Let the Magic Box eat Lobsters

Buzz off I'm busy. 
I'm drinking my soup. 
I'm in the middle of something. 
Go away! 

.  .  .  I'm eating soup and from wanting to understand 'everything', to wanting to explain 'everything' I see the impossibility of either and want to slough away this social responsibility and explain nothing at all. 
It is never quite enough to play footie, to only act, or be an anything, there is the expectation to be able to talk about it and have ready the 'What's it feel like to be a (racing driver)?' answer. 
My ineffectual explanations are misinterpreted at best.  I acknowledge that the fault is mine, that the confusion between idea and expression is my confusion and I see that there is nothing I can do about it. 
And I've tried, so 'Let the magic box eat lobsters'.  I'm doing my bad bit and make of it what you can, what you may, what you care to.  Make what you will of this blog, this song, that picy hanging there, here it is and that's that, you'll get no further help from me. 
I know, I know, publicity can never be a bad thing but I'm not doing the post-match interview.  Forget it, I've no more to say and I'm out of here! 
Out, away into the night and scooting back to this screen. 

I've ventured away from the virtual world and been out in public. 
Perhaps you can tell? 
FB and social networks went by the board and there was no time to tweet or for virtual musing and blog browsing.  My emails and SMS became terse and cursory and the inbox and junk files brimmed. 
It's dangerous out and about in real time.  It's unexpectedly fast.  I got into trouble very quickly. 
I got lost looking for the Jerwood Gallery.  A kind bookseller went online to point me from his screen in the right direction, and out of his life.  On from the Jerwood Drawing Prize show to 100 PLUS in Webber Street aided by a chap with map-on-iphone and another in a pub taking recourse to his laptop. 
'I'm getting to know this area,' I thought as we made our way to the London Group Opening although admittedly I was now in the capable company of a French person. 
There, I greeted a familiar face by name of a dead man.  Live-not-dead man turned out to be judging the exhibition.  I had a piece in the show and was shortlisted for a prize so, that went well. 
Fleeing from my gaffe, cursing silently, I rounded off the evening in the cellar of an occult bookshop so dark that denim glowed bright.  Surrounded by the litter of departed witches, empty glasses and a series of paintings set on black velvet depicting scenes from the Book of Revelations, I vowed never to leave the safety of my laptop screen ever again. 

I did win a prize.  www.kevinjackson.net/bwCONDITIONS.html
'What's it feel like to be a loser?  . . /. .  to win?'

'Let the magic box eat lobsters' (Sir Terry Pratchett), is one of my all time favourite 'I'm out of here' lines.  I'm in public again this Thursday evening at the ING Discerning Eye exhibition opening at the Mall Galleries where I have a piece on show.