The nights draw in

In the end, The Screw Work, Let's Play eSchool and/or Programme that I wrote about last time didn't happen for me. We could probably see that was how it would be at the end of the post -- I wasn't suitable for the eSchool, and couldn't afford the bigger Programme.

I can't deny I'm disappointed, but the guys involved were -- and are -- so incredibly nice and helpful. It wasn't their fault I don't have a clear enough idea of what I want to do to join in the SWLP eSchool, and I felt they were genuinely sorry they couldn't help to make the programme more attainable for me. I wonder if I'm even the target market -- perhaps it is aimed more at older, successful people who have had enough of the corporate life and want to be their own boss. Rather than myself, while not exactly counting as a "young person" any more, but far from successful in any of my chosen careers to date. And still searching.

Speaking of searching, my recent meeting with the boss was surprisingly productive, and I think I may have previously underestimated her. It's silly, because obviously she has been running and growing a business for the last however-many years, even if the company does sometimes seem to be balancing on a knife edge.

Completely aside from anything to do with the business itself, I get the impression that she has actually listened to my thoughts and feelings in previous meetings, as well as things I have said unofficially -- and combined this with her own perceptions of me, and my preferred methods of work. The outcome is that I appear to be offered a job that has been almost tailored to me -- sure, it's not my dream job, but nothing is going to be until I work out what that is. Just the same, if I have to stay in the company, then it's not a bad start to be in a job with more of a focus on social media, that takes me out of telemarketing, and gives me the time to be creative.

I was asked if it was a job I would apply for if I saw it advertised elsewhere. That's a difficult question, because I have seen recently quite how negative things can turn if an employer finds out you are looking elsewhere -- and the jobs I do apply for elsewhere never lead to anything. As I say, it's a start -- but it's getting to that start right now that seems a struggle, since first we have to recruit more members for the sales team, then have them all settled and trained and performing, before I can leave.

Outside of work and wondering what the hell I'm doing generally... there's not a whole heap to report. I've been meaning to get back into the rock climbing -- I even found out when the next course was starting, how much it was, and convinced a colleague to join in. Then plans collapsed when we ended up with more work and no chance to take part.

I remembered recently that I said before I turn 30 I would write letters to Alexei Sayle, Carol Ann Duffy, and Simon Armitage and ask them if I can have tea with them. Since the big 3-0 is rapdily approaching in the new year, there's no time to waste -- but the letters haven't yet been written. Or started.

The clock's went back to GMT in England this morning, so winter is on its way and the nights aren't so much drawing in, as they are drawn. It's that time of year where it gets dark, wet, and cold -- we should probably invest in one of those light boxes to keep the 'natural' light levels up.

Lots of people online are talking once more about NaNoWriMo -- I've never joined in before. And won't be this time, even though there's that rumoured zombie novel I'm never actually writing. I skipped last month's "Kid, I Wrote Back" open mike poetry -- partly due to only the day before returned from warmer climes, but partly because I'd felt the session we had in the park in the summer had gone horribly for me. That's no excuse, since I'd performed at an open mike since then in London at The Poetry Cafe, and been received warmly and appreciatively for my humour, talk of space and wonders of the solar system, as well as my actual poetry. Just the same, I have nothing written for the next session and no real ideas.

I keep thinking I want to write something about Jupiter's volcanic moon Io, because I think it's fascinating...but that's quite a big call for someone of very limited talent.

Got the funk

I can't deny it, I am in a funk right now.  The trouble is, I don't know what to do to change it.

I take the right pills every day.  I also take multivitamins, cod liver oil and vitamin C supplements.  I make a conscious effort to take the stairs rather than use the lift nine times out of 10, and walk up escalators rather than ride to the top.

I can't say I don't have enough social interaction, either.  I am forced in my job to be calling people almost all day, every day, and went out to lunch with delegates twice in the same week.  I also went out and performed some of my poetry at the Poetry Cafe's "unplugged" night on Tuesday night, to a warm response.  One of the people there mentioned recognising me from Kid, I Wrote Back in Shoreditch and my recent performance at the festival in Shoreditch park.  Interestingly, after my performance in the park I have been considering giving up on writing and performing poetry since I am really just not that good.

So, then -- what's wrong?  Work continues to get me down, as ever.  Last week, apropos of nothing one day the MD asked me for 15 - 20 minutes.  We had a meeting, and she offered me the opportunity to take up a different role within the company -- to move out of sales and into marketing, because she thought I would be good at it and might enjoy it more.  I was pleased, I thought I would enjoy it more, and would be good at it -- putting the "social" into social media marketing, writing the email newsletters that go out to our community, and hopefully getting some specific time set aside to write the blog I set up for the company but never have the time or motivation to do anything with.

We said I'd take the week to think it over.  And the first thing I had to think about was, what was the salary going to be like in this position?  You would expect that this would be given with any kind of information about a role being offered, after all it would dramatically affect any decision you were to make.  But all this week the most I was able to establish was that it would be "very similar" to my current salary, which given it would be marketing instead of sales, didn't seem to make a whole heap of sense -- how similar could it be if there were no commissions from sales?

I got to have a meeting today, to discuss my thoughts.  And in this meeting today it seemed like in seven days the goalposts had been moved -- where last week I was told I would be starting this role in 2 - 3 months, if I took it, since they'd need to hire and train someone new for sales, today I was told it would be more like 4 - 6 months.  They want to bring in at least 3 new sales team members to ensure there is no dip in revenue.  I also found out that my salary will indeed be very similar in this new role, because I will be expected to be directly generating sales still!  Not through telemarketing, thankfully, but I will still be expected to work on commission and meet sales targets.

This time last week I was happy and excited about the possibility.  Today I feel a bit ripped off.  I have provisionally accepted the position for now, but can change my mind at any time, so will have to keep looking for something else.  And will have to magically find some motivation to look for jobs and apply for jobs and not get disheartened when nothing comes of it.

In her email newsletter today, Marianne Cantwell of Free Range Humans, explores how these days being employed -- rather than self-employed -- is the riskier option.  Her argument makes a lot of sense "With job security out the window for most people, employment is the equivalent to being self employed with only one client (your employer)".  I'd not thought of it like that before, but it makes a lot of sense.

What I disliked about being a freelance PR was the worry of not knowing when I would be working next, or how long I would be between positions.  I didn't enjoy the free time between roles or go anywhere like I planned to because I didn't know how long I had to last for.  Maybe I just wasn't a very good freelancer, one recruiter once told me that if I was any good I would have been offered a permanent role -- and I felt the same way, I longed for a secure, permanent position, somewhere I could stay and grow.  The world doesn't feel that way any more -- the threat of redundancy feels like it is going to be there, and you can expect to change careers, not just jobs, several times in your working lifetime.

With a little thanks due to Gala Darling, in a recent burst of inspiration my girl has started to put into practice her plans for world domination.  Determined not to spend the next 30 years working in an office for someone else, the girl is putting into action plans for her own business -- go to her blog and check it out, because not only is she someone special, but she has some excellent ideas and is really showing the rest of us how it's done when it comes to making plans to break free and go into business being yourself.  Embodying the ideas of Screw Work, Let's Play -- and now borrowing my copy of John Williams book -- the girl will soon be getting paid to play, or in her case be getting paid to be crafty.

It's far too simplistic to blame all my unhappiness right now on a job I can't stand most of the time.  But when you are there and feeling that way 9 hours a day, 7 days a week, I guess it has an effect.  Obviously, I have deeper seated issues I also need to address -- if I was a happier person, maybe I wouldn't let a job get me down.  But I'm just in a funk right now.

Kid, I wrote back

At the start of each month, I can be found in a bar in Shoreditch.

What coincidentally is my favourite bar in London -- and possibly in the whole world -- also hosts a monthly open mike night of spoken word.  And I live for this kind of thing.

Back in my Derby days as a student, I joined a poetry group and we'd meet once a week in a pub to share our poetry and give feedback and drink a lot.  Then once a month we'd all perform at an open mike night, called Raised Voices.

Raised Voices was held in the back room of a pub, which was freezing cold with no power other than a generator.  It seemed to fit the mood.  The students made only a small percentage of the people there, and I got a taste for spoken word -- despite needing a drink or two to have the courage to perform.

