Eleven Days

Tuesday 10th July 2012

Rainy night in Newcastle. A bus from Byker to Blackett Street. Dodge the puddles and the raindrops into Eldon Square and jump on the first bus going to Central Station. Get off and walk carefully across loose paving stones in vain hopes of avoiding dirty splashes up black cargo trousers and into the empty chippy on Clayton Street. There’s only two sausages and a stack of spam fritters in the stainless steel and glass display. Just chips, I ask cheerfully. He’s just put a batch in the fryer. Two minutes, he says. I wonder if the rain will get worse. I don’t really want to get a taxi from Consett. My big steak-cut chips arrive and I fire tom sauce all over them and step out into the murk. A  soaking wet drunk badgers me for bus fare. I spare a few coins and walk past the jazz café back to Central Station. Eat my chips under a shelter half a street away from where my bus leaves. Then I slip into the train station for five minutes. There is a big puddle right in front of the toll booths: plastic yellow bollards warning caution slippery floor. A hole in the roof. That thing drizzle that soaks you leaking through the metal sheeting illuminated by sodium. I rummage in my bag for the last of the oasis cherryade  and down it in one. Newcastle is a washout. At quarter past ten I go over to the forty-five stand and listen to the flood stories, emergency calls made last week. Or was it a fortnight ago. A stream of buses go by before the 45. Onboard I try to sleep but can’t so do an edit session on a poet’s collection I’m publishing in September. It’s a 28-page pamphlet but my poor retention means by the time I’ve got a general for the poems the bus is in Blackhill, only a few minutes from town the rain isn’t as bad in Consett. I decide to save the taxi money and just stride  through the rotten sheets to homeground. Early this evening I performed a little showcase set at the Cumberland Arms to people who mostly had never seen me before. A gift of an audience. It was good to see a full set from Ann Porro as well. As I sit here on my bed, despite ears ringing with constant tinnitus, I feel good. 11.52pm.

Wednesday 11th July 2012

Up early working on a gig proposal, didn’t have a drink or bite to eat till one o’clock this afternoon. Felt really hammered so just did some facebook networking and checking out possible poets for Lamplight big gig. Watched lots of music videos. Lots of Hanoi Rocks from their last ever gig in Helsinki in 2009. I like some of Michael Monroes solo stuff as well, particularly 78. Also watched a Clash documentary. Never really paid them much attention before. Had a long telephone conversation with Jenni this morning. She has slept for pretty much twenty-four hours.

Can’t believe how fucking cold it is today. Had the central heating on this afternoon and still cold. Fucking coldest July I’ve known. Heavy rain at lunchtime but no flooding.  Saw by chance a facebook link to an article on depleted uranium in US warfare. Deformed children, so bad I honestly thought they were fake images. Never been so appalled by anything like that before to the point that I was very close to being physically sick. Babies with limbs missing. No eyes. Some apparently born without brains. Some just globs of flesh covered mess with scabs, no head. Totally horrific. Apparently the chemical fall-out from depleted uranium lasts billions of years. Haven’t read any stuff today. Very nearly forgot to do this journal entry. 

I emailed Sheila about her pamphlet a while ago. I wish the weather would get beter. Doubt I’ll be doing The Beast ride this year. Hardly been out on the bike at all. Hope things go okay in the next week or so. Heard nothing from college or tax office. Getting a good will payment for electricity cut last month. Fifty-four quid isn’t bad for a thirty second phone call. 11.33pm.

Thursday 12th July 2012

I wake up and think about depleted uranium damage and the horrific pictures on facebook yesterday. I don’t think I’ll ever own a passport. I used to like the idea of seeing America but I don’t need to travel to get a sense of the social injustices of the world. I’m grateful to those who do go out and bring back first hand experience of foreign policy – real reportage that destroys the myths we see on the six o’clock news.  Some believe you should only visit a country if you speak the language. French, German and Latin – I was crap at all of them. I was crap at school full stop. But let’s not go there at quarter to seven on a Thursday morning. Every day I have to fight indolence. Every day I think I’d rather just sit and stew in front of You Tube. Maybe it’s a morning thing. I tried to get to bed early last night but got distracted by a Clash documentary and nearly forgot to do my journal. I got a few likes for my Scribbles from the Brink if Inertia blog posted on Monday. It would be good to have a full-on diary book out. Just for the sheer audacity of it. As a therapeutic writing tool in workshops it’s good to focus on journaling – very easy ad engaging  exercises at a leisurely pace with a bit of a discussion going. It’s what the sessions at Waddy are supposed to be about but now we have all this Ofsted stuff making it formal for all involved. 7.05am.

