Thursday 6th September 2012
Lots of little obstacles and set-backs this week.
Printing materials, buses being late, getting lost on an industrial estate,
performer cancellations… Never mind, it’s the day of Poetry Jam and I’m in the
Waddy staff kitchen after a very running chicken korma and I’m chilling before
the evening kicks off. Tonight we have Ira Lightman and Amina Marix Evans plus
jam sessions. Tonight I’m reading a couple of new pieces – stuff from a
marathon – and I might give a run through of Jack and Jill Went up the Fish. I
usually only use it in workshops…
It’s almost half six now. I usually go down to sit
in the lounge and wait for people to arrive. Doors open at seven but some
people come early. Hope we have enough jammers.
I left a copy of The Boy Who Could See Demons by
Carolyn Jess Cooke on A’s office chair with a birthday card. I am going to the
author’s talk event Bishop Auckland next month and hope some of the Waddy
people can make it too.
Okay, time to go downstairs…
Later: Durham
City Stinks! Literally.
Soon as you step outside the shit they’ve been spraying on nearby fields wafts
over and assaults you. Lucky we were indoors this evening for another excellent Poetry Jam. Great mix of the wacky,
wonderful, surreal and serious - loads of new poems being road-tested from the
jammers to compliment sets from our special guests Amina Marix Evans, Terry
Krazzywolf Dobson, who stepped in as a last minute replacement - many thanks
for that, Terry – and of course our headliner the amazing conceptual poet Ira
Lightman who treated us to a 20+ minutes set with songs and poems from his
brand new book “I, love poetry”. Great to see other seasoned performers such as
AJ McKenna and Kirsten Luckins from Apples and Snakes trying out works-in
progress at this intimate venue alongside newcomers. Part performance cabaret,
part literary reading, part workshop, social get together – a whole evening of
poetical entertainment. Many thanks to all of you who keep coming and making
these nights so special in Durham
City. Big thanks to
Fergus and other staff at Waddington Street Centre for letting it all take
place under their roof. Poetry Jam – Spread the Word. Keep it going!
I now have a rather long
ride home. Durham to Stanley, then a fifteen minute wait then a
bus to Consett followed by a thirty minute walk home. Pleased to be onboard the
43 and away from the smell of shit. It’s hard enough to get people to poetry
gigs without having to gag the minute they set foot near the place.
If I have any energy left
I might upload pix. But if anything like last night. I’ll need a good 10 hours
sleep. Anyway, enough here. Chill. 10.32pm.
Friday 7th September 2012
(i)
Sally
Available only in the collection "So Much for the Sunshine" published by Talking Pen 2013
(ii)
You walk to the end of the
corridor. The bright striplight glare on gloss white hurts your eyes. The
whaling and screeching unsettles you. This isn’t going to be fun, that’s for
sure. After what seems like ten minutes you reach three hundred and
thirty-three. You press the buzzer and a voice says: NAME. You answer and the
door opens automatically. The room is dark. Flickering candles allow the only
light. This is a total contrast to the pristine sterility of the compound
corridor. You hear heavy, slow, strained breathing. “Welcome, disciple. It is
time. You have been trained well. Soon will come the enlightenment.” The room
absolutely reeks of stale piss, vomit and cow dung. “Enter, don’t be shy.” Your
feet squelch in the unseeable filth. You’re halfway to hell. And the fun is
about to begin.
(iii)
Tracy won’t eat her breakfast. Tom wants custard
instead of milk. You can’t have custard on cornflakes, says Tracy, that’s just plain weird. Mother agrees
but anything to keep him quiet. Both kids are bouncing off the walls by seven
o’clock and it’s times like these she thinks maybe a little chill pill – for
them, not her – might not be a bad idea. Tracy,
get your toast. But Mam. You asked for it, you’re not going out there on an
empty stomach. And wipe that look off your face, if the wind changes direction
you’ll be stuck like that. Ha-ha, see, says Tom. Lisa puts a dish of cornflakes
in front of him and pours on microwaved custard from a pyrex jug. She’s
reminded of school dinners and times when thoughts of being a parent, a
grown-up in fact, never entered her head. Hopscotch, knocky-nine-doors,
rollerskating and bunking off sometimes. Oh how quickly the days pass, how much
they have to learn.
