Searching again

Everything has changed again.

How is it that I can feel as though I've done nothing, when in fact since my last post I've been illegally evicted, left Cardiff, moved in with my friend Dave and his parents, seen an opera about Nelson Mandela's life, written several poems, been dancing, filled out needlessly detailed job centre forms (it's just a change of address, for pete's sake) and several other things that escape me just at this moment?

It's always the same. As soon as I stop moving, it feels like I've accomplished nothing, been nowhere. I can only attribute this to a mercifully short emotional memory.

The job centre in Penarth is very different to the one I went to in Cardiff. Not that people weren't friendly in Cardiff, they were; but I asked three different people there on several occasions to take a look at my CV and let me know what they thought, and nobody did. The lady I'm talking to now, Jan, she seems golden. Actually offered to send an email on my behalf to a contact at a company that I'd be very excited to work with. So, we'll see, maybe I shouldn't give up just yet.

In truth, though, I'm starting to see that very few people get where they want to be by following the pre-ordained, tried and tested, government-sanctioned route. I've been hoping for some miracle dream that will tell me which direction to strike out in. Now's the time to do it, you know? Whether it's music or video-editing or writing or whateverthefuck, there's no better time than now to decide that I'm going to do it. Only... I can't decide what the thing is. What do I love enough to do every day?

I'm pretty sure I'm getting some of this from Ray Bradbury. He died on the 5th, 16 days ago, and it seems like he left behind enough pearls of wisdom to keep me thinking for a long while.

Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things.

I know you've heard it a thousand times before. But it's true - hard work pays off. If you want to be good, you have to practice, practice, practice. If you don't love something, then don't do it.

If you don't like what you're doing, then don't do it.

But then... he did also say "we've got too many Internets." So I don't know.


I keep winding up back here, wondering what to do with my life, and I'm sorry for that. It must get repetitive for you; I know it does for me! But in the meantime, I've got a book of poetry to finish, a short story to write, a script to hammer out and a lot of real life to fit in around that. Wish me luck.

P.S. I think Cardiff council have gone clean-wall-crazy; walls that I'd expect to be plastered in graf are bafflingly silent. Am making do with the occasional found tag, but there's a legal wall on the bus route between Penarth and Cardiff that's a splash of dynamic colour. I always stare at it until I'm taken out of sight. Hope to get some pictures for you (well, alright, mostly for me) soon!

Mind the gap

I tried to write a blog post, and it came out all nonsensical and disjointed. That's mainly because there's something I really, really need to write about, but I can't do so until September. A lot of you know what it is, to be fair, but I made a promise and I intend to stick by it. I hope to be writing to you all soon. In the meantime, please enjoy the wonderfulness of The Bloggess, who's more entertaining than me anyway!

Inspiration

I sit. Pen in hand, notebook balanced on my lap. I have created a space in which to exist, to think, to be. Outside, my family talk and watch TV and carry on their lives; but here, in my space, I am alone.

Inspiration strikes like a ray of sunlight through the trees, and I cannot contain it. My mind and my hand race, each striving for the finish, my hand falling behind and my mind leaping ahead. The page fills with my handwriting.

Who knows how long I might stay like that? Maybe minutes; perhaps hours. I write until both my thoughts and myself are exhausted. I collapse into bed.

The next day, memories of my inspiration already dimmed by sleep, I revisit the notebook. I open it to the right page. "OMG I should totally rewrite Twilight!! This HAS to happen."

Screw you, Anna last night. Screw you.

Talk

I wanted to curl up on the soft sofa, but the yurt is always packed. People shuffle up and perch on armchairs, always room for one more the merrier.

I sat in the tent with my hazelnut milkshake, and listened to the girls sing. It was an Irish song; close vocal harmonies, flowing up and out of them in cyan and green.