Raised Voices lost its edge for me when it moved out of the pub's back room and into a plush, carpeted conference space.  The florescent lighting had to be on, because it was either on or off -- no dimmed -- and the bar tender always had a slightly sarcastic smirk on his face.  The whole thing just felt wrong.

Then I moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, and met up with an old poetry friend who had been there for a year already, where he introduced me again to something new.  To two new things, really -- performing sober, and to performing in coffee shops.  It was often disconcerting being an Englishman abroad, when it wasn't just a short holiday but where people would stare at you in class, or be shocked to hear your accent when you stood up to perform in Cup o' Joes.

I think after I left Utah and until moved to London I had only performed twice -- once in Derby, when Raised Voices again had a new home (but none of the old faces, all my old poetry friends had scattered), and once when I was doing my Journalism post-grad in Leicester.  An amusing sidenote to that is that when I was interviewed for the journalism course, I spoke with great passion about how I loved to just write.  I was asked if I wasn't just a frustrated novelist -- I told them no.  I was a frustrated poet.  Why they still took me on is beyind me, I guess it was despite this they knew I could write, and saw potential.

So years and years later, we're living in London and I'm not giving much thought to poetry, let alone spoken word.  I have a dedicated bookshelf for poetry -- mainly consisting of Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage, Pablo Neruda, John Hegley and Beat writers, along with a huge anthology that I dip into from time to time.  It's years later, I don't think of poetry until we're in my favourite bar for my birthday celebration and I see a poster for Kid, I Wrote Back -- a new spoken word and poetry night, being held there.

It's hosted and organised by the extremely talented Chimène Suleyman and Dylan Sage who are well known in similar circles in the city.   Kid is worth checking out for their performances alone -- but there are so many great and varied poets and writers appearing there each month, I feel almost proud to be able to appear alongside them.  My own work varies so much in quality and theme, I don't feel I hold a candle to a lot of people there, but it's so great just to perform -- and gives me a reason to wirte each month.

Freak powered brunch

I saw a competition recently to win a year's supply of coffee.  As a famous non-drinker of coffee -- with notable exceptions of a holiday in Rome last year, and very occasional after a meal -- it seems like a strange contest to want to enter.  The simple explanation is, of course, it's about a girl.  And not just any girl, but the girl, for whom I'd do most things.

To win this grandest of prizes you had answer a simple question -- what 3 people, living or dead, would you like to have brunch with, and why.  Not as simple as the ones where you copy and paste an answer from a block of text you have to read, but worth a go.

The trouble is, the competition expired before I was able to think of three people.  And I still can't.

I thought of the first one easily: Carol Ann Duffy, the poet laureate.  An openly bisexual Scottish single mother, who just happens to write some of the best poetry I have ever read -- and I include Pablo Neruda in this.  I would expect her to be opinionated and interesting and intelligent, and I know from having met her she is a warm person.  She would be able to comment on contemporary issues, both domestic and foreign, and share interesting stories of her own life and travels.

I figure that's a great place to start, someone who brings controversy to one of Britain's most conservative roles, and with whom I have a great personal affection.

A contrast, then, would be the late Hunter S. Thompson.  I have no less affection for Dr Thompson, in case that is unclear, and I suppose in many ways he shares key traits with Ms Duffy -- both being talented, engaging writers, and both being controversial figures.  But I wonder if they would get along?  Thompson who spent years on the campaign trails, the pioneer of "freak power" and who saw into the hearts of the Hells Angels and the American Dream.  What would he make of a contemporary Scottish poet?  What did he feel about poetry at all?  What would Duffy think of Thompson's writing?  Would the two of them fight like cat and dog, or would they get along famously?


A third guest is even trickier.  Having two literary figures -- however different -- surely means the third has to be someone completely different.  Ideally it would be interesting to have someone with whom I disagree or dislike, but it seems pointless to try and pick someone on that merit alone.  All the usual targets I know or imagine would be disliked just as strongly by existing guests as by myself.  I can't think of a worthy adversary, someone I disagree with but respect. 

On the other hand, I wouldn't want it to be a circle jerk of mutual appreciation and adoration.


Considering my first two are also both white and English speakers, I feel as if I should have some kind of diversity -- not for its own sake, but to bring a different angle and different discussions.  This suddenly makes me realise how little I know outside of my own comfort zone, speaking only English fluently -- but that's no excuse, when major works are frequently offered in a variety of translations. 

So instead, I open it up to my readers -- in an effort to avoid this whole thing descending into an exercise in complete pretentiousness by citing thinkers or writers or rebels of places I know little about, who would you suggest as a third person?  Someone that would react or complement in some way with the existing two I have chosen, but also widen the cultural net?  I'll invent some award to give to whoever comes up with the ideal third guest, and hopefully in the process give me someone whose life I should know more about.


Perhaps there should be a scientist or a soldier?  Maybe I should have an astronaut or a farmer or just a relative of yours?  There needs to be more audience participation around these parts -- since I appreciate anyone coming here at all, I should maybe involve you more.


It must be said at this point I can't imagine either of my guests having "brunch", but that's by the by.

Daddy wouldn't buy me a Mau Mau

I am known in some circles as being something of a poetry groupie.

Ten years ago, when I was studying for my A-Level in English Literature, a friend told me that the year below us were being taken to a poetry conference -- where poets including Carol Ann Duffy and Simon Armitage would be reading some of their work.  Although their work wasn't being studied in class our year, some gentle persuasion got us included to go to the conference -- purely for pleasure.

I remember the confusion many of the students had that I would choose to go, that I wasn't studying these poets but instead read them for pleasure.  I even had copies of their books that I had brought along in the hope of getting them signed.

At the conference, I sat in the front row with one of my friends -- who was writing a book of poetry called Lusus Naturae.  She was one of those people who didn't just write poems, but compiled them into books, and gave friends readings from her collection.

After Simon Armitage read his poems, I told this girl that I was going to see if I could go "backstage" and meet him.  She dismissed the idea.  She said he would already be outside, smoking a cigarette in the rain, and would be gone in minutes.  Just the same, when the conference compere came back out to check something, I asked him to take me to meet Mr Armitage.  And he did.  Simon Armitage seemed shy and probably a little bewildered by this breathless poetry fan who was telling him was a big, big fan he was -- and I asked him to sign my copy of Book of Matches.

Instead of disappearing into the streets of London for the rest of the day -- as was normal behaviour for these conferences -- I sat and listened raptly to all the other poets, until my favourite, Carol Ann Duffy.  The sublime Ms Duffy is now the poet laureate.  I meant to write a post back when she was awarded the post about what this meant for England, and poetry, that all hope was not lost when an openly bisexual single mother from Scotland could the two fingered salute to the stuffy old men of the establishment.  But at the same time I couldn't see her writing poems on demand for royal weddings and anniversaries.

Anyway, I was taken to meet Ms Duffy like I had been before, and she in turn introduced me to the lovely UA Fanthorpe.  I was asked if I wrote poetry myself.  I replied I did, but probably that was going through a dry spell.  I later became much more prolific at university, writing poems that were funny or sad or sarcastic and reading them half drunk and semi wild at open mike evenings on both sides of the Atlantic ocean.  I hope sometime in the near future to find an open mike night in London and maybe dust off some of the better pieces.

Today I was thinking about the Alexei Sayle short story "The Mau Mau Hat" -- where a poet is kept from his work by a younger poet called Emmanuel Pollock (a reference to Coleridge's unwelcome visitor).  In the story, it is customary for older, established poets to have their younger contemporaries over to their houses for tea and cakes, which is how the man Pollock and his hat set off a chain of events and come to be such a distraction for the protagonist.

I still wonder if I could write to Carol Ann Duffy and request that I come to tea with her and discuss poetry.  I could also try writing to Alexei Sayle -- since if it's not a real custom then it's his idea, and even though he isn't a poet, he is funny and clever and brilliant and one of the finest minds of his generation.

I could tell him about the epic zombie novel I'm meant to be writing.

