localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)
Oh look at me, pretending to be all adult here. Yesterday I bought three new light fittings (I can't call them shades- the push towards Eco friendly lighting has led to a new fashion for coloured glass around one's bulbs to try and eke the best out of dimmer bulbs) and helped Mum put the sealant round the shower and attach hooks to the coat-hook board Nanny made. My credit card is tied up with the washing machine and tumble dryer- I'm expecting a call from the company within the next couple of weeks to arrange delivery date- and I've been in touch with an illustrator friend of mine with a view to making a small picture book for the baby for Christmas (I've written a poem for it). I've also booked a trip to the dentist on my day off, my first ever counselling session in a couple of weeks, and right now need to gather up some of my insurance paperwork to submit an application for writing my will, to make sure that should anything happen to me, Mum is all sorted. I just need my life insurance stuff unearthing and my work contract so I know how much I'm worth to that lot.

PRETENDING TO BE A GROWNUP IS A BIT ANNOYING REALLY. (Except for the book. My friend is going to discuss it with her Uni tutor first because I am asking for a relatively tight deadline so I'm hoping they'll let her use it as portfolio work or something because that would work for both of us quite well).

Amidst all this adult behaviour real life is generally not going too well. So I am being busy and trying so very hard to be helpful and useful to everyone and make people happy. I don't know it's possible to succeed but one keeps trying.

On a bit of a brighter note though we did go and see the RSC live broadcast of Richard II at the local pictures last week, Mum and I. It was great and Mum really enjoyed it too. Plan is to see more of these!

Poetry

Oct. 7th, 2013 08:45 pm
localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)
I thought that, since August, I hadn't written any poetry. Or, at least, not any poetry fit to share with anyone ever, only dark half-dressed scribbles in the way that sometimes your brain disconnects and writing might help put the pieces less painfully together. But I've found at least one poem which, whilst unsmiling, is not unusable so that's something. It is poetry group later this week and the Mayor is coming, so I've tried to hammer something out tonight about home.

A friend of mine picked up a poetry book for me, recently. I tried to read it last night but it is absolutely terrible. I mean really, truly terrible. It clunks. I managed to read about six poems, with my pencil in hand making pained scribbles but I think I'm going to have to admit defeat. William McGonagall, eat your heart out, in the age of self-publishing there are some things far worse than your Tay Bridge out there for public consumption. Reading the book had a dual action for me, in the first I think perhaps I have learned something from it - learned to trust ear over all else, learned that really, truly, I can actually identify BAD poetry on occasion, and heard for perhaps the first time in a long time, the awkwardness of the forced rhythm or forced rhyme. I rhyme a lot, it comes to me that way and I like poems generally that rhyme (I like poems that don't rhyme too, also). They please me in their rhythm, balance and bounce and that always made me somewhat concerned when people far more learned than I would lecture about the dangers of the 'forced rhyme' the 'clunky turn of phrase'. I worried that perhaps I forced my rhymes and didn't realise it.

Now that I have read truly abominable forced rhyme, I feel somewhat comforted that I have not, at least not knowingly, pulled some of the trite tricks employed by that writer.

I hope I don't sound like a poetry snob. I try not to be, in fact I often feel far more of a poetry prole (The Waste Land continues to pass me by, unmoved, but Macavity is far more fun), but I promise you it isn't just me, I read a few verses aloud to share the pain and really, tin ear or no, the clunking was very, very present. Even more embarrasingly the author on his blub had commented that the poems 'were written down as they came to [him], barring a few edits for grammar'. The grammar was DREADFUL. There are wayward apostrophes, typos and whole sentences that simply do even less than scan, they make no sense, indeed, some had their sense altered in order to Make The Words Rhyme.

And that rant over I'm dashing now to watch The Dresden Files.
localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)
Nobody wants to admit it

but soon you’ll discover the truth

as soon as naivity quits you

and you lose the vestiges of youth.


Vogons are real and around us.

I’m sorry, I can’t tell a lie

and now that I’ve let slip the secret,

I’ll sit in the dark for a cry.


As soon as I’ve finished my weeping,

and re-fixed my maniac grin,

they’ll hand me a new stack of paper

and show me the forms to fill in.
localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)
I haven't been online much lately. This is because we are currently in the middle of a heatwave and my poor awld computer just can't take the strain of being on in this weather. I worry about it. Particularly as I have still yet to work up the nerve to take it to pieces to give it a deep clean that it needs.

Went to poetry group last night, which was excellent and quite refreshing. I read two pieces one which is a little old, Scratch and a new one which is actually a song (I didn't sing it!) called Witch Song. I quite like them. Scratch is quite malevolent, like its title. The Witch song is much more playful, but is ultimately a song in the veins of the Rambler song ("I'm a rambler I'm a gambler I'm a long way from home/and if you don't like me then leave me alone/ I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry/ And if moonshine don't kill me I'll live till I die"). One of the others wrote a little haiku about me which was charming, but mentioned in passing that most of my poems were often sad, or at least a little dark.

When I got home, Mum was watching a programme about mental health and trying through various means to improve one's natural inclinations away from pessimism. Right, I thought, for this month I will ONLY WRITE ABOUT UNCOMPLICATEDLY CHEERFUL TOPCS. More than that, I will find ONE THING PER DAY that makes me happy and think about it hard!