The stories were sublime tonight. A man and woman from Bristol sat or stood at the front. Him, reciting stories about Old Tom, his grandfather; her, playing vivid violet violin or her acoustic guitar, which sang in a deep sonorous blue. And the man from Bristol, oh, he built pictures so carefully, neatly alliterating the pictures in our minds. I wish, I wish, I could do that.

I am not a storyteller; I am a writer. The difference is tangible and harsh. I want to be a storyteller; I want to have the stage presence to take a roomful of adults on a journey; but I have seen my face when I speak and it is still and lifeless. I have seen my body when I move and it is awkward and girly. I have heard my voice when I talk and it is unclear and lazy; my once-sharp-cut vowels atrophied through years of misuse. I no longer talk to myself. That's where I lay the blame.

Spoken-word poetry is an art form. I have watched enough online in the past couple of days to stir up a longing in me. I want to be a performer. I am a poet, but not a performance poet. So what's it to be? Well, Anna? Are you going to sit behind your screen and write dead words for others to read? Are you going to spend your time alone? Or are you going to learn to eNUNciate! DRAmatise! emphasise! Are you going to learn to speak?

On the other hand

When I was learning to write, I had a neat little system for when my hand (unused to all the complicated lettering) got tired. I'd switch to the other one. My teachers didn't notice, but I was ambidextrous until I was eight. Eventually, my mother picked up on the fact that my writing was a lot neater at some times than at others. She watched me writing, and noticed this little trait; something that hadn't seemed strange to me, and had gone unnoticed by everyone else.

My writing with my left hand was scruffy, and my writing with my right hand was neat. So my mother claims, and I suppose I should take her word for it; although as I'm mostly left-handed now (I eventually got used to all the strenuous words and settled on one hand) that seems strange.

I say 'mostly': I write, draw, and paint with my left hand. Most other endeavours - stirring a cooking pot, holding a tennis racket, lifting shopping bags - I undertake with my right.

I mention this now, because I'm starting at square one again. My boyfriend gave me a cute little calligraphy set a few months ago, and after suddenly deciding that I'm interested in typography, I've finally picked it up. But, you know, being a lefty has its disadvantages, including smudged ink and the nib being slanted in entirely the wrong direction. Oddly, I decided that the easiest way to tackle this challenge is to be right-handed for this. So I'm learning to write right from the beginning. I'm mastering an unwilling pen and a stubborn hand, and forcing them to comply, just like I did in primary school. And you know what? It's actually really exciting!

Iambic, I am back.

I made my home amidst the noise,
I wrote my dreams down small.
If truth be told now, girls and boys,
I'm blushing for it all.
For who am I to write a blog?
To think that it's worth sharing?
And are you not appalled by all
My arrogance and daring?

For five years now I've been the same,
With precious little to my name
Besides this blog - my paltry fame,
Both undeserved and fleeting.
But the fire of passion's heating,
And at last I've seen the light.
I've made a choice, and it feels right
So onwards! Upwards! To the fight.
The drums of war are beating
So it's time to have a meeting
(I hope there's sufficient seating)
And I've finally found my feeting and I'm not sure that's a word

But basically it's time
That I rediscovered rhyme.

A title

I had such a lovely weekend. Gavin, his parents and I went to London on Saturday to see Twelfth Night being performed - it was great! Properly funny, not 'Shakespeare-funny' as I was expecting.

I've been reading Ten rules for writing fiction. Warning: there's more than ten of them; I got fooled by that one, and by the time I realised how many there were, I was learning too much to stop! I've been thinking a lot about my writing lately... I seem to suffer all the anguish, procrastination and self-doubt of even the best writers, but without the actual... you know... writing. Until I've finished something substantial, I've no business even calling myself a writer. (Which I don't, by the way - I call myself a student.)

Anyway, I'll put the link on the left, it seems like forever since I updated my Interesting Thing of the Day bit. Do you ever go there to look for a game or something to kill ten minutes? I do, so I don't really mind either way what your answer is! Ooh, that reminds me, Shopping Cart Hero is an excellent, addictive little flash game. Great time-killer.