If you're alone and you got the shakes

I know.  I missed "Things I Love Thursday" this week, but being back in work makes it hard to update during the day (as well as seriously cutting down my reading time) -- this week I'll try and make a note each day of a couple of things I love, so that I have the raw bones of the post ready to go on Thursday.

But yes, work.  I am now back in the world of the gainfully employed; getting up at 0630 every day, jostling for position with the other commuters on the train station platform in the mornings, and sleeping on the journey into London.  One day in the near future, when my finances are straight again and so long as it won't impact on anything I'm saving towards, I am going to have to get myself some latest must-have gadget for the journey.  Music makes any ordinary journey seem like a movie, complete with soundtrack.  What I really want is a telepathic MP3 or Spotify player that will read my mind and know what music I want or need to hear -- choosing either to indulge me or challenge me, depending on the setting.

Work itself...is fine.  Just fine.  It's only been 3 days, and I've not yet really started on the "sales" part of my job -- which being a Sales Executive is kind of the big part.  I've done a lot of data entry, and I have started setting up social marketing by registering work accounts on various sites and am beginning very slowly to make friends and find followers of like minded people.  Part of me doesn't yet know what to make of the job, and part of me knows that it will be only what I make it -- if I do well or don't, love it or not, is entirely up to me.

Definitely in the plus column is the people I work with -- so far, everyone seems nice and nobody drives me mad.  I didn't meet the MD of the company until my first day in the job since she'd been in an accident recently (she was hit by a bus), but I have only positive impressions of her -- someone that genuinely cares about what they do, and seems like a cheerful, upbeat person.  It helps that I've also been taken to lunch twice.

Over a lunchtime pint on Friday I tried to sell her my photography printed on cavas for the new offices we're moving to.  She seemed interested, or just was being polite, so I have given her the link to my Photobox page where the items can be ordered.  It would be good if some sales were to come of it.  I've tried selling my pictures through Etsy in the past, but was never very successful -- at least with Photobox I don't have to pay for the service.

Somehow in the course of conversation with the MD and my other colleagues, we came around to PR and my background in it.  To cut out all the boring middle bit, I have volunteered to try and put together some sort of PR for the company.  It's a small company, but I'm increasingly passionate about what they (or we) do, and would like to see them get more recognition -- and, of course, more business.  Since it's not really my job to do this stuff, I'm going to have to approach it in very small measures so that it doesn't interefere with my "day job". With a lot of luck it could take off, and I could slowly move more towards this stuff than the sales side -- even helping them to set up their own internal PR department.  Alternatively, I might find the sales earn me plenty on their own and keep me happily busy so much that I don't care about their PR profile.  Or yet another option is I'll decide in 6 months this job really isn't for me and I'll go find something else.  But for now, it's earning a living like.

And I'll work on those plans for a telepathic MP3 player.

Valentine

I wanted on Valentine's Day to link to a superb John Hegley poem about Saint Valentine, and the first Valentine's Day missive.

Unfortunately, the rotten shower of bastards that are Fileden have suspended my account for breach of their terms of service. Since I have been using the site to host various MP3 files to be used in Musical Monday posts, among other things, I expect it is that whole sharing copyrighted materials thing that's got their goat up. But it means I am now without a file hosting service and all the Musical Monday posts that had their own music no longer do.

In theory, I could type it up and post it -- but John Hegley is so much better if you can hear him. I think all poetry is better read aloud to yourself or heard read by the poet, than it is read silently on the page. John Hegley makes his pieces into performances, some become songs and others become songs with ukele in them, while others still become songs with ukele and audience participation -- especially from audience memebers wearing glasses. Anyway, MediaFire seem to offer file hosting for what I want so give this link a go.

Instead what I am going to have to do is copy out for your delectation the recipe from my tapas cookery book that I prepared for the girl. I may also include the recipe for the non-tapas dessert I made, and an explanation as to what went wrong with it. But not yet.

The girl and I agreed to keep spending to a minimum for Valentine's gifts, so I figured the best place to get her something special without spending a fortune was Etsy. That's where I found the sterling silver stud earrings pictured above. I would like to link to the seller's page so everyone (if anyone reads here) can see what amazing items they have, but I'd prefer the girl not to see it. I also decided to forego the usual tacky hallmark cards, and have one custom made from someone I admire -- again on Etsy.

I had to make her stay in the living room with the door shut, talking to the cat, while I unloaded things from the car -- because I didn't want her seeing the card, nor the dozen red roses, before I'd had a chance to prepare things. The card and earrings I hid in her bedside drawer for the morning. And if you're beginning to think it all sounds a bit one-sided, I was very pleased the girl remembered that I wanted a new notebook to take to Peru with me -- and so had bought me one as a gift. What's more she even made me breakfast in bed on the Saturday morning. Ain't she sweet? Before you get too put off by the public display of affection, I shall move swiftly on to Saturday night's dinner recipe.

Pollo a la Plancha
Grilled chicken thighs marinated with harissa, garlic and lemon

Serves 4 8 chicken thighs (skin on), boned
2 tablespoons harissa paste
2 garlic cloves, finely sliced
juice of ¹/₂ lemon
olive oil
Maldon sea salt and cracked black pepper, to taste
4 lemon wedges, to serve

Stretch out a piece of clingfilm on a large chopping board, open out 2 of the boned thighs and place them on top. Cover with another piece of clingfilm and bash each one with a meat mallet (or rolling pin) until it's roughly a third bigger than it was originally. Repeat with the remaining thighs and transfer to a large mixing bowl.
Add the harissa paste, sliced garlic, lemon juice, 12 dashes of olive oil, 2 generous pinches of salt and 1 of pepper. Mix everything together to ensure the chicken pieces are well coated. Cover the bowl with cling film and leave to marinate in the fridge for 12 hours.
When you are ready to cook, preheat your oven to 150^oC/300^oF/gas mark 2. Place your griddle plate, ridged-side up, on a high heat. When it starts to smoke, put 4 chicken thighs on top, skin-side down. Chargrill for 4 minutes each side -- thigh meat tends to be slightly pinker than breast meat, but don't let this put you off because it's incredibly succulent. If you find its too pink, cook for an extra minute, but take care not to burn it. When you are satisfied the chicken is cooked, transfer it to an ovenproof dish, cover with foil, and place in the oven to keep warm while you cook the remaining pieces. Serve with lemon wedges on the side.

My own cooking of this differed slightly. I forgot to include and garlic, and had missed originally the part about marinating it for 12 hours. I also used skinless breasts rather than thighs. I don't think it suffered for not marinating, nor for missing the garlic, but expect both would add to the overall flavour. I'd never tried harissa before, which I understand is a North African chilli paste and available in most supermarkets, if you have the patience to look for it. It has a familiar flavour perhaps not too unlike piri piri -- but the lemon and the salt in this recipe give the whole thing a very unique taste. I recommend to anyone buying this book, my copy is from the library and will be returned with some slight food splatterings -- which I think is a compliment to a good cookery book.

Now the dessert was strawberry mousse. Or supposed to be.

I think where I went wrong was with the gelatin. The only gelatin I could buy was in sheets, the recipe here calls for a tablespoon. Trying to break a sheet into pieces small enough to fill a tablespoon wasn't easy, and I guess I just didn't manage enough -- half a sheet seemed like it would be plenty, but the next morning it was still like a strawberry smoothie with a lot of sugar in. It made for an interesting breakfast for me at any rate...

I want to live my life not survive my existence

So here we are, 2009.

It's time to take stock of where I am and where I'm going, but hopefully not so much of the looking back over where I have been.

I start this new year living with an amazing and wonderful girl, in our very own (rented) house -- the first time I have lived away from home since I was a student. I've curbed my impulses to try and turn the house into a mini art gallery of my photography, with the philosophy that less is more and all that -- plus nobody wants to see you endlessly stroking your ego, in the living room.

The house has its good points and bad points, but most important is that it is our space, where we can shut the door and escape the world.

In 2008 I had a bunch of goals -- rather than resolutions, it's what all the cool kids are doing these days. I aimed to get a new job, to move out of home, to travel to Spain and learn to speak Spanish, and I think to learn to snowboard properly. I own my own board, and I can't even turn properly -- so I can carve up a storm downhill and look damn cool with it, but I am in trouble with corners, with bends. That one never happened. I tried to sell the board, and failed -- this happens every year.

