end, after thirty windows, each one making me feel like a freak or subspecies who definitely didn't belong, I found a bar. I now have a pint!
The strangest thing is that before I got to this place, as I walked around, I had a million thoughts and nearly all of them were self-hating or world-hating. Soon as I sit down, in a warm place, with a drink I am entirely happy. All that anger, was down to me wanting my basic needs met. Is this normal? Unlikely. [Maybe in our part of the world]
Wow, I really don't have a brilliant mind.
Here is what a real writer, Henry Miller, has written in their diary while in Paris [actually, a letter to Anais Nin]. The contrast is astounding.
"...a writer could... baffle a psychologist: not only that, but [a writer] is more of a psychologist than the other since he ramified the mysteries, extended them, developed them, and left the answers to go hang, because the answers weren't important, it was the drama, the mystery, the undecipherable pattern that was essential."
Perhaps I should address my diaries to Anais Nin?
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