Holy cow. My head hurts this week. Last weekend I spent a grand total of thirteen hours in my own company in the car during which we had a good long talk about some things that had been bothering us and I don't think I've fully recovered. We ironed most of our issues out and got home itching to pull all of the irons out of the fire and shake them at the moon but as soon as I walked in the door, Hector demanded to go out (it was 2 a.m.) and after that, The Gods sucked all of the oxygen out of the room and I collapsed into something that looked like a man in sheep's clothing that had fallen from the sky and died on the floor.
Anyway, once the house had rebalanced itself, some of the things we spoke about made it onto the kitchen table. Yes, the kitchen table is looking busier than ever with unfinished projects - there's no chance of eating on it - but thats fine, fine, fine. It wouldn't be much fun looking at the kitchen table and finding nothing but bananas and a pepper grinder on there. That would make me very miserable indeed. I'll take this mess any day of the week because sooner or later, it will filter out into something worthwhile.
In the cracks of everything else on the table here, I've (apparently) been working on a book of poetry too. It's asking to be called Eight Grams, which suits me just fine. Do people still read poetry? There seems to be a healthy subculture of people calling themselves poets out there - and delivering on it too - so I guess there is indeed interest, though it is not my place to comment on its quality. I saw a quote the other day that went along the lines of 'The last thing the world needs is more bad poets'. While this is true, the thing the world needs even less of, is poetry 'belonging' to a secret elite club outside of which experimenting with words is frowned upon. For me, it's always been whatever strikes a chord and I have little doubt it's the same for everybody else who ever picked up a book (of any description) and gotten along with it.
I posted an extract from it called She Used To Listen To Police Radio At Night a while back. When it all starts coming together like a cake looking like you need to pull it out of the oven, I'll post some more. That wasn't what I was going to hit you with though... here:
During The Car Ride, I had an idea to rustle up some Blackout Poetry - which is a real thing - and what better place to begin a such a series, than with a book on how Bruce Springsteen acted as the soundtrack to your life (not mine). It doesn't need much explanation beyond the actual pictures and there's more to come now it's useless as an actual book - and no, I don't feel bad about the destruction. It was 99 pence in HMV - I even read it all the way to the end and it's very good. Anyway, here's the book cover:
...and here's the annihilation of the chapter titled 'Jesus Was An Only Son':
Share away wherever you wish - and yes, you're right. I do need a Sharpie if I'm going to do more. This was done with a 0.5 fine-liner and I won't be doing that again. A ruler might not go amiss either.
So, given there's big piles of paper everywhere, I had best get on with making it into something that somebody else (like you) might want to see one day, so I'll leave you with this picture of Hector at the beach:
Sometimes it really is like taking a circus pony out for a walk.
Quote of the Day:
“Poor is the mind that always uses the ideas of others and invents none of its own.”
<Hieronymus Bosch>
Footnote: I would like to point out that other writers are likely to have even more unfinished projects than I in their lives - I just like to talk about them... maybe I shouldn't. The notebook stacks are nothing but the fallout of working longhand with ancient instruments. Files on a machine do not take up space and are not what I class as 'work'.
Unless it's me posting here on my own blog, in which case it very much is.
End of footnote.
Footnote 2: The irony of the quote of the day and the stealing of a page from the Springsteen book is not lost on me, but I shall let it stand in the same post because 95% of the world don't get irony and it may be educational.
