I’ve decided to name Coleridge’s infamous person from Porlock Bennett Channing. By way of background, for those of you who are unsure of whom I speak, the mysterious Mr Channing is that inconsiderate (and previously anonymous) personage responsible for rousing Samuel Taylor Coleridge (STC) from his slumber, at the exact moment the great Romantic poet had been busily composing his masterwork Kubla Khan, while under the influence of an opium-induced reverie.
Immediately upon waking (or so the story goes) STC had next promptly forgotten the greater part of what would go on to become one of the most revered poems within English literature. For evidently the poem as we know it is but a mere fragment of a supposedly more complete work of genius lost due to said misfortune.
Likewise, I too have experienced my very own “Bennett Channing”-moment this very morning. Hence, my obvious eagerness to “name and shame” that oafish interloper who would banish nocturnal poetic invention by visiting unbidden on business unspecified.
In my own case, I had been blissfully dreaming of my writing the perfect blog post, when I was awoken rudely mid-dream by the sound of the bedroom door creaking inward, as though opening of its own accord. Immediately whereupon all knowledge of the “perfect post” in question’s topic and content were completely lost to me, receding after the manner of mist being met by the first rays of the rising dawn sun.
With no logical explanation to account for why the bedroom door should have acted in such a way, I have since been forced to infer that I have fallen prey to the ghost of Coleridge’s selfsame person from Porlock, still roaming the land and looking for dreams of unusual genius to dispel.
There seems to be no other suitable conclusion that I can reach to account for my tragic loss. Which is why I wish to identify both Coleridge’s and my intellectual assailant, for evermore, as being none other than one Mr Bennett Channing. So that you too, who read this, should not suffer the same sorry fate.
But what of the “perfect post”, to which I have alluded earlier, I hear you ask? Alas, I remember nothing more about it other than, maddeningly, that it was truly perfect…
So, damn you, Mr Bennett Channing! Ghost or no ghost, you have no right barging your way into the sleeping sanctity of an inventive writer’s dream-life. Damn you, back to hell, sirrah, I say! For on the honeydew of the perfect blog post [I] hath fed, only to be next awoken and left with nothing but the taste of ashes remaining in my mouth! Good day, to you, most foul fiend!