I keep thinking of ideas for blog posts, but by the time I've written a note to write it up later, I've lost all interest. I feel like a lepidopterist pinning down butterflies. Either they're elusive, or they're dead... ideas are crafty little blighters.

I wouldn't call this Writer's Block, not exactly. More like a blasted tendency towards introspection and idleness. Ah well; that's life, that's what all the people say.

FIRE

It's happened. I've run into a full-blown case of writer's block. I've bought a beautiful new notepad, deserving of only the very best of first novels to be written in it, and it's managed to shut down every form of writing.

I can't write stories, or even poems, which I always found much easier. I'm really choking on this blog post, aware as I am that it's not my best! I can't think of anything to draw either. It wouldn't be true to say that I've got nothing to express, exactly, because I am going through stuff; I just seem to be struggling to express it.

Fortunately, in the meantime, the photography is going from strength to strength. So until I can chop this block into little pieces with my pointy writer words, these will have to do.

Pictured: Dan, who I only tease because I like him so much, and Ross who is essentially a really awesome teddy bear.

Stream of consciousness

I tell you what, you know you're a creative type when you almost wish you could get your heart broken just for the kickass poetry / music / art you'd get out of it.

It's been a long time since I seriously put out creative content regularly. I don't count these blog posts because, if I'm brutally honest, I put less effort into these than I would a poem or a picture. I guess that's one of the drawbacks of finding writing easy; it makes you lazy.

The past couple of nights, I've been staying up far later than I should wishing that somebody in particular was online. Somebody I've never met, and have nothing to say to. A sure sign of mental illness! He's... I guess, a blogger, and before that he was a youtuber, and I get the chance to chat with him every now and then about how things are going. I find him very exasperating, for reasons I won't go into here, and I have no idea why I suddenly feel like I need to hear from him.

Also, sheesh, how many times can you put "I" into a paragraph.

I used to have youtube vids up myself, actually. Only three or four. I found them today, having not watched them for a couple of years I guess, and it was really interesting to get a fresh look at myself. I could see how eager I was to please, to seem confident and interesting and fun. How much I wanted to look pretty and unique. It's interesting how deep-seated the need for approval is in some people. Aww, I told myself I wasn't going to do this, but: name-drop ahead: I was talking to Robert Webb on Twitter, and he seemed very aware of the fact that he seeks approval from everybody. He said it was the performer character-type, and I think I understand.

So here I am again, up at 3:22am, thinking too much about the wrong things instead of sleeping. I've got church in the morning and everything.

Just a quickie

For a while now I've enjoyed writing drabbles - stories of 100 words. I've got a fair few up on my DeviantART, but I've been presented with a new challenge in microfiction... yes, it was inevitable, there's a twitter fiction account.

Their site's here if you're interested in submitting.

Words are not enough - or too much

I was walking home from Gavin's just now when I noticed a cat sitting by the side of the river. She was just waiting in the dark, watching. As I passed, she turned to look at me, then resumed staring and thinking.

I was struck by curiosity - what was she thinking? How could I ever possibly know what a cat thinks about in its leisure time? As I reflected on this, I recognised the same awe and wonder I felt when my little sister was too young to speak. I'd stroke her short, wispy hair while she played with duplo bricks, and wonder what was going on in her oddly-shaped babyhead. She was thinking, all right; she was doing some of the most rapid learning any human ever gets to do - she just had no words for it yet.

This is something that affects all of us at some time or another. As we grow, our thoughts progress from "I don't want to go to Grandma's house, it smells funny" to "Her routine and standards are completely alien to me, and she reminds me of my own mortality and that of my parents." The same feelings, just different thoughts. Just because we learn new words.