I started the new year working in a book shop, and enjoying it -- I loved recommending books and authors to people, enjoyed literally running off up the stairs to find something, and lived for the occasions when someone would ask me for the poetry section. But the money was bad, there weren't enough hours, and it being only a seasonal job I hadn't learned how the novelty would wear off. Furthermore, there was nowhere to "go" with it.

When they called me one day and offered me a permanent job -- incidentally, the day of my aunt's funeral -- I turned them down. Mostly because the hours were bad. But part of me must have hoped for more. So I got that "new job" in fairly rapid order -- I went to see a recruiter, told her to find me a job, any job, went to an interview the following morning and started work right away. I was taken on for a 6 month contract, and was still working there 10 months later. I went four countless interviews for something better, and in the end didn't go any further than the other side of the office -- swapping a dull job in Purchasing for a more creative and interesting one in Marketing & PR.

I think we can safely say I beat that goal into submission.

I tried to learn Spanish, but motivation was lacking and I ended up with a Latin American Spanish course. I write this one off as a half, since I am able to order food and drink in Spanish, say "I speak/understand Spanish" very well, or a little, and the usual greetings and farewells. Needless to say I also went to Spain. The girl and I are regular customers here of the local tapas restaurant, and I long to take her to Spain.

And as mentioned at the start, I did move out of home. It took a new job, a tax rebate and a wonderful girl to help me do it -- but we did it together.

Where do we go from here? 2009 is a year of adventure. Anyone that's been here before or spoken to me for more than a couple of minutes should remember I am going to be hiking the Inca trail in Peru in June, raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support. A couple of years back, I talked to a friend about doing it and doing it for charity -- but they said why bother, just raise the money and go on your own steam. I am glad that I decided to do it for charity after all -- but that's probably because I'm an attention-seeker. I am being healthily sponsored by my company, and have in turn been generating the publicity for them. But the Inca Trail isn't a goal -- it's happening, even if I have to be carried on the back of a llama, stinking of piss. That's either the llama, or me.

But what is a goal is to get fit for it. Properly fit. The fitter I can be for it, the more fun it will be -- completing it just isn't enough for me. If I can look great in a t-shirt while I do it, even better. I've rejoined the gym, and as of time of writing I am still in pain from my personal training session yesterday. My next is Friday morning, and I fear I am going to become one of those crazy people who hits the gym before going to work in the morning.

Speaking the language would be helpful, so I may also have to get that Latin American Spanish course again -- although apparently if you speak Castilian Spanish they understand it just fine, but think you sound all posh like a news-reader.

There is also adventures to be had in Australia, since the girl returns home to apply for a new visa this year -- and I will be joining her out there for fun times, before the two of us return, shivering, to England. Again, something I already plan to do can hardly be a goal, can it? But saving the £700+ for the airfare should be. I also plan to try and wheedle my way into an upgrade, but we shall see how that works out.

I've only been in this job since October, so it's too soon to be considering getting another -- although I am only contracted until October of this year, so I might not have a choice in it.

A year without any incidences of self harm would be good, as I can't remember a year since I was in my mid-teens or younger that there hasn't been an incident or two, though in more recent years it has got a lot better -- to be able to start 2010 saying I didn't deliberately, physically hurt myself the previous year would be good, although a little sad. Perhaps a goal should be to treat myself better? No doubt having rigorous exercise regimes and goals like Peru will certainly help, not to mention the love and support of the people around me.

And in closing, ladies and jellyspoons, my goal in 09 is to be more creative. Last year saw me take up painting -- if only for the one picture. But to conceive of and create a dramatic picture on a canvas, and then to have it exhibited as part of an art show, was a real achievement -- but my creativity is seriously lacking this year. I haven't done open mike poetry in years, let alone written anything new, and that epic zombie apocalypse masterpiece isn't going to write itself. But generally, I need to be more... Actually, no -- that's it, I just need to be more.
I want to live my life, not survive my existence.

In a heap round their breakfasts in yesterday's clothes

This has to be the worst-timed post ever. I spend all day bored out of my mind, but it's only when I want to have been asleep half an hour ago that I actually get around to writing an update. I might not have internet access or the time to blog at work, but I'm in one of those annoying places where sitting in front of a computer when I get home from work isn't so appealing.

It's no surprise that I miss working in the bookshop. In fairness, I don't think I did the job for anywhere near long enough to appreciate how mind numbing it would get -- I wasn't full time, and didn't stay more than a couple of months, I think 40 hours a week and working weekends (as would inevitably have happened) would have done much to take the shine off it. But right now, I can dream and reminisce about recommending books to customers and talking to cute girls who wanted to know what books of Robert Frost's poetry we had. I don't miss dusting the shelves, or being restricted to only one 20 minute break a day.

I've been avoiding updating lately because my frame of mind or emotional well being took a distinct turn for the worst. I made reference a few weeks back to a shaky state of affairs and despite some occasional patches of sullen sun, things deteriorated. I don't much like talking about how I'm feeling, and so was shutting people out emotionally and writing about it felt just a tiny bit too much like talking about it. Much better to remain quiet with my thoughts of self harm. My powers of hypocrisy know no bounds, it would seem.

It took Dune to make me realise what a complete arse I was being. She gave me a good talking to and told me in no uncertain terms to sort myself out, which got me to pull myself together a bit. It's not like someone has waved a magic wand and made everything all better, but it's got me to stop being so self pitying and actually try and feel a bit more alive. I know perfectly well that the power to be happy is well within my grasp, and that I expend huge emotional effort on feeling shit, and so for the time being I am trying to make an effort to the contrary. It has also been brought to my attention that if I want to move out, I need to make it happen -- rather than sitting around and waiting for my friends to want to move out with me, and if I actually took the time to work out a budget it's more than feasible.

In other news, Dune and I go to Seville on Thursday evening for the long Easter weekend -- to check out the 'Santa Semana', or Holy Week, festival. If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if she was trying to save my soul, since this is the same girl who invited me to go on a pilgrimage last year. Really, I think it's the appeal of Spain and the history and the idea of doing something different. This also means that I am taking half day at work on Thursday, and am making up for it (or making it up in my wages) by starting an hour earlier every day.

The whole issue of work is a particularly sore spot for me right now. Today I was training my newest colleague -- who started just over a week ago and is already looking to leave as soon as she possibly can -- and I noticed on her desk a copy of What Colour Is Your Parachute?, a multi-bestselling guide to job hunting and career changes. I flicked through it a bit, and on noticing some parts on finding out what jobs suit your personality, my colleague mentioned to me the idea that what job one might do could, possibly, not be the best fit. I laughed and said I had little illusions that what I do is something I am well suited to -- it requires no creativity and offers no intellectual stimulation at all, and one of the few things that keeps from insanity is the opportunity to talk to various suppliers on the phone. However, I recognise that 99% of the population of the planet feel the same way about what they do. "Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar."

I struggle between feeling like I have sold out, that I have given up, that I am one of the people who would have liked to be a writer or an artist or whatever -- but gave up on it, rather than one of the people didn't stop believing and made it happen. If nothing else, at least I have the temperament of the artist.

Adventures continue in London with Dune. We met up with Jiminy and Non-Blondie again, and took again in the sights and smells of East London -- wandering down Brick Lane, before ending up again in the local pub we like, and playing darts. The darts game was made more exciting when Non-Blondie's celebration dance looked like it might send her through the trapdoor into the cellar, but although I would have liked to have won, I don't think that would have been the way to achieve it. And perhaps it was made abundantly clear to all involved that I am not kidding about my coordination or spatial awareness, but I think they were fortunate that nobody accidentally got a dart in the side of the head.

Last weekend, Jon and I returned to Camden with Dune -- and made it further than the pub this time, exploring Camden Lock market, having lunch in a Mexican place in Covent Garden and ending the evening in a pub in Charing Cross. There also as a result of that evening needs to be a whole post now devoted to film and cinema, as it has become a subject so weighty it needs its own space to breathe.

