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Thursday, August 20th, 2009 02:38 pm
Five words, as provided by Mr [livejournal.com profile] attack_monkey. Going to do them as five separate entries as it'll be a bit long if not...

Poetry
I usd to write poetry when I was younger. Not, as most people did, in my teens, but when I was about 5 or 6. My mum was immensely proud of it and bought pretty books for me to write in. It was the sort of thing you'd imagine, lots of simple lines going ta-tumpty-tumpty-tumpty-tum, ending in neat little end rhymes - best and rest, way and say, street and meet - in other words pretty much on a par with the average chart pop song. Much as you'd expect. Within a few years I was looking back on this as being unbelievably childish and naive and left poetry behind me forever. This feeling was strong enough to save me from the temptations of bad teenage poetry, even after I discovered dressing in black could be a lifestyle thing and not just a way to try to look slimmer.

I signed up for an Open University poetry course this year mostly as a way of improving my prose writing. After the short story OU course, I was very conscious of how much I tend towards over-writing, and thought poetry would help me hone down my language and make better word choices. And I was aware that some of my writing does rely on repetition and rhythm (this or this for example. I'd even produced the odd accidental poem while trying to do other things (such as short stories, artwork or sleep). But I never really thought of the course in terms of actually wanting to write poetry. I mean, I'm not 5 anymore, am I?

But I surprised myself by how naturally I fell into it. And part of that was how different the act of writing poetry was from what I'd imagined. Because I studied English Lit I was used to deconstructing poetry, picking apart and analysing all the metaphors and themes and literary devices. So I'd always thought that poets started out by putting ALL that stuff in intentionally, logically, right from the start. And I couldn't imagine how anyone could even begin to do that, so I'd always steered well clear. But I was wrong.

I learnt that the root of poetry, the way into it - for me at least - was simply the rhythms of words. And not in a forced way - it was more letting the words play amongst themselves until they made a coherent pattern, which then formed a framework into which everything else got weaved, layer by layer. But that underneath all was always that rhythm, even if it ended up broken and abused. And that rhythm was based on natural speech patterns. I'd always thought of poetry as being a pretentious way of saying something you could just as easily put in good old-fashioned plain, simple sentences. Now I'm starting to see it as something far closer to natural speech, with rhythms and patterns and pauses and layers of meaning tripping over and merging into one another and half-formed phrases abandoned partway through. Sentences and grammar and paragraphs and one-thought-per-sentence, one-idea-per-paragraph looks pretentious and alien. Nobody talks like writing, unless they're giving a speech. People talk in poetry. And I do like talking.

So that's about where I am with poetry right now. Oh, and I got back my results for the short course and got 85% - not perfect (and I am a perfectionist, even when it's impossible) but not bad at all.

There will be more poetry writing. Some of it may appear here.
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Wednesday, June 17th, 2009 01:46 pm
Continuing from these posts ...

Autumn, for [livejournal.com profile] tinksdarkerside

Autumn is when my mind resets. There's a crisp, dank scent that creeps into the air as September slips in, it always smells of new beginnings.

I got caught out by it a week or two ago. It was just after the Mediterranean spell of hot blue skies had broken. At 4pm the world was sodden and the sky was so overcast that you would have sworn it was a November evening. And it hit me, clear and direct as if whispered in my ear: 'Something's going to happen.'

It's the childhood curse of academic scheduling, of course. Twenty-odd years of new terms starting in September means my brain is now thoroughly programmed to associate a chill in the air and a change in the leaves with the new school year. And with it new books, new classes, new stationery, new shirts, new shoes, new beginnings. And the hope that this year would magic a transformation: new friends, a new life, a new me.

It never did. Well, not until Uni anyway, but that was more a crashing avalanche of things-that-change, not tied to any one season. (Looking back, I remember it as being mostly summer, which has to be impossible, especially in this country.)

But all the same, it has infected me, and I doubt it will ever really fade. And I doubt I am alone in the feeling either. In a secular world we spin new mythologies from everyday rituals. There will always be a ghost of New Year's Day haunting the heart of Autumn.

