Well, I move into my new flat tomorrow and I've spent the day almost getting round to preparing for it. I have the boxes for the move. All that remains is to put things in them. The work of but a moment, I'm sure. I mean, how much can one person own? It'll be nice to get out from under the feet of my parents again. Great as they are, the walls have closed in to the point of suffocation over the last two months.

The poems have been pouring out of me over the last few days, which I guess works as proof that quantity and quality don't always go together. But then, how doyou judge free verse? I've been trying to review a few pieces today as a way of sharpening my own writer's eye, and it seems virtually impossible at times. Every rhythm, every word choice, seems entirely subjective. So how do you give technical advice, or any reaction more profound than "I liked/didn't like this"? Answers on a postcard please...
 

At work all day, with calm tenants, I've been reading Bukowski's collected poems and ignoring the list of jobs that need doing by tonight. How does he make free verse look so easy? I seem to spend a lot of time these days enyng the talent of others rather than dong enough writing of my own. Maybe that's why Bukowski et al are so much better than me; they actually plant themselves down and write.

One of my favourite Bukowski moments:

"dismiss perfection as an ache of the
greedy
but do not give in to the mass modesty of easy imperfection

and remember
the belly of the whale is laden with
great men."

What wouldn't give to write lines as good as those? Well worth getting into trouble for tomorrow when the boss notices again just how little cleaning gets done when I'm on shift. I might think of a better excuse for not dusting, mind. He sees me as a lazy publc schoolboy as it is...
 

It's interesting how many people have immediatley equated me with the narrator in my "On telling a date I'm a care worker" poem. Certainly some of the low marks have been for "my" opinions. To be fair, I think that's understandable. It's written in the first person, and it's about someone in my line of work, albeit with opinions I don't truly hold even on the worst of days. It's not a pleasant read, either. But I do take issue with the idea that a poem needs to be beautiful or somehow uplifting. A lot of great poetry is, of course. But what about Ted Hughes, Bukowski, or Raymond Carver? Their poetry isn't traditionally beautiful, and can be about the bleakest and grubbiest of subjects, but it still matters. There's a truth in it about the human condition that matters to me.

I don't pretend to be as good as them, of course, but I'm doing my best to say something about life as I see it. Damn, these blogs can make you pretentious!

The poem has made me examine my take on what I do, though. It flowed more easily than anything I've written for a while, as though my subconcious really did have something to say for once. The truth is, my opinions change with my mood, sleep pattern, and general feelings about life. It's funny how little I seem to know myself.
 

Well, after a typically long "laziness break," I'm writing again. I posted a poem today; they are always harder to judge than stories, I think, and I genuinely have no idea whether it has any merit at all, but at least it's written.

I'm still sticking to my vegan diet, much to the amusement of my friends, who have suddenly all become far more joyfully carnivourous in front of me than usual. I'd say something to them, except that I'd be doing the exact same thing in their position. The joys of mockery among friends, eh?

Work is as dull as ever, and I seem to be here more than ever this month as I pay for my car's MOT (pretty much the only working part is the radio, so the garage tells me). Whilst having it repaired, I was able to enjoy the delights of public transort. My train was cancelled and I left my wallet on the bus. But at least my seat had a free paper to read. Swings and roundabouts...

The paper was nice light reading after "The Brothers Karamazov". A great book with some amazing moments, but with the odd seven page ecclesiastical essay thrown in for good measure. I understand now why Somerset Maugham argued for the skill of "intelligent skipping". I wouldn't change it, though. He may have given himself more room to write than most modern writers, but Dosteovsky was pretty damn good.

 

As part of my latest monthly craze, I'm now into my second day as a vegan. I used every piece of kitchen equipment yesterday in cooking a chick pea stroganoff, which frankly wasn't worth the effort, and discovered at lunchtime that vegan ham doesn't taste especially like ham. I'm going to stick with it (I took the vegan pledge online, and you can't walk away from a thing like that), mainly because I turn out to rather like soya milk. There's also the whole ethical argument thing, which probably matters more than taste buds to some people.

Writing-wise I'm still far too lazy at the moment. Hopefully the new week will see a rise in effort levels.
 

I spent the first twenty minutes at work this morning chasing an injured pidgeon with a box and a tea-towel. It was all I could do not to hum "catch the pidgeon" as I went, and I now understand why Dastardly and Mutley struggled so much. The pidgeon is now in the hands of a capable vet; I've named him Biggles and wish him well, all the while suppressing the suspicion that he's now dead (surely vets aren't that cruel?). This, I think, counts as a good day's work.

I recieved an email from SummerLyn Guthrie last night, proving that at least one person has actually read this blog. Who knew? She is now officially my favourite person in the world, at least until my girlfriend brings me back a present from Cuba. I'm fickle like that.




 

I'm back from taking a bunch of service users with learning disabilities to Cyprus (now that was a long, long week), so hopefully the writing will begin again in the next few days. I was a little slack even before I set off, but I have some ideas and some first drafts to work with.

I came back to news that I'd forgotten to put a word count on "A Fine Man", making it inelligable for the competition it was in. Fortunately Niki decided it was still good enough to deserve an honourable mention. Given the week I've had (why oh why should we take someone to a villa, complete with pool, in Cyprus when they hate waiting in airports, don't even realise they're in a foreign country and refuse point blank to swim?), this was the most cheering news I've had in a while.

Hopefully it'll be the impetus I need to get to work again and enter a few more competitions.
 

After watching "The Temptations of Sin," a superb documentary about WH Auden, I've had a rare go at poetry today. Surprisingly enough it's not in his class, but at least it's written.

I've been reading his Collected Poems today, and I have to say the man was a genius with language. His poems are so controlled, so unexpected and yet so right. An example:

"Appearing unannounced, the moon
Avoids a mountain's jagged prongs
And sweeps into the open sky
Like one who knows where she belongs."

I wish I could write like that!

I especially liked one of his quotes during an interview, when he said that his aim was to tell the reader "something he had always known and yet never realised. That's truth." I couldn't agree more.
 

Well, a day off work today, spent benefitting from an excellent crit to "A Fine Man." It's taking shape nicely now. Not sure how many more drafts I have left before I'm making it worse rather than better now.

I think it's the best story I've put on this site, so hopefully that means I'm progressing quite nicely. At this rate, given another hundred years or so I'll be a pretty good writer.

I finished reading Bukowski's "Ham on Rye" today. What a book. Bleak, fierce, but with real dark humour, and so well written. I can feeel myself strutting around the house, feeling like the tough, mean guys he describes. Fortunately there's nobody here to see how ridiculous this looks...

 

I spent last night watching Revolutionary Road and getting back together with an old girlfirend. The film was excellent, sticking pretty closely to one my favourite books, and the girlfriend has lost weight, gained confidence, and met me at an age now where I actually want an intelligent, funny and thoughtful person in my life. Overall, then, a rather good Friday night.

I'm spending this afternoon being boring at home, trying to get the next draft of "A Fine Man" into something apporoaching decent shape. I've been struggling with the scene where two characters argue, so I'm having another read of Rev Road, where Frank and April argue in the car. The scene blew me away when I first read it, so I'm hoping for some technical hints as to how Yates pulled it off. I'm cheating, in other words. It's like school, all over again...