Pieces. So many pieces, lying around… A piece of an hour, a name, a jersey… I bring them into existence, then leaving them gathering bright sparks of cyber-dust. Nothing is whole. Nothing is new. I have nothing new to give you.
At the end of the month applications are due for the MA course next year, and I have no idea what I’m going to submit. Poetry? Non-fiction? Probably not fiction unless they will except YA or children’s. But I have nothing new to offer. I don’t know if I was turned down last year because my application wasn’t good enough, or because I didn’t have a degree, or something else altogether... gawd, it’s such a horrible process. This whole “industry” works in horrible ways. I’m falling into love-hate. But I want to have time to write, and stimulation, others around me, feedback...
Sorry for the absence of blogging lately. I’ve been sick. I’m always sick, but I had a nasty stomach bug on top of the usual assortment. Turned my insides out a few times. Must have been an odd number of times because the right bits still seem to be on the inside.
Hey, Wellingtonians, have ya’ll voted? Last chance… And then to celebrate our first STV style vote, why not head down to Indigo to join in launching Tommy’s CD, 4000 Years. I’m told they’ll be on at 11pm – not 2am this time. Don’t know how accurate the source is though – Tommy himself has been hard to get hold of lately. Apparently I’m mentioned in the thanks but my name is spelt wrong. I’m chuffed anyway. Course, it could be that someone with a similar name to me is thanked...
I hear that Listener is sending one of their newest young darlings to Thailand (you know the boy, apparently he’s having a “full-blown affair” with Russell Brown. Or something). Anyway, he’s off to Thailand. Something about a potato… er… sorry… grain of rice. He was in our writing workshop, turned up late if he turned up at all, and his work… well, I probably can’t quote any of it, confidentiality and all, but my memory of it is of everything involving alcohol. Anyway, he dropped out, too many other commitments, blossoming journalism career… it was a shame, because a lot of people apply for the course, only twelve get in, and that year we were one down. One person missed out. And all of us had one less unique perspective. Anyway, ignore me, I’m just bitter. I mean, Thailand! I should write more drinking stories.
Notice how I’m so far into the blog and I still haven’t mentioned the Sunday Herald’s piece on That Man talking about his cure for homosexuality. Nor am I going to discuss it. He’s been given enough attention already.
I’m listening to The Green Room 003: (EAR)TH as I type. The only track I really like is Tommy’s. I think I’m too un-hip for the rest. Not that I’m saying Tommy’s un-hip! Just more accessible for me…
Anyway, speaking of pieces (what do you mean who was speaking of pieces? I was, just a minute ago, aren’t you paying any attention?) I’ve put some pieces of old poems together with some pieces that hadn’t found poems yet, and tried to make a sort of a sequence. It’s probably crap but I don’t know because I can’t seem to tell what is “good” anymore. So tell me. Whatdya reckon?
Listening to Ligetti
I
Prediction is difficult, especially about the future.
- Niels Bohr
The wind has dismantled the magnolia
petal by petal,
white scales cling
to the wet grass.
If we know the position and speed of the sun and planets
it should be possible to predict the onset of spring
and the series of events
that will lead to the fall
of tears.
A good theory
makes firm predictions:
I have a theory
there will be no more flowers
this spring.
II
In Budapest
the river freezes
bones cradled
within the ice flows.
III
You bring me
the first impatient strawberries
sour and full of seeds
I leave the flowers
in my chamomile tea.
IV
I notice your hands, a world
away over the table.
Strings curl away from slender fingers
threads dance at the end of a bow.
I find myself touching
the outlines of words.
Between the notes
there is music.
V
I picked up my violin today
I thought my hands were broken
but the notes were exactly
where I left them.
A late frost had burned
the soft tips of the spruce
my feet left dark
bruises on the lawn.
VI
Leaves of music turn
yellow in a closed drawer.
The composer turns west, retraces
the slow fall of the river.
Outside
cool spring waits
We speak in clouds
Life blooms from our lips.
In my experience, the whole "Creative Writing" industry really has nothing to do with talent. Partly it's a question of "meeting the right people"; partly it's trying to pick people who may be able to make stuff that the capitalist pigdog publishing houses can make a profit selling. In fact, just like the music industry - although that's my own personal bitterness speaking there. :)
(and what are you doing counselling people to vote? You're an anarchist! If voting changed anything they'd make it illegal, right?)
Frankly, I think that your already fine writing will be *better* if you resist the temptation of becoming part of the snobbish literary intelligensia, and continue working a real job like the rest of us. The raw material of writing is real live experience - and you also want to decide who you want to write for. The Kelburn dinner-party crowd; or real people?
Posted by: H. Blackrose at October 8, 2004 07:09 AMOn the Hyundai sports cafe, marc ellis mentioned the 'Mans' cure for homosexuality, and asked if people could write in with cures for Brian Tamaki :) one of his suggestions was lead gumboots and a pier.
AL
Posted by: Al at October 8, 2004 08:06 AM