All in all, I've pulled my head out my arse a bit, work sucks, bites and blows -- and never in any good ways, but I have started looking for a new place to live. I stress only started at this point. Oh and I can now speak very rudimentary Spanish -- albeit Latin American Spanish (since it was the only short course the library had left), and with a charming Essex accent.

I am thinking of changing the name of my blog to "Hey man, now you're really living" after the Eels song that makes me happy...

To The Unknown Lover

(yes, I think I probably wheel this out every year, but I still like it)

Horrifying, the very thought of you,
whoever you are,
future knife to my scar,
stay where you are.

Be handsome, beautiful, drop-dead
gorgeous, keep away.
Read my lips.
No way. OK?

This old heart of mine's
a battered purse.
These ears are closed.
Don't phone, want dinner,

make things worse.
Your little quirks?
Your wee endearing ways?
What makes you all that?

Stuff it, mount it, hang it
on the wall, sell tickets,
I won't come. Get back. Get lost.
Get real. Get a life. Keep shtum.

And just, you must, remember this --
there'll be no kiss, no clinch,
no smoochy dance,
no true romance.
You are Anonymous. You're who?

Here's not looking, kid, at you.

by Carol Ann Duffy

Funeral, by Carol Ann Duffy

Funeral

Say milky cocoa we'd say,
you had the accent for it,
drunk, you sometimes would. Milky

cocoa. Preston. We'd all
laugh. Milky cocoa. Drunk,
drunk. You laughed, saying it.

From all over the city
mourners swarmed, a demo against
death, into the cemetery.

You asked for nothing.
Three gravediggers, two minutes
of silence in the wind. Black

cars took us back. Serious
drinking. Awkward ghosts
getting the ale in. All afternoon

we said your name, repeated
the prayers of anecdotes,
bereaved and drunk

enough to think you might arrive,
say milky cocoa...Milky
cocoa, until we knew you'd gone.

by Carol Ann Duffy

Musical Monday #30

Folks who are regular readers way over at What Goes Up... will have caught the recent post on cover versions. It's come to a point where if I don't write my own post about covers then I'm just going to spend all day spamming the comments and eventually get myself blocked.

Covers can be amazing, or they can be awful. They can make an artist, or they can be a source of ridicule and derision. Radio 1's "Live Lounge" has whole albums of artists performing covers live, and they are surprising and addictive and inspiring and sometimes just plain awful. Arctic Monkeys covering Girls Aloud was described by Jo Whiley as "band on band action" and is reminiscent of the time Travis were live (and drunk) on Mark Radcliffe's show and played "Hit Me Baby, One More Time" -- following which they had to actually learn to play the song properly, since it became so hotly requested. To my mind, no later performance was ever as good -- the original was spontaneous and fun, later it just sounded whiny, like so much of Travis' work.

Jojo is an artist that for the most part I try to ignore. Her music is unremarkable and appeals to an audience the clearly isn't me. However, her unexpected cover of the Foo Fighters' "Times Like These" is fantastic, and she obviously has an incredible pair of lungs on her. And I don't mean in a pervy way.

Velvet Revolver are a great band for covers -- combining the talented ones out of Guns N' Roses with Scott Weiland means you get to hear old-school GNR songs sung by someone with a good voice, and old Stone Temple Pilot songs. In a similar manner, Audioslave became very controversial when they started playing Rage Against the Machine covers -- but for what it's worth, I thought Chris Cornell was able to more than do justice to songs like "Sleep Now In The Fire", as well as bringing his improved vocal talents to Soundgarden songs. As a solo artist, I don't know if it really counts as a cover version if he sings material from any of his old bands -- but it's a shame he doesn't do Rage covers any more.

With all this in mind, I thought should go all High Fidelity today and rate my top 5 covers. So, in reverse order, the best cover versions.

5. All Along the Watchtower -- Jimi Hendrix
I mentioned somewhere else recently that the funny thing about Bob Dylan is that almost any cover version of one of his songs will improve on the original -- this isn't to say that Dylan wasn't good to begin with, but his folk style meant there was a lot to build on. But there's good covers, and there is taking a song and completely revolutionising it -- and that's what Hendrix does here; he leaves a scorching trail right through the middle of the song.

4. Satisfaction -- Cat Power
If you're not very familiar with the original Rolling Stones song, you wouldn't realise this was a cover at all. The big memorable riff is gone, the chorus has been dropped altogether, and instead Cat Power sings it with what feels like genuine sadness. Matt once told me the song is about Mick Jagger wanting to sleep with a groupie, but it's the wrong time of the month -- she says "baby come back, baby next week, can't you see I'm on a losing streak?". I don't know if this is truly what's being expressed, but Cat Power sings it with such emotion and totally changes the whole song around.

3. Jolene -- The White Stripes
Taking an old Dolly Parton song, and once again making it almost unrecognisable -- Jack White swings between singing softly and almost screaming the words. The thing is though, you can tell he really loves the song, he gets so passionate about it -- and you can't help but feel a surge of passion yourself.

2. Hallelujah -- Jeff Buckley
Why are my favourite covers today nearly all sad songs? Taking the iconic Leonard Cohen song (now there's music to slit your wrists to) and covering it faithfully, Jeff Buckley has a quiet, slow burning intensity that suits the song so well.

1. Where Did You Sleep Last Night -- Nirvana
Although not the author of this song, Leadbelly is credited with making it widely popular when he recorded it back in the 50's. Leadbelly has to be one of the most-covered artists ever, and was certainly a major influence on many of the great artists of the 90's, including the likes of Nirvana, Screaming Trees and Pearl Jam. Kurt Cobain actually first played guitar on a Mark Lanegan cover of this song, which in some respects is quite similar -- something not uncommon with Nirvana -- but the acoustic performance better suits the style. Just the same, I don't include that version on the list. If/when there is an official recorded Twilight Singers with Mark Lanegan cover then I will reconsider my position on this being my favourite cover.

An old blues song, it always reminds me of the Hendrix song Hey Joe -- probably because both are about murder, and possibly infidelity, but it's also the traditional melancholy that goes with it -- something that Cobain manages to express beautifully with his own voice.

This performance starts very simply, with just a man, a voice and a guitar -- but as the song slowly builds, more instruments join in and become more noticeable, as Cobain himself gets louder and more passionate. The song builds to a dramatic crescendo (why is it songs like this sound like orgasms?) where Cobain -- like Langean before him -- screams the final verse.

As a completely unrelated aside, the song also reminds me of the Robert Frost poem Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening -- which I suppose is because of the shared theme of woods/death.

Update: A new contender for worst cover ever!

John Hegley

In keeping with my attempts to write about a range of subjects and mediums, this post is about the poet, comedian and musician John Hegley.

I'm not his biographer, if you want to find out about the early years of his life in a bungalow in Luton you'll need to go elsewhere. All I'm really interested in today is the man and his words.

I've seen it said that John Hegley is too funny to ever really be taken seriously as a poet, but at the same time too talented a poet to be considered a comedian -- he exists in several worlds all at the same, without seeming to want to settle for just one.

John Hegley's poems were first introduced to me by the infamous Kath -- who is more or less responsible for my whole poetry liking, along with getting me to listen to Radiohead, wear eyeliner and love Manchester. She has a lot to answer for besides this, too, but it's all been said before and this isn't a post about girls.

When Kath first sent me John Hegley I think she told me that they were amusing, but that the poems also had a sort of deeper meaning to them. She didn't mean deeper as in spiritual or philosophical, but literally there was more than just what you saw on the surface -- like so many, Hegley sometimes uses humour to approach a serious subject. If you can cover yourself with humour sometimes you can sneak up on thinking about a more serious point without realising until it's too late.

Lost Going To Shropshire was hardly a poem with a serious message -- but it wasn't just to be thrown away, either. Hegley says himself in the poem that he likes ambiguity, and clearly he is very bright since he likes to play with words. Take for example his short poem, The Play

Yesterday i went to see a play in my friend’s car
It was by an experimental group
Who do plays in people’s cars

It makes you smile, but you realise it's a subtle joke about the use of grammar. In his poem Mad Mum Hegley slowly reveals small pieces of information about a scene -- a scene which starts simply with someone pushing a pram and saying "my little baby", but before too long you find out it's neither a woman, nor really a baby. And although it's funny, you also realise there's a point in there about mental health. Perhaps unlike his poem/diary entry which reads "In the doctor's reception the sign read: 'Are you looking after someone over 65 with mental health problems?'. I read the sign as 'Are you looking for someone over 65 with mental health problems?'.