...
Got home after midnight from Poetry Jam. Didn’t go
to bed till two. Think I read till about twenty-five to three. No wonder I felt
a bit wrecked when I woke up. The postman knocked a little after ten. I
answered and the two books I was expecting
had arrived. ‘You Can’t Run from God’ by Henry Rollins and ‘In
Delirium’s Circle’ by my good friend Stephen Clark. I didn’t open them until
I’d done my daily quota of morning pages.
Stephen’s book came in a reinforced cardboard
carton. Hardback. Beautiful purple flock patterning and name printed into the
boards. Coloured endpapers with artwork, stamped Embossed publisher stamp on title page,
perfectly lithographed., illustrated pages. Be great to get the time to sit and
read it.
It was strange seeing the Rollins book. Very thin,
very small. I read it in twenty minutes. Some of the pieces I’ve heard him do
on the Sweatbox album. It’s handwritten and very delicate. Not the greatest of
content but that’s not the point; it’s a collector’s piece. I’m a collector and
I’ve waited twenty-two years for this one.
Swans are playing London,
Manchester and Glasgow. I want to see them. Stephen is keen
to see the Manchester
show. Jarboe is playing this autumn as well. And Neurosis. It’s all money of
course. At least I got to hear the new Swans album The Seer for free on
Spotify. I don’t think it’s their best but has some colossal material on it.
I had a pizza for a late treat and am now
listening to lightweights The Mission who I’ll see again on Tuesday with the
Cult in Newcastle.
Lots to do before then though. Uploaded pix from last night’s Poetry Jam to
Facebook. Did some gig promotion and copy-ups. 9.57pm.
Saturday 8th
September 2012
Altogether better than crawling
down the evil floors of greed,
his hands insist the joke won’t kill love for
money.
It’s time to enter autumn’s gaze
and shine like blood
on exposed bone under bright lights.
Because of the downfall, because of the betrayal,
there’s no way of knowing
if the one to which he is praying
is holy, holy, holy.
Sara sits in a small café on the corner of Grumble
Central. It’s rainy and her breakfast is cold and her love-life barely worth a
mention. Frank gives her a false smile and a silver paper heart. He’ll never
own a mansion but he’s a real nice place to start. Don’t fall upon the creaky
stair, don’t wear your make-up just for him. You know what time of day to leave
when the joke is wearing thin. And the joke is sadly wearing very thin. There’s
rats in the scullery, there’s chocolate on the mucky paws. They say the world
is empty
But strange sweeties open doors. Down among the dank
sheets, the old crates and the jars, the losers without meaning, dream of
owning cars. It’s a nightlife Jim, but not as they know it. Got a heart of
candyfloss be careful not to waste it on the ones who take everything but give
back nothing in return. The criminal mind is a callous one and the truth is
going to burn. A hoe straight o the
centre of those grubby little minds. A burning truth will get them. Shining so
bright it’s going to blind. All the way to Devastation Street, up the hill and off
the ledge. You’re nobody in this nowhereville without your lovely wedge. Take a
piece of sorrow and tie it to a dream. She’s the one he’s pining for. Is hopes
float down a stream. There is nonsense in the numbness, there’s wisdom in the
soup. They’ll all be out till bedtime, looking for the proof. Coz Tracy knows her footsteps
fall heavy on the floor. She’s overdosed on cake mix, tastier than before. And
it’s a long night of longing. And a morning of regret, calling out to the empty
air, trying to place a bet. But there’s no god good enough to listen, to the
pathetic little call. And as the waters glisten, it’s time to say Stuff it all.
