Hey!
Nice one for joining me, Kate & Claire! Maybe you can make me look less sad by posting comments when I post a poem or story! ; )
Look fwd to interacting here. x
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Is life absurd?
I was asked this question at 18. I answered ‘NOOOOOooooooooooo’ with all my might. I answered it in the form of a 1st year Philosophy essay to be handed in and marked. I remember the mark. 67. I think the PhD student marking it was just pleased to see something other than a screaming ‘YEEEEEeeeeeeees’ in the pile. My ‘NOOOOOOOOOoooooooo’ might have been entirely inarticulate, but as a ‘No’ it stood out.
I remember the only guy I liked in the ‘Yes’ pile was Camus. Because Camus, even though a firm believer in the banality and absurdity of life, was an advocator of raging against this meaninglessness with fury. Even though I was still in the ‘No’ pile, I liked his rebellion. It was very teenage-like and passionate, and Lord knows I respected intensity back then.
I quoted not just philosophers, but musicians, artists… and the whole theme of absurdity being reaffirmed in popular culture although still fumed in disagreement. ‘We sit here stranded though we’re all doing our best to deny it’- I quoted Dylan.
Now, life seems reasonably absurd. Arbitrary. Ridiculous. Silly. Laughable. Although maybe this is not as terrifying a prospect as I once thought, and to think that was what made me cling so fiercely to my unusual ‘No’.
I haven’t been in work/study since February 2009. I’ve had 7 interviews in the past few months (none since July) and in every one I wanted to get up and do a bit of a jig, and say ‘Why the farce? I’ll do whatever you want… I’ll sing, I’ll go get you a coffee, I’ll shear your pet goat… just don’t let me go through the farce of this bloody interview!’… because you’re asked questions that seem to require some sort of prodigious power to answer them… and then you happen to talk to someone who got the post or who works at the same place in a similar role, and their answers they gave are blindingly obvious and not very dissimilar to the ones you gave.
Life does seem pretty vacant without some sort of definite structure. I’m not asking for any God-like totality or crystal-clear profundity, just some sort of vague job that will be as absurd as the next but with some sort of activity to make it allusively appropriate to my somewhat creative persona.
Although my answer now belongs begrudgingly to the ‘Yes’ bloc, I’m sort of glad I was once adolescently entrenched in the ‘No’ camp. Camp Nou.
I remember the only guy I liked in the ‘Yes’ pile was Camus. Because Camus, even though a firm believer in the banality and absurdity of life, was an advocator of raging against this meaninglessness with fury. Even though I was still in the ‘No’ pile, I liked his rebellion. It was very teenage-like and passionate, and Lord knows I respected intensity back then.
I quoted not just philosophers, but musicians, artists… and the whole theme of absurdity being reaffirmed in popular culture although still fumed in disagreement. ‘We sit here stranded though we’re all doing our best to deny it’- I quoted Dylan.
Now, life seems reasonably absurd. Arbitrary. Ridiculous. Silly. Laughable. Although maybe this is not as terrifying a prospect as I once thought, and to think that was what made me cling so fiercely to my unusual ‘No’.
I haven’t been in work/study since February 2009. I’ve had 7 interviews in the past few months (none since July) and in every one I wanted to get up and do a bit of a jig, and say ‘Why the farce? I’ll do whatever you want… I’ll sing, I’ll go get you a coffee, I’ll shear your pet goat… just don’t let me go through the farce of this bloody interview!’… because you’re asked questions that seem to require some sort of prodigious power to answer them… and then you happen to talk to someone who got the post or who works at the same place in a similar role, and their answers they gave are blindingly obvious and not very dissimilar to the ones you gave.
Life does seem pretty vacant without some sort of definite structure. I’m not asking for any God-like totality or crystal-clear profundity, just some sort of vague job that will be as absurd as the next but with some sort of activity to make it allusively appropriate to my somewhat creative persona.
Although my answer now belongs begrudgingly to the ‘Yes’ bloc, I’m sort of glad I was once adolescently entrenched in the ‘No’ camp. Camp Nou.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
A3 Posters For Sale
Got some photographs to sell in the form of posters, this time!
1 for £8
2 for £15
These are just 2 of many designs. Send me a message at ereganphoto@gmail.com if you'd like to order one, or ask me to show you more samples of my work so you can choose an image yourself!
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Saturday, December 20, 2008
non-start
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.
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.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
'At least, it has rhythm'
He wants to cancel everyone out.
Office parodies jollily told,
Beckett-like fishing vignettes
rhythmically crafted,
shower curtains with a touch
of the nostalgic.
He falters, on stage,
like he practiced at home
making references to his
awkward height
and ‘these poems are shite’,
‘Don’t read them, then!’
A brave girl echoes
each silent thought across
the room.
Out he comes with it,
(smearing spit on skinny jeans)
a smuttier version
of ‘Last Tango in Paris’
set round the corner, perhaps.
Anal sex this, groping her that
joyless sex this, joyless sex that.
‘At least, it has rhythm’
I concede to Anna
and when his endless elegy
to anal’s finally over,
enter ‘Death girl’,
(read hopelessly depressing
poems earlier)
mop of
strawberry blonde hair
a-fopping, following
‘Anal sex guy’’s thin black figure
and smiling, congratulating,
weighing each other up.
Anna & I think ‘Anal sex guy’
and ‘Death girl’ make
an apt couple, lovely
is pushing it.
Office parodies jollily told,
Beckett-like fishing vignettes
rhythmically crafted,
shower curtains with a touch
of the nostalgic.
He falters, on stage,
like he practiced at home
making references to his
awkward height
and ‘these poems are shite’,
‘Don’t read them, then!’
A brave girl echoes
each silent thought across
the room.
Out he comes with it,
(smearing spit on skinny jeans)
a smuttier version
of ‘Last Tango in Paris’
set round the corner, perhaps.
Anal sex this, groping her that
joyless sex this, joyless sex that.
‘At least, it has rhythm’
I concede to Anna
and when his endless elegy
to anal’s finally over,
enter ‘Death girl’,
(read hopelessly depressing
poems earlier)
mop of
strawberry blonde hair
a-fopping, following
‘Anal sex guy’’s thin black figure
and smiling, congratulating,
weighing each other up.
Anna & I think ‘Anal sex guy’
and ‘Death girl’ make
an apt couple, lovely
is pushing it.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
american dreams & nightmares
A gritty visual fest of a video directed by my brother Pete Regan with a tune by my nearly husband Mark Graham, can be watched here:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjdE2fCJGd4
or at www.myspace.com/markgraham23
and www.myspace.com/peteregan86
www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjdE2fCJGd4
or at www.myspace.com/markgraham23
and www.myspace.com/peteregan86
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