And it can't just be my dinner!


This morning, on the car park, muttering as I tromped the long walk to the office: "Who did that stupid sod think she was, driving round here... with her bloody car... going the wrong way in the one way bit because she's obviously tried to get nearer and then I have to go round TWICE because I can't get round her...rant, rant, rant...Look at these people parking on the bloody pavement because they can't walk like the rest of us stupid mugs who abide by the rules. I'm very disappointed in Car Park E. I felt a sense of camaraderie with us before but now it appears to be full of stupid sods who get in the way. I should write a poem about that..."

I haven't...yet. It seems like impotent furies are the only things that get my passions piqued for poetry.
localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)
Have a poem:

Hearts and Flowers by Roger McGough )

Long week

Jan. 10th, 2013 07:41 pm
localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)
Long week,
gathers weeds.
Dirty Teacups,
scattered paperwork;
low, frustrated murmurs
mute the helpless howling.
localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)
Time and I, we don't get on,
More time to read? The hour's gone.
More time to sleep? Dawn's chorus come!
Time and I- we don't have fun.

And then, when I am wont to go
I curse the clock which moves so slow
With naught to start, I can but wait
For Time's my curse- I can't be late!


I'm going out in half an hour now...it's very frustrating. I'm meeting up with people from the library and we're going to a pub in Frodsham, where I know Nothing At All. I have money and taxi numbers on my phone and my gut has been sick with Social!Panic since about two o'clock. Teetering two steps from texting everyone and making up some incredible fib about how I'm sick (well, I do feel sick..) or babysitting or something because a whole lot of me is currently going 'LATE! WE'LL BE LATE! WE'LL MISS THE BUS! GET LOST IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE! BE LATE FOR MASS IN THE MORNING WHY YOU DOOO THIS TO YOURSELF' and the other bit of me is going 'Can we not just stay in and watch films about superheroes? Or read books? Or just maybe weep in a corner for a bit. PEOPLE ARE SCARY.'

Sometimes, my brain can go and boil it's bloody head. Stupid panic. Stupid irrational panic.

*continues to resist the urge to go and get ready because AM NOT LEAVING FOR HALF AN HOUR YET*
localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)
Last week I went back to the poetry group again. This time we all did an excercise where we each made a word out of scrabble tiles and then had to write a poem containing all (or as many as we could) of the words.

I don't know what happened. I don't know how. But literally the minute the words were listed and the challenge given I was pen-to-paper hammering away, knowing just what rythm I wanted and everything. A couple of lines took a bit of drafting but by gum I was away.

And yet for the whole month before that the only thing I'd written was the poem for C's leaving do, which, yes, I'd sweated over but that was it. Nothing else had come. Or maybe it is more that I never give anything chance to come any more. I'm always doing something else. Start to stare at a blank page? Wikipedia, the OED online (which my library card means I get access to), blogs, facebook where I'm playing scrabble with three people, twitter, youtube, fanfiction fanfiction fanfiction. Another refresh on AO3 and that's it, time has just gone.

So I pulled out my writing magazine today, took it to the park opposite where I work and had my lunch far away from people talking to me or asking questions or me having to be sociable. When I came home I did a bit of fanfiction-reading and then I decided to try and write flash fiction. I am shit at short stories, and truly I didn't have any ideas but then- wham- a bit of quiet and there's something written.

I'm not saying the challenge poem or the story I've just done are good- they very likely are not, but it's the first actual writing for random fun that I've done in ages. That feels good all on its own.
localfreak: avatar which I have used as mine since scarboard days 10 years ago (Default)


I hate DIY. I hate it. I know we're not rich, I know that unless the numbers come up or I magically invent a way to write a novel with the use of trained house elves it is not going to happen but I tell you this: If I ever get my own place I am going to Support Local Trade and pay a little person to come in and Do This Shit for me.

This evening I haven't got any further scraping my room. The daylight just got sucked out and dammit I'm tired. Of course I then felt horribly guilty but by the time the guilt compelled me to prize my fat posterior from my perch it is too late to do any scraping without disturbing the nice neighbours (wouldn't actually care much about the unneighbourly one except a vague fear that he might Come Around And Smash My Face In). I just feel like it takes so fucking long and even when the walls are done it won't be over because then they have to be done up again- some of it blatently needs filling in on the plaster and then there'll be paste and wallpaper and all sorts of other effort and it's just a bloody awful thing.

I've also put a call out on facebook to see if anyone can reccomend me a handman who will do both the fence and the hard-standing. So far I've had reccomendations who will do one or t'other but it'd be so much better I feel if I could just get one bloke in and go "This is what is wrong, make it better please. Here is your money."

Haven't found anyone yet which is a bit disappointing. I was hoping if a friend reccomended them I'll be less likely to get ripped off.

Work is absolutely insane at the moment, but to be honest that might be a good thing because the hovel is currently being seriously demotivating. I've been working on this poem and I've found it actually easier to write during my break in work despite constant interruption than at home at the moment. I'm on the final draft now so I'm hoping that's sorted and then I need to type it up and make it look nice ready for presentation.

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