Take a walk down to the boathouse and cast away your dreams. The magic might
return sometime but for now it only seems like playing solitaire in a
sandstorm, riding on a faulty line without a map. It’s time to go to bed now.
Time to leave the crap leave it all behind and chill out for a while. Learn a
little patience. Learn to fake a smile. Altogether better than crawling forever
crawling down the evil floors of greed. Wise up and shut up. You’ll soon find
all you need.
Really worn out this evening. I lock myself away
in the house all day and miss weather that would be great for bikeriding. I can
hear a bit of stray foam fizzing around my right ear. I’ve just had a shave,
that’s what the little venture outdoors was for – to buy new razors and foam.
I’m going over to Jen’s place in about an hour. Later than usual coz she’s
working this evening. Intended to do lots of catch-up today but have just felt
way too hammered. Every time I go outside my nose starts to run. Got all the
food in this morning. Returned five books I’ve been hanging onto for months to
library. Had to return Demon unfinished so I ordered a copy inline £3.30
including postage brand new is a bargain. Looking forward to the authors talk
at Bishop Auckland Town Hall
on 3rd October. And I’m looking forward to the library copy of ‘Winter
Journal’ by Paul Auster. Getting dark now. 7.55pm.
Sunday 9th
September 2012
It was raining again. More than that pissy rain
you can’t really see but nevertheless soaks you all the same. Supposed to be a
nice day as well. The forecasters usually get it right, thought Sammy. Must be
having a day off too. Sammy had lots of off-days. Could never predict them
though. Never knew when he was going to feel over the moon and when he was
going to feel like shit. He was late again. You can’t really rely on these
fucking tin-pot bus companies. And they never give an excuse. You wait and wait
and eventually one knacker clapped out double decker clunks by saying sorry out
of service. What if they all went out of service. The doctors and nurses, the
firemen, the police, the petrol stations, the banks, the whole lot of them –
where would we all be, eh?
Sammy pulled his thin canvas coat around himself a
little tighter. Makes no difference. He watches a trickle of water run down the
Perspex glass of the bus shelter. Two kids kicked a tin can about on the path
nearby. Really fucking annoying. One thing Sammy couldn’t stand was the sound of a rattling tin can.
He’d been known to get up out of bed in the small hours to remove an empty cola
or beer tin from the pavement. Where the fuck was that bus. If it didn’t turn
up soon he’d be late for work. Actually, that might be a good thing. Why they
needed him in on a Saturday morning beat the hell out of him. At least it was
doubt time after twelve. Thirteen quid an hour to wrap stacked pallets and do a
bit of stocktaking. But he really wanted to go check out the record shops this
weekend.
Go look at all the metal posters and tee-shirts in
the arcade. Meet up with Rozy and Suzy, talk about what bands they would go and
see next month. Suzy always knew who was playing and where. No need to buy the
Melody Maker or Sounds or NME or Kerrang! when Suzy’s in your gang; she’d keep
you up to date. Funny, Suzy didn’t
actually like much metal music. Suzy liked a bit of everything. Punk one week,
goth the next. You never knew what she might be listening to when you called
round at her place. She lived with her uncle. Had done for years. No-one ever
talked about her family. She would just never say much about it. Sammy checked
his pocket to make sure he’d not forgotten his key. It was ten to nine. Ready
for another coffee already. But still no sign of that fucking bus.
Good day at Jenni’s place. Peanut butter on
snackbread breakfast and some facebook action. Copied up some writing prompts
and then we rehearsed our twenty minutes double-header set for Jawdance in London next month. We
came in at about eighteen and a half on the second run through, and have
reduced the back and forth poetry tennis format so it gives us more time to
speak to the audience and ink a couple of our own poems together. We get six
poems each plus a double-header piece to close. It will be a good gig. I also
selected three short pieces to perform at Bang Said the Gun the following
night. I have lots of material that people haven’t heard. But I never seem to
get the time to road-test and memorize it to full-on performance standard.
