I wrote a few posts back about my disappointment that the latest version of the MacBook Pro doesn't have an F11 key that shoves all open documents to the side to reveal my descktop in all is shambolic,chaotic glory. Stan Lee, author of the always interesting Brand DNA blog has left me a comment in which all is revealed. Hold down the 'fn' key on the bottom left of the keyboard and press F11 at the same time. It is a curious quirk but I am just happy to reconnect with my old habits. Thank you Stan.
I had never even noticed the fn key and, in all truth I have no idea what its true purpose is - I can relate to that. I suppose it is like one's appendix. It seems to have no raison d'etre until it becomes infected and has to be removed. I must see if there are any books about the appendix. Perhaps a book of lists about great people stopped in their tracks by untreated appendicitis - would that be the footnote of their biographies?
Stranger topics have been covered - I once read a book about the colour mauve. The book was cleverly titled Mauve: How One Man Invented a Colour That Changed the World and it was much more interesting than I would have imagined.
On the subject of biographies. I am thinking that I might tackle an autobiography. It will be unauthorised, of course. A project to leave behind for my children. I'm not sure whether to call it The Last Ice Cream Boy or Here Goes Nothing…. They say you should write about what you know. I may have to do extensive research on the topic as I sometimes feel I barely know myselves.
I once read Peter Cook's memoir - Sadly I was an only twin. In truth I only read parts of it but I was rather taken by the title. A good title is like a good headline in advertising - back in the day when headlines and copy were admired and visual puns or post modern stylings were more rare than they are today.
I enjoyed reading Clive Jame's recollections and Barry Humphries, likewise. Both are the stories of Australian wits abroad (one of whom became famous as a broad). I have read the beginning of Robert Hughes self-told tale in which he recounts a terrible road smash that left him badly injured and would like to read more. I enjoyed his art reports in Time magazine and his droll narration of The Shock of the New (which is a brilliant title).
As an aside; while I sometimes wonder about the value of blogging (an ugly title) I have found my memory has improved considerably since I began. Whereas in the the past thoughts would flit through my mind in the same impulsive way that hunger might affect a tree frog I now have a record - of some thoughts at least (because I only reveal what I choose to reveal). I now have a record of some of the things that amused or concerned me contemporaneously. I can also recall more clearly how I might have felt at the time. By comparison I can barely remember some of the things I experienced in, say, the 1980's, working in advertising. Possibly less because I am absent minded than because I was absent - not really present.
I wonder if any autobiographical work isn't by definition a fiction. Perhaps that is how I frame my own thoughts. A simple fiction about events as interpreted by my psyche - both real and imagined.
Once upon a time…
I had never even noticed the fn key and, in all truth I have no idea what its true purpose is - I can relate to that. I suppose it is like one's appendix. It seems to have no raison d'etre until it becomes infected and has to be removed. I must see if there are any books about the appendix. Perhaps a book of lists about great people stopped in their tracks by untreated appendicitis - would that be the footnote of their biographies?
Stranger topics have been covered - I once read a book about the colour mauve. The book was cleverly titled Mauve: How One Man Invented a Colour That Changed the World and it was much more interesting than I would have imagined.
On the subject of biographies. I am thinking that I might tackle an autobiography. It will be unauthorised, of course. A project to leave behind for my children. I'm not sure whether to call it The Last Ice Cream Boy or Here Goes Nothing…. They say you should write about what you know. I may have to do extensive research on the topic as I sometimes feel I barely know myselves.
I once read Peter Cook's memoir - Sadly I was an only twin. In truth I only read parts of it but I was rather taken by the title. A good title is like a good headline in advertising - back in the day when headlines and copy were admired and visual puns or post modern stylings were more rare than they are today.
I enjoyed reading Clive Jame's recollections and Barry Humphries, likewise. Both are the stories of Australian wits abroad (one of whom became famous as a broad). I have read the beginning of Robert Hughes self-told tale in which he recounts a terrible road smash that left him badly injured and would like to read more. I enjoyed his art reports in Time magazine and his droll narration of The Shock of the New (which is a brilliant title).
As an aside; while I sometimes wonder about the value of blogging (an ugly title) I have found my memory has improved considerably since I began. Whereas in the the past thoughts would flit through my mind in the same impulsive way that hunger might affect a tree frog I now have a record - of some thoughts at least (because I only reveal what I choose to reveal). I now have a record of some of the things that amused or concerned me contemporaneously. I can also recall more clearly how I might have felt at the time. By comparison I can barely remember some of the things I experienced in, say, the 1980's, working in advertising. Possibly less because I am absent minded than because I was absent - not really present.
I wonder if any autobiographical work isn't by definition a fiction. Perhaps that is how I frame my own thoughts. A simple fiction about events as interpreted by my psyche - both real and imagined.
Once upon a time…
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