There are several immediately identifiable themes I can pick out running through John Hegley's work. I think the clearest of these would be dogs. There's Death of a Dog -- not surprisingly about the death of his dog, but in many ways a typical Hegley poem in that it's both funny and serious and sad and it makes you think. When distraught about the death of his dog, the young protagonist remembers something he'd read that posed the idea that if you lived forever there would be no point in trying to do anything -- because you'd be able to do everything an infinite number of times. There's too many poems for me to try and remember about his dogs specifically -- but dogs also crop up in some unusual places in his poems.

Apparently a committed Christian, Hegley also has poems about Jesus. Normally, the mention of Jesus makes me a little twitchy but he usually manages to refrain from being preachy. In Look Dad, Hegley writes about Jesus' joy of walking on water ("walking on water is God's gift to me") -- in a very funny and likeable way. He lapses briefly into French (as he sometimes does, as a nod to his own French Dad), but also throws in a reference to dogs. In Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas Hegley asks if Jesus had a dog, with the strange line of questioning:

Did he have a dog? And was it disaster?
Breaking all its legs and going round in plaster,
Swallowed by the water, following its master,
Sinking like a stone, only sinking somewhat faster."

It makes sense knowing John Hegley that he would wonder if Jesus had a dog -- but the rest of is just so far off the wall. But it works.

It's a relatively serious poem -- but Hegley injects his own humour into it. The poem ends with the lines "No trial, for whatever it is the lad done -- if that's a Good Friday, I wouldn't want a bad one". It makes me laugh, but when you stop laughing you do stop to think for a minute.

Another theme that crops up with some regularity in Hegley's work is that of family. He has songs about growing up in his Luton bungalow with his siblings, about his Mum living in a mobile home, poems about the birth of his daughter (in The New Father's Mistake he mistakenly thinks the midwife has given a questionnaire meant for his wife to him, for him to fill out)-- and he has diary entries which are a kind of poetic prose about his Dad, when he was growing up. I think with a Christian perspective, the role of his Dad (his Father, as it were) is very important -- since he also becomes in a way your model for God. Maybe I'm just speaking for me, but if from a young age you hearing about "God the Father" you automatically associate the two. Whether this is good or bad I will reserve judgement on for another day.

John Hegley also likes potatoes. I don't know why, but he has various poems mentioning potatoes -- and at least one in French (French Potato Poem).

Words, the written page, don't do justice to John Hegley. You can read and enjoy his books like Dog and The Sound of Paint Drying (among many other fine works) but like anyone, you have to see him live to fully appreciate it. You have to see which poems are also songs -- as with Eddie Don't Like Furniture -- and see John Hegley rocking out a ukulele solo, you have to hear the rhythm, the tone of voice and the sardonic humour.

Unlike most poets, John Hegley is often touring -- or appearing once a month at a club in Kings Cross. If you like comedy, if you like poetry, or if you just want to be entertained he will satisfy you and more. I wish I could post every one of his poems here -- instead I can make some selected works available on request, and have uploaded some MP3 files of a couple of his performances. If you don't have the attention span for the first, I have also extracted a couple of shorter pieces from it.

John Hegley 1
John Hegley 2
Pear Shaped
Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas

Lostnesses

Lost Going to Shropshire
by John Hegley

Just out of Euston
On a trip to Shrewsbury
Changing at Crewe
The announcement, “If anybody has lost anything
Please contact the guard at the back of the train”.
I like the ambiguity,
Just as I like the ambiguity in art, dance and poetry.
Passengers invade the vestibules
To check their luggage.
I imagine a queue forming at the train’s back,
With various lostnesses:
I’ve lost a glove.
I’ve lost a gland.
I lost fourteen nil at blow football in my time.
I’ve lost the ability to live purely in the moment.

Somewhere on my way back from Brixton on Thursday night, I lost my scarf. I had a brief panic on Friday morning when I thought I had lost my wallet as well, so I'm glad in a way it was only my scarf. I've also started wearing the warm, brown coat my brother gave me last year that was temporarily mislaid at a comedy club in Portsmouth.

I am punishing myself for losing the scarf by going without one for a week, so I can learn to look after my things better and really appreciate them. Though the loss of a fairly unremarkable Gap scarf has given me the opportunity to buy this one from Etsy. I've been wanting an excuse to buy it for ages, ever since it was recommended as a potential gift for my brother's birthday.

I'll post pictures once it arrives.

Musical Monday #28

Last week, I described Kate Nash as polarising opinion on the scale of Marmite -- in that one tends to fall into a love or hate category, with very little room for a middle ground. And for the record, I hate Marmite.

It seems, though, that the powers that be in this mysterious and expanding universe have been pointing me towards a MM post on Ani DiFranco. It's long overdue, Ani is one of my favourite artists, but I've struggled whenever I have tried to verbalise what I love about her music. Part of the trouble has been that one of my favourite songs is "You Had Time" -- but I only loved this song after I read Nick Hornby's essay on it in 31 Songs. Unfortunately, his writing was so incredibly good about such an amazing song that I could think of nothing original to add. But on the plus side, he only writes about the song, and not Ms DiFranco's music in general. Unlike this post.

Those of you who know me at all will know that there will often come a time when I start making you compilation CDs.

I still sort of miss making compilation tapes, -- of working out what tracks should open side A and side B, but a CD is far more practical and actually allows for a little more creativity as there can be the option of creating album artwork for the CD. The good thing about making a tape was that there was more space (usually 90 minutes, compared to 80 for a CD) and there was two sides -- so there were various techniques to employ when putting together the tracklisting.

The point is, that making these CDs is more or less a certainty in most contexts that you will know me. Following a recent compilation CD, a friend revealed to me that she didn't really like Ani DiFranco very much. Of course, there is never going to be a compilation where someone likes every single track by every single artist, but I was still surprised. I haven't played Ani to a lot of people -- I know some of my friends like Jon have probably heard her when I've played some in the car or something, but have never expressed any liking for it. I think they were probably just being polite. I started to think that maybe more than Kate Nash, Ani could be an aural equivalent of Marmite.

Then when Mez commented on last week's post that Kate Nash reminded her of Ani DiFranco, I knew this post had to be written.

Ani DiFranco was an artist I probably wouldn't have come into contact with, had it not been for Rie. I don't remember what the first song I heard was, or when it was -- often when Matt was at work on a Saturday, Rie and I would hang out and draw and listen to music or whatever. It would have been one of those random Saturday afternoons with Rie playing old personal compilation tapes that I would have heard Ani, and so these two women will always be linked. It's odd, because Rie was a huge fan of Tori Amos, but I have never got into her music.

I think first and foremost for me, Ani is a poet -- she is reminiscent of the poetry slams I used to go to in Utah coffee shops, something I had never experienced in the back rooms of pubs in Derby where we used to read our poems. I enjoy the pictures she paints with her words, the stories she tells with her songs -- the complex and imperfect relationships she describes.

One of my favourite songs is Gravel, where the protagonist of the song wants to be mad at this guy who clearly doesn't treat her very well -- but also stumbles on her feelings for him. She's "thinking 'fight fight fight' at all costs/but instead I sat you down and offered you a beer". Although he's clearly an arsehole, and has "come crawling back" after two-timing her, she still loves him and can count the ways she adores him. Maybe it's meant to be sad, about how some people will keep taking back or going back to a partner who is abusive or just no good because they are charming or charismatic and can convince them they "want to make good, in the end". Just the same, I like it because it's not cut and dry -- it's not a simple reaction to a complicated situation. You don't suddenly stop caring about someone when they hurt you.

She lists all the ways in which he was a disappointment -- he wasn't a good lay, or a good friend, and consistently let her down. But somehow there is still a wry sense of humour when she asks "But what can I say? I adore you."