Watched a fantastic episode of Cracker today.
Robbie Coltrane is brilliant in that. Jenni didn’t want me to come home this
evening but I always need to get things sorted this end before the working week
starts proper on Monday.
Got a phone-call from Sheila asking if her
pamphlet had gone to print yet. There’s a typo in one of the poems. It doesn’t
matter how many pairs of eyes proof a book, no matter how many times, chances
are they will a typing error. And usually it’s a pretty fucking big one. This
is no exception If the booklet hasn’t been assembled yet I will call for a page
to be reprinted.
I still have a fucking coldsore and I still have
shitloads of preparation for the autumn term. But I’ll get there. Sure as shit,
I’ll get there. 11.32pm.
Monday 10th
September 2012
He is standing at the edge of the bomb zone in his
pale blue jeans and brushed denim shirt, all chest hair and brute virility, his
shaggy perm and full beard almost masochism in the bleaching heat. His beige
hiking boots firm on the dusty surface, earth baked solid and grass all but
parched. He’s very casual about describing the role of the war estate men who
can tour people around these potential deathtraps for a small fee. It’s their
job to provide a tourist service for the morbidly fascinated. He says you can
even pay extra to see something detonated. It’s okay, it’s all perfectly legal
and safe, he assures the small gathering. It’s really just an expanse of arid
land on the edge of a decimated country that might once have been a thriving
place of international commerce. He describes the best way to engage with the
landscape on foot and on bicycle. A fucking mountain bike in a bomb zone paint
ball reality death show. Who would want to play it? Who would enter the place,
and why would anyone wish to be a tour guide in a destruction zone?
The voiceover is a demented girl, determined to
win the race. The map shows country lanes with male and female routes to the
finish line. Strangely, the blue line is the ladies line. The little blue dot
moves down country lanes and zig zags back and forth and in a few seconds her
frenzied delight reaches it’s zenith. But it’s only a cheap video game. Nothing
to keep the 21st century death machine lovers satiated. Nothing to post on
Youtube or yap-yap, tap-tap about on facebook from Friday till fucking Monday
back at work for fuck’s sake. Later, Mr Bomb Zone will meet her in a seafront
café for later afternoon tea. Maybe a nice martini and some sushi. They will
discuss what it’s like to be self-employed in these troubled daze of economic
instability. They will consider their choices. Sometimes they wish for the good
old days, wish they had stayed local. Sometimes the greener grass is plastic –
a synthetic promise soaked in poison. No-one knows what will happen in the
weeks to come. Why play games when there’s a world to save? Why cater for the
thankless rich? Why be part of this fucking sick all or nothing culture in the
first place. Constantly striving for supremacy. It’s all a sham. All flesh and
bone will finally perish. No-one better than the next. 7.33am.
Today has been a good day. Firstly an email from
Graphic Print to say we can reprint the Limerance page that had a typo on it.
The pamphlet is saved. Hurrah! Then a typing session which brought all my
recent scribbles up to date. Played a full set-list on youtube of recent Cult
gig to familiarize myself with what they’ll play tomorrow night. And this
evening I’ve managed to get some workshop prep underway and some concrete
activities to hand for Waddy Courses. School sessions have been reduced to just
over three hours in total but the fee remains as it was for five.
I’ve been thinking about my morning writing which
is throwing up some interesting dream imagery processed into fictional
narrative and some recurring ideas for characters that could be linked and
developed. I’ve always thought stories were completely beyond me, but in the
last eleven days, using the simple restriction of not writing about myself I’ve
started to write more widely, found an ability to stick with a narrative rather
than skimming from one simple record of an activity to the next followed by a
simple value judgement and a quick skip to another superficial jotting. I want
to be more focused in my journal writing. I am here. This is how I feel… This
is what I remember about… Not just a quick listing of daily movements; it can
be an important for future reference but a lot of the time it’s just lazy
marking of time. I’ve found the morning pages used purely for fictional
freewriting much more interesting. I’m getting character ideas and images are
presenting themselves. Plus it’s giving me first drafts to read in sessions
before giving an exercise.