Later: Me and Jenni were meant to be going to Pink Lane Poetry and Performance this evening but she isn’t up for it and I now have a migraine and feel just about on the verge of chucking my guts up. Relieved that I’m not doing a poetry gig at Waddy tomorrow. The only thing I  really want to focus on is Sheila Wakefield’s pamphlet. I want it to be exactly how she wants it. Lavish paper. Coloured end papers, the works. Proper printing for the cover, best reprographics I can afford for the pages. She deserves it for all the stellar work she’s put in on behalf of north east poets over the last six years… Right now my head is splitting. It’s ten o’clock. I’m going to bed as soon as I fill this page. Sick of waking up more tired than the previous day. Sick of chasing my tail. Sick of everything really. Me and Jenni are going to the Roller Derby on Saturday. The walker centre will have hundreds of people in there going nuts for women on rollerskates. Looking forward to it. 10.03pm.

Friday 13th July 2012

Discussed with Annabel from Arc the logistics of the gig I bailed on yesterday. Within half an hour of speaking to her I’d booked our headline act Dominic Berry. A couple of hours later a text from Amanda Baker expressing strong interest. It was good to have a frank conversation with Annabel. I managed to tell her I’m uneducated, hate bureaucracy and don’t think much of what passes for spoken word these days actually is. Last night was really stressful and I went to bed with a migraine at ten o’clock. Stayed in bed nearly twelve hours. That isn’t a common occurrence for me. I have a bit of a tickly throat. Hope it isn’t going to develop into something really horrible.

Saturday 14th July

I’m in the middle of Jen’s bed coz the blankets went funny. I can hear the traffic on dry roads and hope that today might be sunny. Already we’ve heard Freddy Mercury tell us it’s a beautiful day but being a pair of doubting Thomases we won’t know for sure until we’re upright and gazing out the little attic window. Today we are going to the Roller Derby The Newcastle Roller Girls are playing at the Walker Lightfoot Centre this afternoon. We missed the last game so I’m keen to make this one. It starts at half twelve. I got into this sport by being invited to a match by Claudia ‘Miss Wired’ Kaminski, partner of the poet Mandy Maxwell. It was December 2011 and I was taken by the speed and the buzz of the hall and all the hard rock music played throughout the game. I like the alternative culture links, all the whacky names of the players, the punky/metal look of their characters and it’s just a welcome departure from books, books and open mics for a while. 9.05am.

Later: Very sleepy day. Had a good nine hours overnight but felt a bit wrecked midway through the Roller Derby. The Canny Belters lost out to Manchester Checkerboards by about twenty points. We got the bus back into Newcastle and bought quarter pounder cheeseburgers a quid each and munched as we walked through the rain back into Gateshead. Anyway, another day without much to complain about. 11.38pm.

Sunday 15th July 2012

Woke at five and lay awake till six, wrote up more ideas for the Lamplight gig. Jenni slept through till half ten. We had hot cross buns with jam and just messed about on facebook till lunchtime. Sat down to watch BRICK but fell asleep and spilt black currant juice down my trousers. Did a bit of work relating to writing marathon at Lit and Phil next month. Watched Believers tonight. Okay but your usual ‘cult commits mass suicide’ film. Right now I’m on the 45 to Consett. A dark blue sky. Possibly the finest day we’ve had this month and we stayed in with the blinds closed. I definitely won’t be doing The Beast ride this year. Biking isn’t what I wanted it to be due to bad weather. No matter, plenty indoor activities to keep me busy. I won’t get home till twenty to midnight. Jenni gave me a black Shake the Dust t-shirt this weekend. Going to wear it at the Dominic Berry Lamplight gig. Some guy sitting opposite is in a grump and mouthing off to his partner. I think he’s drunk. This weekend is nearly over and I must get back to some semblance of a work routine. Enough now. 10.42pm.

Monday 16th July 2012

Poetry isn’t isn’t all buttercups and daisies and sunsets and wandering lonely as cloud. It can be relevant to you and me, challenging our perceptions of the world around us, engaging with issues that matter, reaffirming our values and beliefs, conveying what we feel, it can give us a platform to express ourselves, whoever we are. I watched lots of poetry vids tonight. And I want to write poems. I want to write verse that’s heard in the library and heard in the classroom. But I can’t write for kids and I’ve never been to the moon. Never been further than Worthing or Brighton in the rain. Slept rough in Glasgow  once and thought, I’ll never do that again. Don’t own a passport and could never drive a car. So I sit by the bedroom window watching workmen spread pavement tar, thinking my shoes will get sticky. Could be a little tricky, trying to get to the shop and back so I’ll do without my razor or a stinky lying newspaper and just grumble to myself. It’s supposed to be good for your health, this getting it all out. But you’ve all heard me scream and shout a dozen times before. Why do I find it do hard just stepping out the front door?  Checklist the length of my arm.  Without my grumble I could do irreparable harm with pots and pans and plates and I could kick the slats off five bar gates  and fill a phone book sized pad full of hate. But hey, still well-travelled on the inside. My psychologist told me that when they took me for a ride. So I don’t know which country you expect to see when I paint pictures with words that some call poetry. An interior landscape, that’s the one I traverse. Learnt it from punk poets of Washington DC and New York. I don’t own a car, cab only go as far as the 3-zone 7-day bus pass goes or my bicycle legs will take me, so there isn’t much internationalism to my poetry. Not to worry, another poet will  come along and sing you a more colourful song. I’ll just keep grinding in the blues. It’s the only trick I use. To get me up here in my platform shoes. No worries, I’m done. 10.45pm.

