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

the gap


un-topia: failed utopia

dystopia: built to fail

both the delight of the misanthropist (me?)

a concrete un-topia. thamesmead. part setting for clockwork orange, misfits. a concrete tidal wave encroaching on woolwich’s braced back. swampland reclaimed (reclaimed? claimed in the first instance) from the thames. grey monolith of a town-sized city of doom. on the outskirts of town down under where the wings of the spaghetti junction flap smoothly to the ground and the grey ribbon segues smoothly in amongst the undergrowth; a space, a cubby hole, a gap:::

cupboard under the stairs

they began building a wall here, a conventional brick wall with mortar spread satisfyingly like baloney on all sides of each block of red dust… it peters out, shaven off at the top by a phantom superstrong saw. badly matched, above, the sloping slabs of concrete forming the road above impose a grey shelf topped with steel fence and garnished with monochrome graffiti tags and bird shit.

but it’s the space in between:::

gap exposed by brick, bone, dust, slab

what lives inside? local junkies, teenagers with cans of scrumpy, a thin shaft of greying light? stray cats? a hoard of trash from 1979?

not filled; curiosity allowed to peak at the sight of a dark space under

brick grows up from the earth in an unavoidable stumpy mass

concrete meets it above, unforgiving and STARK

remnant of a new and hopeful now un-topia superimposed on the traditions of Old London

the gap

red bus

there’s a red double decker bus in the concrete lot of one of the railway arch units next to peckham rye station. I pass it every day, whether I have opted for train, bus or feet that day on the way to college. it’s one of those things that has been ‘re-purposed’ in that kitsch-y, unreal way that is common for junky old vintage objects in this age; in other words, it’s probably had the original seating ripped out and has got a few picnic benches rammed inside it at which people in their early to mid twenties sit with overpriced cans of red stripe (I refuse to call them ‘hipsters’ because the word doesn’t mean anything except what you want it to).

to stand on the pavement opposite the gate behind which this bus sits is to be facing a cheap wooden board hand-painted in red with the word “brewery” (there might be a word before that, but “brewery” is the only one I need to see) concealing the rusted iron spikes that make up the gate. it’s flanked on either side by :left: another similar gate, and :right: a small household goods store.

the store is there for a simple and fulfilled purpose. it is a shop from which people who live in the local area buy practical and cheap items such as mops, washing powder, plastic cutlery. the bus is there for an aesthetic purpose somewhat submerged in the cloying fog of trying to look authentic and, for the want of a better phrase, bohemian. it sits below the railway arch with a sort of dilapidated smugness.

I have seen the bus from many different angles.

1. above, from a train carriage; standstill in the station. the smut and grease of another person’s forehead clinging to the glass, through which images appear distorted in such a way that would make an interesting, albeit gross, filter for a camera. easy viewing. bird’s eye. viewing the un-purposed from a purposed platform high above, and the cause of the bus’ presence in the first instance.

2. from a stand-still, opposite, through a wrought iron rusted fence with a wooden board affixed; peeking around the edges, tiptoes to see over the top, glancing around for a flaking red flank. as long as I want. staring, seeking out, contrasting with surroundings.

3. fleeting::: as a glance as my bus passes by, craning my neck and blinded by the sun as it explodes into my vision, only a flash of faded red visible through the burn left on my vision.

photographs to follow?

red bus


fixing life

incremental; in order to fix something you have to understand it, so no wonder nothing works.

“fixing” is unlikely in our current climate because to fix something, you first have to admit that it’s broken. government/capitalism in general is very unlikely to do so because to do so is BAD FOR BUSINESS.

in order to “fix” it is also important to think about the long term.

politicians think as far as elections

people in general think as far as the end of their own lives

we need a new collaborative environment, one in which time is not a straight line stretching far into the distant ether, but one in which it is a landscape to build malleable infrastructure on and around