It’s really cold downstairs at the window tonight.
Usually I’m upstairs on the computer but it’s been good to get away from it for
a while. Tomorrow I’ll road-test a few exercises and make sure there’s enough
for material for Thursday. Think I’ll
read the opening pages of ‘In Delirium’s Circle’ in bed tonight. I finished the
Joe Cole book. 10.40pm.
Tuesday 11th
September 2012
Wednesday 12th
September 2012
Being the sort of person who likes the crusts cut
off,
and the sort of person who can’t drink tea from a
mug,
and the sort of person who thinks denim is for
poor people,
the headmaster isn’t amused when Sammy asks him
the headmaster isn’t amused when Sammy asks him
to feel the sticky layer of treacle inside the
right hand side
pocket of the Wrangler jacket as proof of ownership.
pocket of the Wrangler jacket as proof of ownership.
There’s no point trying to get Sammy to wear a tie
–
he’ll end up stabbing it full of holes with a
compass
and pinning himself to the desk just to show
how truly bored and enslaved he feels in the whole
comprehensive school system.
comprehensive school system.
All the sheep. All the blind preachers and
believers.
The losers and deceivers. What a fucking joke.
Sammy is a non-conformist – and he’s got some
ruling ideas of his own. Oh yes indeedy.
Thursday
13th September 2012
Sigil Sammy sits amongst scraps of imagery
Supposedly sending signals to his subconscious
but can’t shake off his overworked conscious mind.
He tries not to see the dismantled words,
makes bold strokes across canvas
but isn’t sure he’s on the right lines.
All the science there is, all the magic there
isn’t.
Sigil Sammy doesn’t have a clue
what he’s getting himself into, but a method
actor has to try out all the options,
a mixed-up kid with an ego of epic proportions.
Heavy metal heroes adorn his bedroom walls,
pentagrams and goats horns. Sitting in a mess of
self-
induced confusion, riding to the end of ecstasy,
he wonders if what he wants is what he’ll get.
He tries hard to forget, but it’s all too clear in
his mind.
Sigil Sammy tries to blot out reality.
But the din and disaster of a mundane society
rings loud and clear in his tinnitus ears.
Sigil Sammy just has to ride the hurricane.
And if it all turns out to be true,
he’ll have no-one but himself to blame.
...
Got some more fictional shorts drafted in morning
pages today. Up well in time to prepare for my day at Fyndoune Community College.
The kids all looked much younger than I remembered myself at eleven. Well
behaved and a lot wrote some really interesting stuff. Three teachers from
other schools said they enjoyed it and asked for my business card. Really hot
this afternoon. Harder day than the 6-session carousel I did in Parkside in
April. My head is fizzing a bit now. Going out in half an hour for launch of
THE ECHO ROOM magazine at The Bridge. Never seen Brendan Cleary perform before.
Anyway, I’ll feel a lot better when I’ve had a little sleepy. Ok 5.46pm.
Friday 14th
September 2012
He sits at the top of the stairs wondering....
Available only in the collection "So Much for the Sunshine" published by Talking Pen 2013
Saturday
15th September 2012
Big catch-up day with the workload missed due to
fatigue yesterday. Most people are out and about at the weekend, few emails and
very little facebook traffic. Tonight is JibbaJabba at Trent House in Newcastle. I like the jam
sessions. I like being able to just hit the mic with a page in my hand
unannounced. I have a couple of new things to try out. Time I was getting to
leave though. Don’t think I’ll do much tomorrow. It’s Scratch Tyne, I don’t
have anything rehearsed, but I’d like to see the performance in the evening.
Really pleased I got those Schemes of Work off to the College today. A big
weight off. Means Monday won’t be such a strain. Out again Monday evening to host
Lamplight Open mic. Busy week ahead. 3.55pm.
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