Ani's voice and guitar playing in the song have a very staccato feel -- jerky, and brash, and yet somehow it works for me. It was pointed out to me that Ani very rarely sings, at least in her verses, and it's this that reinforces for me the impression of her as a poet -- when I listen to male singers, it's often for me about the range and passion and power of their voices, the Eddie Vedders, Chris Cornells and Jeff Buckleys of this world, or the intense, husky drawls of the Mark Lanegans. But Ani changes all that -- she is soft spoken and often half-narrating, before bursting into an impassioned chorus of her own.

You had Time is very different, instead a very quiet and sad song -- again about a relationship that's broken down. Nick Hornby said something to the effect of this is how you fantasise all lesbian relationships are when they break up -- still so gentle and loving and tender. It could be autobiographical, I don't know, but the protagonist has returned from tour to her lover and is expected to know what they are doing with their relationship. Her partner says to her "You said you needed time; you had time". It's the metaphors that really appealed to Nick Hornby -- the beauty of phrases like "You are a china shop, and I am a bull. You are really good food, and I am full" -- it's the same way of saying "it's not you, it's me", but who wouldn't rather hear it this way? Sometimes hearing it like that can give us an insight into previous break ups of our own maybe -- an unfortunate situation, where it just wasn't working.

I could write for days about Ani's songs -- songs like Napoleon, or Little Plastic Castle, mixing the angry with the more tender. Or Ani's angry and bitingly political Self Evident that I find so difficult to listen to because of the sheer emotion in it. Instead I will include As Is -- a kind of love song.

But I can't write for days or explore every song's stories and stanzas. I can't even urge everyone to go and listen to her music, because I can't be sure you won't outright hate it. And it's not because it's all that challenging or different as music goes, but because it's such a specific approach -- one of those combinations where you have to really like the poetry, and like the rough approach to the guitar and voice. But she is one of my favourites -- the quirky, silly, funny, angry, passionate Ani.

As Is

Explaining the poem

Last night, I dreamed of a girl named Claire. I've blogged about her in the past -- we were friends when I was 17 or 18, and we had a shared love of poetry. It was her who first read me the poem The Lion for Real. I think perhaps she liked the sound of her own voice a little bit too much, but she so loved to read poetry out loud. I remember one night, the two of us alone in her bedroom, with a bottle of wine and reading poetry. Thinking back, a lot of the poetry she read me was her own writing -- which now seems slightly weird. Anyway. I was discussing in an email with a friend Allen Ginsberg's work, when I remembered the poem. Throughout my friendship with Claire, I had always wondered what the lion in the poem was supposed to symbolise -- and thought I'd appear stupid if I asked.

Much later, when Claire and I were no longer really friends any more, I told her I had always wondered but worried she'd think less of me for it. She was surprised. She had never given any thought to it, but at a guess would speculate maybe the lion was depression? This was a thought I'd had myself, but I didn't feel like it fitted properly -- why, if the lion was Ginsberg's depression, does he tell the lion "Terrible Presence! Eat me or die"? Claire supposed maybe he was saying to consume him entirely, or to leave him alone. Could be, but I still didn't feel it fitted. It would have been good enough for a literature essay if you could back it up with evidence, but it didn't sit right with me.

So while discussing Ginsberg I remembered the poem, and it being almost 10 years later, I know have access to everything in the world ever -- by way of the internet. Three brief searches discovered the meaning. The lion itself is not symbolic as such, but instead the poem is about Ginsberg's "visions".

Last night I dreamed that I met Claire in the street, randomly. She had the mini-speakers you get for a walkman, and it was set up on a wall next to her. I didn't ask what she was doing. Instead, I told her how I still loved the poem, and I could still hear her intonation when I read it. I told her how I had finally found out what the poem was about. She was confused, and didn't know why I would care.

Either way, it struck me recently that I blog about Musical Monday but never write about poems I love, and only very rarely books I have read, and rarer still films I have seen. I am going to try and do this more often -- and that's the story as to why yesterday was just a poem with no explanation, and what the poem means to me.

The Lion for Real

"Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative..."

I came home and found a lion in my living room
Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion!
Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut
I hurried home to Patterson and stayed two days

Called up old Reichian analyst
who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana
'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room'
'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up

I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend
I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye
We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow he kicked me out
I ended up masturbating in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.'

Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!'
He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries
I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn
Ants
But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's
bathroom.

But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat
'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions
But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father
hath no lion
You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for
your Bridegroom.'

Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink
in Harlem
Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger
He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside
thru the window
My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in
deafening stillness
We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur
Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang
greeting.
I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove
boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tup under the sink board.

He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence.
Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out
enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws
by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha.

Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten
face
stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had
nightmares
Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by
Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus,
I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor--'Terrible
Presence!' I cried' Eat me or die!'

It got up that afternoon--walked to the door with its paw on the south wall to
steady its trembling body
Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth
thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in
Mexico
Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby--
but I will be back again."

Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger
Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen
In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served
Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your
Mercy.

Allen Ginsberg,
Paris, March 1958

Kath

Kath.

Kath is, more than anything else, history. But with the recent talk of Electro girls, I wanted to write about someone good.

A long, time ago, before everyone here had internet access, before MP3 players and really properly before mobile phones, there was teletext. An "information service" on the television, not so different to the internet in some ways -- and, yes, I know it still exists -- but does anyone ever use it? Anyway, it was before internet personal ads and whatever, and how I came to meet Kath was through an advert for penpals. It seems so quaint now, that we would handwrite letters to one another and send them through the post.

Kath and I had a shared love of things like music, writing, and reading, and so I guess letter writing came naturally out of that. And talking about music. One of the things I am most grateful to Kath for is poetry. Before Kath, poetry was something I had only ever studied in school -- obscure, pretentious works with convoluted meanings and symbolism and analysed half to death. She introduced me to reading poetry just to enjoy it.

This mostly came through the poems of John Hegley; equal parts comedian, poet and musician -- and someone I take great pleasure in turning other people on to. She also introduced me to the work of two of my favourite poets, Carol Ann Duffy and Simon Armitage. She introduced me to sitting on the floor of bookshops and reading. Getting in the way.

I was 17 and life was good. It seems like that now, anyway. I was in the first year of my A-Levels, and looking back I probably was not taking them as seriously as I should have been -- it was a bit like being a student, life was a blur of missing classes, underage drinking in the park on sunny days, playing pool and going to gigs. Kath encouraged me to wear black eyeliner and to paint my nails -- and advised me against it when my friends tried to convince me to paint my nails red.

I remember telling Kath the first time I kissed a girl, named Michelle -- and yes, alright I know 17 was a bit late for that, shut up. And telling her about how it didn't lead to anything. I remember this because she told me "Michelle needs to be told to appreciate you. I know I would, if you were mine" or words to that effect. It caught me by surprise a bit.

Kath was the first girl to ever tell me she loved me. And she meant it, which was helpful -- back in the days when I didn't think people would lie about that, but whatever. We never dated, we never kissed, we never even said the words out loud to each other. But she did tell me she loved me, and sometimes would tell me in Spanish (te quiero, she would say -- although she was from Lancashire, not Spain). Although these feelings were there, it was sort of decided that there was nothing that could be done about it, and she dated other people.
I probably would have dated other people, but I was never very popular.

In time, things between us changed. Anyone who has read this blog or any of its previous incarnations for any length of time will know I have a history of depression -- I hope now that the serious attacks will remain history, but that's not a subject for discussion today.

I don't remember if my moods changed first or if things in my life changed, but I became increasingly depressed. At the time, I felt like she rejected me. I felt like when I needed her she wasn't there, and that she hadn't been able to handle how I was. I felt like she only loved some idealised version of me, and when confronted with the whole me, with my moods and everything else, the illusion was shattered.

Now I see things differently. I think it's more likely I shut her out, pushed her away, refused to let her in or acknowledge how she felt. I would have kept pushing her away until she finally went away, and I was proved right and could convince myself anyone who loved me would leave me. I had problems, and she genuinely cared but she probably didn't know what to say or how to help.

We didn't lose touch altogether, although there were long periods without contact. I felt rejected by her, she was the first girl to love me and the first to break my heart - and even now sometimes when I'm rejected I'll just consider it a rehash of that same old story. I think later she had problems of her own, and didn't feel close enough to me to share them with me or I was too busy chasing her, to try and win her back.

