CCCLXVI diem: annus blogus - II

So droogs! It is getting to be two years now and some things have changed and some things are still the same. If you thought that the more the things change, the more they remain the same, then it is true. Only it got a lot more complicated because, you see, sometimes the more they didn't change, the more they don't remain the same too. You must think I'm a pyahnitsa, blabbering away, having had a few firegolds last night, but would I do it to my droogs? No, no! (and btw, I'm strictly on moloko!)

I'd like to think this blog has grown; perhaps I have too. Arrested development? I can viddy certain things better than before. All thanks to the fellow bloggers who write away and delve deeper. Sports and politics, sinnys and books, all lie in their critical wake. They shive and they thrust, they leave it krovvying for all to see. But the bratties also embrace and promote their own, and give us all a piece of themselves. It helps me think and analyse, sift and extract, opine and interpret, because I slooshy to what they have to say. It's my own little Gazetta, not perfect, but is.

It also harks back to more soothing climes. Be it Ludwig Van or Rahul Dev, if they're in my gulliver, they're also out on the page. So too do the men from cinema and sportspersons, friends and thoughts, all the other vecks - all out there, jostling but orderly too. The page isn't a StaJa, you know, they stay because they like it. I like them being around too. They're droogs, you see, only they don't know me that well.

I'm no longer surprised the blog has lasted so long. It has found a rhythm of its own. It sits up and asks to be fed. Fewer blackouts allowed. It feeds on itself. It enquires politely and sometimes tolchocks me on the head. It demands books and authors. It wants to yell out about the latest flicks. It scours Biblios, of tomes and humans alike, looking for subjects to devour but fearful of no one, not even any imaginary millicents. It thinks it is less apologetic, perhaps it is less pretentious. It does not know if it has been trimmed of fat. But you, the droogs that matter, would know. Maybe it seems obnoxious to you. This post sometimes seems like that to me.

They are all primordial ancestors of these slovos: quiet introspection, loud opinionmaking, Socratic understanding, Napoleonic claims of fact, useless jetsam/flotsam of trivia, unintentional pas of faux, inhibited turns of phrase, modest attempts and a superior air of omniscience.

As always, if this hasn't made much of sense as usually happens, I beg your appypolly loggies. But keep coming back. Won't you, all you chellovecks out there? I don't know how it will pan out, Bog only knows. It's a slice of my jeezny, you know. It's horrorshow when it works out well, but when it doesn't, it's a tolchock in the zoobies. I'm still trying to pony everything, but it's not completely unravelled yet. The perils of being a malchick, looking for the answers. It's a malenky bit scary, but it seems worth the drat.

On the blog completing two years, my small homage to the language Nadsat which was invented by Anthony Burgess for his book "A Clockwork Orange". It's not a great usage here, because to truly capture the essence of it, the thoughts probably need to be more aggressive and anarchic. There isn't enough context here to understand all the words, so a Nadsat Dictionary could be useful. Still, for the droogs :-).

Last year's annual post commemmorated the occasion by using the "boustrophedon" script.