Sometimes I wonder if words interfere with the experience. I've been writing for so long now that I can't sit and watch anything without describing it to myself, layering the sights, sounds and smells with words. This isn't a bad thing; words are beautiful, words are another way of digesting an experience - but between that and my obsessive photography, I don't often stay in the moment and just drink it all in.

It's at times like that I envy the cat. She has no words to describe the wind brushing through her fur; the sound of the river trickling over loose pebbles; the occasional sight of a lone human walking tiredly home. She just experiences it, raw and unprocessed; she just Is. She just Is a Cat, and things Are what they Are. Maybe that should be enough for me sometimes too.

This is what I was thinking about as I walked home tonight. The church tower chimed twelve, and I wondered how I'd describe it to you.

My What-Ifs

Some of my what-ifs, for your amusement.

Oh my gosh, what if Boh3m3 just walked round the corner? What would I say, do? Would I play it cool?

Wouldn't it be weird if that guy told me he loved me for no reason? He's kinda hot. What if he turned out to be a psycho? What am I saying. Of course he would turn out to be a psycho.

Heheh. If I stood up and shouted "STOP LOOKING AT ME" in the middle of this church service, what would happen then? oh, but then what would I do. Hm. Probably burst into hysterical tears, run away, and laugh myself to death when I got around the corner.

What if I was a famous writer? What if I had a secret pen-name? It would be really fun to tell people in a really subtle way and then they'd be like "OMG I've read everything you'd ever written", and I'd be all cool and humble about it. Naturally.

If gravity was the other way up, we'd all have to jump over lights and step over doorframes and such. Plus, going outside would be terrifying. We'd have to grapnel our way from lamp-post to lamp-post.

What if all the people I liked the best came and rescued me from... something? Like an office job. And they all just burst in through the door and swept me off my feet and we all went and spent the day on a massive exploring adventure. Or a beach adventure.

What if I met Dave tomorrow...

What if someone could actually see my thoughts? ... What if they didn't like me...

Well, now you guys can see some of my thoughts. And if you don't like me, I guess that means the real me isn't worth liking. But the one person who knows me better than anyone else, loves me so much he died for me. I guess that makes me pretty special. (In a modest, self-effacing way of course.)

Not boobs.

Well, a bunch of strangers requested that I blog about boobs, so...

No.

Ah, sorry, did I disappoint you? But don't worry, I'm going to blog about something BETTER than boobs. Seriously. No kidding. Here follows a list if such things.

1) Ice cream.
It's been so long since I had Ben and Jerry's (indisputably the best ice cream ever conceived by man). Cookies and cream, phish phood (sp?), and above all, Dublin mudslide... I love the Irish cream in that. Leading me to number two good thing...

2) Baileys.
The only alcoholic drink that I actually like. It tastes like happy!

3) Lost.
Yes, I am addicted, but tragically I am several episodes behind everyone else. Steven, if you read this, I AM MOST DISPLEASED. I needs the Lost.

4) Music.
Into Nina Simone at the moment, she is an absolute legend!

5) Being funny.
I LOVE being funny. I don't know how often it happens, but when it does, it makes me feel good that I can make people laugh... sadly, I don't think I've found a medium that communicates my particular sense of humour. Video certainly doesn't. (Oh, on that note, I may not be making many more YouTube vids, and almost certainly no vlogs.) Writing? Well, I seriously hope I can be funny. Let me know.

6) Poetry. VASTLY better then breasts. I mean seriously, have you read the Raven? Sheer genius. I also recommend blue peace incantation, Salome and "Hole in the floor". Plus, of course, anything I've written. ;) (re-plugs http://creativesplurges.blogspot.com/)

7) Sunshine.
Not only a beautiful thing, which makes people happy (and tanned), but also the source of all life (indirectly, of course). And, to top it all, you can call people it and it makes them smile, so they actually become a little more sunshiney. Which is really rather special.




______________

LINKS to the poems I recommended

The Raven
Blue Peace Incantation
Salome (about 3/4 of the way down)
Hole In The Floor