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

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.

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)

the problem with the world that we live in

the problem with the world that we live in
is that it isn’t the world that we live in
fuck, 2, 3, 4
find a job, 2, 3, 4
learn the jargon and accept your place and be accepted into a place by the people who make the tea and cakes
learn to fuck, learn when to think for yourself (rarely necessary)
be quiet in libraries and fuck in bedrooms, preferably ones that aren’t yours

the problem with the world that we live in
is that there isn’t any one satisfying problem
ooh, let’s solve it, let’s take it away, let’s crush it down,
down until there’s nothing left

the problem with the world that we live in
is that crushing is an act which repeats forever when it’s started

and it has

the problem with the world that we live in
is that it doesn’t have a face
(the world or the problem)
if it did we could victimise, anaesthetise, villain-ize
instead we do it anyway

the problem with the world that we live in
is it’s just too simple to yell
DOWN WITH!
and without any further thought
there we are
in some sickening jellied pastel world of
“we did the best we could,
it just wasn’t enough”

the problem with the world that we live in
is that it isn’t the world that we live in

the problem with the world that we live in

A CALL TO ARMS

“As soon as volume exceeds 80db, blood pressure rises. The stomach and intestine operate more slowly, the pupils become larger, and the skin gets paler- no matter whether the noise is found pleasant or disruptive, or is not even consciously perceived… Unconsciously we always react to noise like Stone Age beings. At that time a loud noise almost always signified danger… That is therefore pre-programmed, and when millions of young people hear excessively loud music they register: danger. They become alarmed. That word comes from the Italian Alarm, which in turn leads to all’arme, a call to arms. When we hear noise, we are constantly- but unconsciously- “called to arms”.” – Paul Virilio

A sinister resonance echoes through empty buildings- natural or fabricated? Science fiction or a real-time sonic war, played out in bouncing frequencies ear to ear, mouth to mouth, a snowy construct in a beaten-down land?

The abandoned artifacts of sonic warfare:

  1. An inauspicious telephone kiosk, double handled and facing North, waiting for the order to release chaos.
  2. Cement domes, turned on their sides, monuments to old battles staring proudly, nowadays pointlessly, into the North Sea. Who is out there now? Whose jets would be exposed to the land, roaring inward to invade?
  3. A truck advancing ever closer to the retreating crowd with hands over ears, a loudspeaker mounted atop
  4. A single mosquito swarms to attack a child and warn it away from public space.
A CALL TO ARMS

soundpost 1

birds scream, squeak, jostle overhead to out of sight. drilling from a corner house, the smell of sawdust. man shuts front door behind him with a click, yelp of electronic car keys, loud hacking cough. distant enclosed music thumping, then tinny. turbo engine kicking in as a train heats up and creates a tubular whining knife-sharpening behind the backs. more thumping, woman adjusts wing mirror in stationary fiesta. rainham road. synchronised roar of cars, the baritone of a white van creeping in. harrow road and the nasal roar of a motorcycle coming up on the inside. sweeping waves of car, a lost part of the city, petering out to scrubland and nothing. man in a suit rounds the corner, young, blond, clicks fingers and sings under breath. clop, mounts pavement in shiny business-shoes. cars slide chugging past to stop at the t-junction. the 18 to euston hisses by. flampflamp flampflamp (temporary yellow plastic ramp on the busy bridge). mother calls to child 100 yards behind in a guttural new language. black van. we. buy. land. now the 18 to sudbury, the tick of a pushbike, the angry whoosh of a turbo charged beamer. skeletal oil tower across the tracks. i want it to speak to me. what is your noise? what have you heard? the marshmallow sky would be undulating, sinking lower in tone with the sun. what would it be to run fingers or sticks along the widely corrugated opaque metal wall opposite? (barring me from that tower, the sunset, the weald) ting or clang? dents where one has tried with harder stuff. low voices carried only half on the wind, half lost to the glowing ether. rattle and busy thump of broken suitcase on broken slabs. patent rustle of tutting leaves underfoot, richer in sound than in colour. slugging motorbikes pass, boredly trapped behind the dull homely humming of people carriers. listen for the buildup of train behind the evening noise like the threat or climax of a thriller. but it dies again, transposed back into real life, biding its time. pictures not necessary, are they not? or are they? waiting at berens road. shoes against pavement mixed with leaves, sounds the consistency of fudge.

soundpost 1

>>>a fan rotates under a light in a coffee bar<<<

—flickering— holographs

prisms of light

shining turn-over of engines in the neon aspartame night

diesel

dayglo

hissssing beat of unknown song loud and wide:

from under soft top

acrid burning tarmac

sting of white light on my brain eyes throat

building rests cold against my skin as I lose my eyesight

(or the streetlamp falters)

The backwards glow of dull reversing headlamps backing away into the hovering orange distance

Fog of particles

Fog of past

Fog of past participles

Like a flickbook under the —faltering— fluorescent light

stop motion life with no real ——-gaps——— in between,

luminescent mouthwash spit into drains far and wide as mushrooms grow in dewy marshmallow fields

Rain against my skin

Lemonade against my skin

Red wine against my skin

>>>a fan rotates under a light in a coffee bar<<<