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

POST DEGREE TOXIC EXISTENTIAL CRISIS BLUES

  1. What am I

a) Doing

b) Going to do

c) ????????????

 

2. Who am I

 

3. Why do I

a) Keep making lists of things to do then deciding it’s all pointless

b) Not get any response from 90 per cent of the jobs I apply for, even a rejection

c) Need to further qualify that I’m qualified for a job that I’m qualified for

d) Change my mind every 5 seconds about

i) What I want

ii) What I’m capable of

iii) How to go about getting even an interview

iv) Whether the last three years were actually just a really long dream

 

4. When do I

a) Give up

b) Go and live in a tree

c) Rewrite my CV so it just says “PLEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSEEEEEEEEE”

 

5. Where do I get experience if in order to get experience I need to have experience

 

 

 

POST DEGREE TOXIC EXISTENTIAL CRISIS BLUES

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cane fashioned of soil I use
to beat a rhythm out
upon your back

polishing knives and forks
you draw from endless
bottomless burlap sack

I live to gouge and prick
my name in working flesh

of heads and tails
and gilt and guilt
I weave a flawless mesh

around your heart
I build apiece
a heartless barb wire fence

and pay a generous hourly sum
of six pounds seventy pence

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