Not written here for a while.
Great start.
I have been writing (this is said with a big pinch of defensiveness) although I confess I’ve probably spent more time watching Jeremy Kyle re-runs than writing. (I wish I was Larry David. Then and only then, would the words ‘you don’t know me’ theatrically repeated from the settee resound with humour, and not bastard boredom).
I’ve been writing poetry about photography.
Tried to write a review about ‘Hunger’ and the unending, piss puddles from the cells lining the Maze’s corridor while reflecting the institutional lights. I can’t quite seem to gather all my disparate thoughts about the film into a good enough sequence.
I’ve tried writing a piece ‘9 ways to plunge further into credit crunch blues’, although maybe it should be renamed ‘once a pauper, always a pauper’ because it’s not like I’m losing my house or job. I don’t own a house or have a job.
I wanted to write a review of the Manchester Carols. I wrote a few bits and pieces on scraps of paper on the train home, but discarded it. I seem to discard a lot of pieces of paper this day. Probably should put them in that blue bin. Never been good at recycling.
I need to write an essay for uni about Berryman and Williams. I don’t know enough about poetic personae. I’m excited to learn about it. So much so, I was reading on the train home semi-relevant essays about Williams and Berryman. This guy next to me, slightly pissed, kept looking at me reading. He finally says 5 minutes before he gets off : ‘is that any good, or do you have to read it?’ Before I’ve spoken he decides ‘It’s boring, innit.’ I say ‘actually, no. I sort of like it. Bit of a geek’. He rants platitudes about life being about getting from ‘A to B’ and ‘you have to know what you want to do’ and just when I’m beginning to nod off, he supplies me with this corker ‘tv’s the killer though. You shouldn’t watch tv’. How does he know? So, maybe he was infinitely more perceptive than his white chavvy ku klux klan type hoodie and his approaching middle age goatee led me to believe. He knows I’m watching too much tv. I can compare myself to Mildred in Ray Bradbury’s ‘Fahrenheit 451’ with her 3 interactive walls of tv, if it makes me feel better. Or LD. But I know it’s not like that.
