Steve's Online Diary

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DIARY 20/08/09

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Read about Facebook unleashing freedom to steal identities, and how the Royal family had registered their names so no thieving cybersquatter could do so. Thought I’d best do same. Now I don’t have a clue what to do with it. I know I don’t want to twitter nonsense with near or complete strangers, so I imagine the site will lie there, dormant. Same with MySpace. The Imposter has been seen off , we’ve registered another and there it lies, dormant too. What do you do with Facebook? Has the word “friend” been somewhat devalued by tagging it to strangers who look you up?

 

DIARY 03/08/09

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Read somewhere, taking a late night pause from writing, trawling the web like a first-year student at a loose end, that someone (maybe in The Guardian?) was of the opinion that I was neither a cockney, nor a rebel. Occurred to me that Neil Young was neither crazy, nor a horse. Only wish I’d read the piece when it was printed.

 

DIARY 01/08/09

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Took a couple of weeks away from the study, but didn’t take a guitar. And I regretted it badly.
Thought Mahon, main city of Menorca, would have a decent music shop or two, but the only one was closed for its own holidays.

 

DIARY 26/06/09

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Now Michael Jackson has been taken, probably at the hands of careless Californian physicians of low morals and expensive habits.

Where were we? Oh yes. Flawed genius.

 

DIARY 21/06/09

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Looking For Eric. Flawed genius. Flawed expression. Every Genius is flawed. And all genius is flawed. By its very nature, the wayward mind, the extraordinary imagination of the greatest artists, entrepreneurs, inventors and sportsmen, is flawed. It cannot be anything else: not ordinary; never stable, and impossibly exasperating. Read Eliot and take your time. Research the allegories and the allusions to obscure, arcane Greek literature and myth. Cantona, Zidane, Best and Maradonna. Michelangelo, Picasso, Stubbs and Turner; Darwin, Einstein, Gates and Hawking; Fosse, Prince, Rogers and Hart; Bernstein, Epstein, Faraday and Wilde; Lawrence, Shakespeare, Steinbeck and Hemingway. Think Hemingway’s rare gift for story-telling in the narrative. Think the shortest short story to grace literature’s annals: For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn. Charlie Scribner prize winner. Saw this quoted recently in a broadsheet. Misquoted, actually. After each pair of words, Hemingway carefully, meticulously, pedantically, placed a point. Not a comma, as in the paper’s poor quote. But a full stop. Each pair represents a third of the story. It had, according to Scribner’s rules, to have a beginning, a middle and an end. So points it was. Full stops. Hemingway was a Genius. But he blew his head off once he realised he’d never find the ultimate answer. Flawed, then. Not superman, merely a Genius. Such a gift must be a burden.

 

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