The time periods are hazy now. Over the years, how long would pass without contact, before I would break the silence in one way or another? I don't know any more. Occasional meetings over the years, and emails replacing letters. I forget now how long it's been since we last spoke. I don't know when we last emailed each other, or why it would have stopped -- but sometimes the gaps stretch out until they become permanent silences. Sometimes the attempts at staying in touch just felt forced, like we had nothing in common any more, we didn't know who the two people were that used to be so close. I know she was sorry for hurting me, and that she never meant to -- but that she couldn't ever go back to how she used to feel, couldn't even imagine who she was back then.

I don't know where she lives any more -- if she ever left the north to seek fame and fortune in London, but now and then, I still half expect to see her - at festivals, at poetry readings... It could be that sometimes we are both in the same place at the same time and just looking past each other. I found her profile on MySpace ages back, and think I requested to be added as a friend. If I did, the request was never granted. In the spirit of detachment, I won't ever try and win her back or try and re-establish contact - I should have let her go a long time ago. I just saw a girl on the Tube the other day who reminded me of her, inspired me to write about someone I liked.

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black

I love the Rolling Stones song Paint It, Black, I've never heard an official line on the meaning of the song, although on reading the lyrics I believe it to be about bereavement. Either way, I like the imagery of it.

There's a certain fascination in popular culture with death, or more specifically 'untimely' death. Not a natural process, like the sleep at the end of a hard day, but more like something snatched, and stolen. Perhaps when we're young and depressed these things particular capture us -- everything from the Smiths' seemingly-endless dirges to Goth kids seem to have what could be described as an unhealthy interest. I don't suppose there is ever a healthy interest in death -- oh no, it's ok he just has a healthy interest in death. Maybe funeral directors, or coroners?

But we do hold up untimely deaths as something special, the premature demise of musicians is the subject of much speculation -- particularly why 27 was such an unfortunate year for so many, including Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Kurt Cobain, and Jim Morrison.

For myself, there are certain parts of popular culture -- certain themes of death that have always appealed to me. However it sounds, I have favourites -- favourite songs about death, favourite poems, favourite stories. I don't know if this is common or normal, but I wanted to write about it. A cautionary note, however -- please don't take this to mean I am either suicidal or self-harming. I'm not. There is no cause for concern.

I don't think growing up I ever really handled death very well. I was fortunate enough that nobody close to me died until much later, but I remember now perhaps months or years after pets dying, I would wake up almost screaming with tears, because they were gone. I think I was something like 16 when a girl in my class at school was killed in a car accident. I couldn't get my head round it, how someone could just be... gone. I think in the end I decided that it would be essentially the same thing if I pretended they had just moved away and I was never going to see them again. I guess the stories since then are just a variation on those two, with other issues mixed in.

Local Boy in the Photograph appeared on the Stereophonics first album, and was an apparently true story about a young man who died in an accident. I think it was a kind of tribute to him. Part of what I love about the song is the detail, the narrator's memory is prompted by certain items -- a smell, a taste in the air -- the train runs late, and he remembers. The sound of the song switches at this point, the tempo slows and the guitar drops out as he remembers where he was when he "heard the news for the first time". Depressed at 17, this song appealed to me -- it's so sad, and yet I wanted to be the person for whom "all the friends lay down the flowers, sit on the banks and drink for hours, talk of the way they saw him last..."

That last line brings me neatly on to my next: the poem Funeral by Carol Ann Duffy. It's a simple, stark poem -- I don't need to say its about loss. Who the person was or how they died is never mentioned. Perhaps again its an attention-seeking side of me, but I always liked the lines:
"From all over the city
mourners swarmed, a demo against
death, into the cemetary".
And not unlike in the Stereophonics song, there is the more intimate, personal level:
"we said your name, repeated
the prayers of anecdotes
bereaved and drunk

enough to think you might arrive".


Many people love James O'Barr's graphic novel The Crow. More people probably love the movie, and know nothing of the comic. I don't even want to think about the people that liked the tv show. There's many things that appeal in it, the story of revenge is not unlike the Count of Monte Cristo and is a visceral theme that applies to the animal in us all. There's also themes of love, and importantly of loss. The sadness and loss of the graphic novel are played down in the later film, but I was fascinated in the poems of Rimbaud and Baudelaire, and even the melancholy song by Robyn Hitchcock. Thinking back, it might have been the song Raymond Chandler Evening that inspired me to start reading Chandler's own novels -- but it's difficult to remember for sure. Ultimately, the Crow was a story of a man who has lost the one person he cares most about and had nothing left to live for. The fact he is dead by this point is irrelevant.

There's probably more, but these are the three pieces of art that have influenced me most and influenced my own perceptions of death, Paint it Black only gets an honourable mention. See above for reassurance that there is no need for concern.

At least she's not a lawyer

Back in the day of the Derby poetry circuit, I wrote a poem about being in love with a serial killer. Along with a (true) poem about my girlfriend who could see the future, I also wrote poems about Blockbuster video and Mystic Meg. The trouble was partly I started to get a reputation for being a bit of a "character", someone you'd think "oh good, who comes the shy kid who writes funny poems" but I also wrote poems with anger and pain and hurt. And I don't think people knew how to balance that. I remember when I announced I was going to read a poem called "It's my couch, my couch, don't they understand" and maybe I imagine it now, but I think people visibly relaxed and leaned back in the chairs for something quirky and funny.

Instead what they got was a poem I had no title for, about a girlfriend's rape and ending with the words "although it's not possible for you to feel the pain you caused, I'm going to try".

I read only that one poem that night, then walked back to my table in the dark to sit alone and drink.

Anyway, the point of this little story was meant to be about how I once wrote a poem about a serial killer -- which ended "at least she's not a lawyer". I remember when I first read it, someone suggested to me that I change the ending each time to a different job. I never did, but now I think if I ever 'do' live poetry again, I might be tempted to change it to "recruitment consultant".

It's a bit rich of me, really. All these people are doing is trying get me a job -- which is to do their job, and trying to market what they have to sell -- people. And like most marketing this involves bending the truth a little here or there, and I'm sure they get paid handsomely for it.

I just have an increasing dislike for them. They call me up, out of the blue, talking of jobs and wanting to send me along for them and how the employer is really interested. They tell me "just be yourself" along with "be really bubbly" and I think to myself that if I actually had a job I could afford the drugs to make me this person they want me to appear as. But it's not that part -- it's afterwards, when you don't get the job.

It's the struggling to get the consultant to return your phone calls, and when they do you can hear from their tone of voice what their news is. They always start with "they really liked you, but", a bit like when someone starts a sentence "I'm not racist, but..." and you know what you're about to hear would make Oswald Mosley blush.

What I resent is that the recruitment consultant always sounds pissed off at me -- presumably for losing them the however-many thousands in fees. They know with my experience and my passions, I should be perfect for the brand, so why the hell didn't I get it. "They said you seemed nervous" they tell me, almost accuse me, "Were you?"
Well, yeah. I wanted the job. I haven't worked in six months or more, it's getting increasingly desperate. I liked the company, liked the brands, wanted the job. Who the hell wouldn't be nervous?
They also said my examples of my leadership style were mostly taken from my previous job, rather than from my PR experience. I have been an intern for six months, what do I know about leading anyone in PR? What I was talking about were transferable skills, taking my skills and experiences in previous roles and applying them.

Just the same, I won't be getting a second interview and I guess my recruitment consultant will have to wait a bit long for that designer Burberry handbag. I'm told they would welcome me to reapply in 6 to 8 months, and who knows -- maybe I will. But it will be off my own back, and not through some consultant they have to pay. I'm tempted to even contact the company myself and tell them one interview shows nothing, let's skip the consultant and have another go.

Short of that, I had my second interview with my company today (third interview if you count the one I had about 4 months ago for a different position). Unfortunately, the advice given by my recruitment consultant came several hours too late for this -- but maybe I got this one.

We did talk about a shared passion for 'The Great Gatsby', but in hindsight maybe I shouldn't have told them "What's the point in living if you can't feel alive?"