photograph of a moment

i walk into a shop with a smashed window. it smells strongly of cleaning fluid, and there is a large puddle on the floor. the man behind the till is watching youtube videos on his phone and does not seem to notice. the light in here is sickly and yellow. there are jars of pickled things. dried milk. dried fruit. dried noodles.

Advertisements
photograph of a moment

stroll, cont.

gallery road, someone has written, in reference to the huge colourful scrawls lining the no mans’ land between tracks and building site. NOT TRUE, i want to scream. galleries are not so organic.

greenlight leaning over the tracks, poised. another train hums casually over.

a man up ahead appears at first glance to be pissing, but actually he is sketching a bush.  he is wearing earbuds. i wonder what he is listening to.

it’s too painful to stand on this viewing platform; the drilling is too loud. at least there is a creek today; it flows like a fat slug in the rain. brambles reach into the walkway and i find myself looking for the cracks, the in-between, the clues, caught between decimation and desolation.

this kind of barbed wire looks like a fleur de lis.

the smell of sawdust. cigarette butts and polystyrene. moudly apple core.

luxury flats overlooking the sewage treatment works.

stroll, cont.

Stroll

Frankham Street smells like an armpit.

Further along this devolves into garam masala and chlorine.

The arches of the train track are all dripping mildew and piss.

Techno scrawled over techno in different coloured paint.

GCHQ= STATS! in melting white.

The roof drips into tiny gravel pits, makes pigeons jump.

A huge crude face on one, tentacles on the next.

Wake up? in red.

Plants burst through cracks in the brick.

A train thunders overhead.

I step into a cloud of mosquitoes.

Stroll

on cyclical-ness, a hyper-rant essay thing

i am cyclical in the biological and also the creative sense, i can never focus permanently on one specific method or type of creativity, but instead switch between 5 or 6 different types (poetry, prose, songwriting/ music in general, visually creative stuff like graphic design or drawing or photography or filming). i reliably come back to each of these different methods in time (in between worrying that i’ve ‘lost the knack’ or the inclination to do any of the others while focussing on one), usually after a few weeks or so. recently the pattern has been; poetry for maybe 2 months, novel writing for a few weeks, and now songwriting. design has snaked its way in to all of these other than the novel writing part (as yet i’ve not tried to design that big a publication…. plus i only have 23,000 words in quite vague form atm). i’m trying not to focus too much on the ‘visual design’ of my music because i possibly gave too much importance to this in the past. i need to try and work on performing; showing a good version of myself on stage (intending on doing a few open mics soon, watch this space, for recordings also, which i’ve been working on).

i’d like to try and figure out how and why the whole creative cycle thing seems to happen, and if it fits in any way to the biological cycle (i’m currently reading “threads” which is a super interesting book/zine about the physical/social aspects of menstruation); it fits my character because of my sort of hyperactive quality of always wanting to be doing various things at once, switching between things… (anyone who knows me well enough knows i can rarely sit and watch a whole film without fidgeting/ reading/ writing/ drawing or whatever. not that i don’t find films inspiring, actually i get inspired really quickly if i like a film’s aesthetic, or the music that’s used or whatever, and then i just can’t stop thinking about stuff i want to do).

it sounds absurd to feel like i’m interested in too many different things, but my brain is always this big hyperactive sprawl, i picture it as a city where there are different areas dedicated to¬†everything that matters, and everything that might matter. this isn’t a problem; it just means sometimes i need to translate the big powerful river-stream of thoughts and feelings and weirdness and inspiration into words outside my head.

books queued up to read next; the 1st two i got at offprint london the other day which was stressfully full of people but way worth it:

  • bad feelings (AAC collective; collection of essays/ poems about how bad feelings are ok b/c things are pretty bad)
  • go to reception and ask for sara in red felt tip (Holly Pester; poems and short stories based around a library archive)
  • the diary of frida kahlo

music atm:

  • “17”- youth lagoon
  • “living in the city”- hurray for the riff raff
  • “better days”- dark seas
  • “floated in”- frankie cosmos
  • “imagining my man”- aldous harding
on cyclical-ness, a hyper-rant essay thing