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

like a goldfish in a bowl

img_0579img_0581img_0591

i am not stuck fast
but i am glue-slow
wading through wet cement
circa 1970
i drink sky and

what’s funny is
if you build glass where
it never stops raining
life will be as grey
as if you’d never bothered,
and just used concrete

you have to see that
shards are just as sharp
when they fall from phone boxes
as when they stand erect
and pierce the roof

of the world’s mouth

“and this world is
the one”, we shuddered
as we sped towards it
along the DLR tracks

of the darkest timeline
history taut as a tightrope

like a goldfish in a bowl

Dreamscapes.

Not pastel wonderlands full of mythical creatures, or nightmare dungeons full of my deepest darkest demons. Grey places with no real direction or meaning, flipping past like the leaves of a discarded copy of the Yellow Pages lying in a railway siding. Flat landscapes composed of high hedges on either side of silent country roads, long-crashed cars with the headlights punched out, a low distant unexplained roaring, ominous but strangely comforting. My dreams are s l o w . They form parts of my sub-conscious I never bother to explore during my waking hours; as I believe I’ve stated before, my dreams are not this weird. Life is stranger. But dreams are moreish. Ever wake up from Chapter One and try and relax fast enough to catch Chapter Two?

Dreamscapes.

sour fruits

x ray earth ray
window to sea spray
a waterfall in negative

dust me with sherbet
then tell me just what
you want to do about it.

i would like to say
you are the same
when seen through a frame

but it shows me
another layer.
there is more to you

than you would like
me to know.
when you tell me

to go climb a tree
I will- a pine-
I will scrape all the skin

off my legs
leave them raw
purple-pink like meat

like the underneath
of you.
you are true. you are

stalactites, a tall salty
wave in slow motion.
crash down on me.

you hide in the corners
of yourself, eat an apple,
viciously, so it

makes your gums bleed
makes your sweat
squeeze through taste buds

sour fruits

self-portrait (morning mop)

after bunny rogers

 

every morning.
mop myself up off the kitchen floor; there’s violet & lilac; azure & indigo; turquoise & teal.
running down into the cracks, between the floorboards.
i am all mess and no substance, as certain figureheads would probably say.
my dreams are not this weird.
usually i teeter on the edge of the unreal; the frayed rope between neon and grey clouds pregnant with rain.
rain falls & replaces me.
i am only untidy due to hue; clear water is not troubling.
(perhaps only the sink leaking?)
it is when violet is involved that things become worrying (for purple is the most vexing colour; unsettlingly close to blue- the easiest colour to see.)
things are always most alarming when they are only not-quite right.
but back to the mopping of myself; the splintered wooden pole, with its soft malleable feet, is my partner.
we dance the foxtrot (if Hesse is to be believed / this is the easiest of the dances).
twist, twist, twist.
the mop is a beautiful thing; by itself it does not clean up.
merely collects the dirt & preserves it.

self-portrait (morning mop)