Tuesday 17th July 2012

Listened to some Adrian Mitchell on line. Ordered three cds from Atilla the Stockbroker. I like him but I’m not really all that politically aware. When Attila does it he still mains a level head despite his genuine outrage at the way things are. I would end up just saying we’re all going to the gas chamber – which is a little off-putting at a spoken word show. I sent four poems to Ofi Press in Mexico via email. Still quite a few NaPoWriMo poems to send out. Was asked if I’d like to do a slam in a young offenders centre. Also offered a day of mini workshops in a school in Chester le Street. Right now listening to Balaam and the Angel on Spotify – never heard their The Greatest Story Ever Told album for at least twenty-two years. First band I ever saw live at the Riverside.  Think they’re back together, as are many of the eighties alternative bands. I’m nothing if not eclectic. Well, another twelve hour days for me. 10.03pm.

Wednesday 18th July 2012

Blurry eyed Wednesday in my little house in Moorside the place where I’ll reside until the skies turn to fire or I face the dire consequences of my misspent life. It’s boredom that will be the death of me – not illness, or trouble and strife and oncoming stress. Sometimes this place isn’t a mess but mostly I’m just wading through memories of days when passion plays weren’t something to consider. I’d sell my soul to the highest bidder if a new motor could be placed inside. I sit here cursing I can’t abide the state of this place. And the disgruntled face that stares back from a grubby mirror shows all the years I’ve been bad to me. But I was foolish and couldn’t see the harm. Now, I’d chance my arm that it’s all doggerel for most days. And that’s the way it’s going to stay. I see nothing worth shouting about at seven thirty five this morning. I’m barely alive and I’ve had enough of this bullshit. Let’s change the rhythm and lack of subject.

Another full-on day. Most of it working on Sheila’s pamphlet. Sat on the living room floor comparing original poems with edits and seeing if there’s any middle ground. Have pasted up a 28 page dummy but lots of other stuff coming in via email and phone  so I had to cool it this evening. Got a bit of a migraine. Booked two more guests for Lamplight Northern Elements show in August. Got my poet profile up on the Apples and Snakes website. I’m starting to forget what day it is until I look at my journal page. During term time I’d be getting ready for bed now. Summer nights I’d like to  stay up late but the workload hasn’t really eased much. 10.33pm.

Thursday 19th July 2012

More work coming in and lots of networking, promoting to do and way behind on editing. Got Sheila’s pamphlet first dummy knocked up today and posted it off with four pages of notes. Ink Bomb is going to be late winter 2012 then summer 2013. Biannual works best. Just watched the most incredible indoor mototrials on youtube from Bercy, Paris. Watched a good documentary on Olympic track cyclist Victoria Pendleton. She hopes to win gold in London then retire. We might all be retired by the end of 2012. Listening to Take This Waltz by Leonard Cohen makes me think I should do Thank You Kindly Mr Cohen at Southpaw next week. 9.27pm.

Friday 20th July 2012

Today I’m going food shopping and have to withdraw more money than usual in order to buy Jesus Christ Superstar tickets for Jenni’s birthday. The show is actually a month later, in September, two days after out London gig at Jawdance. Let’s hope no Olympic false flag operation scuppers that.

Can’t remember the last time I looked at a workshop idea or read a lesson plan. Going to spend all of September doing that in order to get my autumn 10 week terms in place for Waddington Street centre. By September I’ll be ready to rock again but at the end of June I wanted to jack everything in. Maybe just the weather. Seems to have calmed down over the last few days. Relief. 7.55am.

You know you're really losing your memory when you buy a dvd you've already got on VHS. Durrr. Will take Stephen King's IT back sometime soon. Got my powercut payment, so that was nice.
And Adrian Mitchell's collected children's poems from library. 12.30pm.

Taking stock till tea time. A bacon sandwich crammed with tomato, pickled onions, cucumber and beetroot followed by a hot cross bun with rhubarb-and-ginger jam. Today's typesetting was mostly aided by the tunes of Marilyn Manson and Fugazi. Time to get my bags packed. I'm off to Gateshead at nine o'clock this evening to see Jenni. 7.53pm.