Plus big piles of leaves will ALWAYS be fun to jump in, no matter how old you get...
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Thursday, May 28th, 2009 01:39 pm
Doing these in a slightly random order as I am writing whatever jumps into my mind first.

Dinosaurs for [livejournal.com profile] sarah_orange

I was never really into dinosaurs as a kid. To me, they were just dragons that couldn't fly* and couldn't breathe fire, and what was the point of THAT?

I do remember always being puzzled as to how people knew what colour dinosaurs were when all we had was fossilised bones to go on. And why, if people were just guessing, they made every single dinosaur in every single book a dull, murky green-ish brown colour. When you're 40 feet high and 1000 tonnes** you really don't need to be thinking about camouflage.

People should be more exuberant when colouring their dinosaurs. Even in the lizard world there's plenty of jewelled turquoises and jades and ambers to chose from. And once you learn that a dinosaur is really just one huge great oversized, mean-tempered*** bird, and therefore genetically designed to be pretty, well, that opens up the whole damn spectrum to use and abuse. Surely there must have been a whole paintbox of dinosaurs, happily hunting and eating one another in a vast carnivorous rainbow of delights! And in fact, it looks like science now agrees. Yay science!

I am now tempted to buy a kid's colouring book of dinosaurs and colour them all in blues and purples and pinks and golds. Which is probably what I did as a kid, come to think of it.

When I wasn't drawing dragons, that is...

*Apart from the flying ones, that didn't count.
**These figures may have been made up on the spot
***Maybe some dinosaurs had an even temperament and a lovely personality. But in my mind, they're all roaring and trampling Tokyo. I may be getting a bit confused here...
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Wednesday, May 27th, 2009 11:24 pm
Oh yes. [livejournal.com profile] ladybirdintheuk's five things to write about, continued. (First part can be found here.)

3- dragoms

I was trying for AGES to think up of a funny, punny take on the word dragoms, but I can't, so I am just going to write about dragons instead ;-)

I was never the slightest bit interested in unicorns when I was young. I was always crazy about dragons. Maybe this was because I never had a horsey phase, as so many girls do. Maybe it was just that dragons were ancient and armoured and and wise and cruel and predatory and ruled the air and laid waste to all their enemies with glorious searing flame. I don't know. It might be that. (I was always a bit strange, even as a child.) Plus they came in all kinds of dangerous and dramatic colours, whereas your unicorn was only available in the standard white and silver. (Even as a little girl I knew pink unicorns were bad and wrong and had no place on this earth, or anywhere else for that matter.)

(But not quite as bad and wrong as some of these which are probably what put unicorns v dragons in my head to begin with...)

I was happy beyond all imagination when I discovered I was born in the Chinese Year of the Dragon. It kind of made up for being a Wednesday's child. (I have absolutely zero belief in any kind of astrology, but that doesn't mean it can't make me happy.)

There's probably something very deep and significant about the kind of mythological creature you identified with a child. Unfortunately it's probably now been turned into a Facebook quiz and so destroyed forever.

One day I WILL make a pair of dragon wings. And when I finally get round to getting a tattoo (which going by current progress will probably be when I'm 70... but at least that way I'll know which bits have gone wrinkly and be able to design around them) it will involve a dragon. The delay comes because I am designing the piece myself, so perfectionism keeps kicking in, as does indecision. The current plan is dragon wings tattooed across my back, which would kind of combine the two. I just haven't drawn them yet...

4- Gaiman

I love a great deal of what he has written - comics, prose and poetry - very much indeed. He indulges my love of mythology, and myths reinvented, and archetypes, and understands that it all really comes down to stories. Myths are important not because they hint at lost histories, but because we can read in the bits that are remembered what we really want to believe we are. We are formed from the stories we tell about ourselves. Stories carve their way through our minds like water through stone.

Anyway, aside from that, the man is sickeningly talented, and stole several of my best stories through the completely underhand tactics of writing them first, and better. (I know they were mine because they felt like me when I read them.) I would declare a vendetta against him but [livejournal.com profile] dedbutdrmng went and did it first. EVERYBODY always did something first. It's enough to make you cut your ear off in despair.

On the other hand, there is a story of his - a twist on the Snow White fairytale - that is identical in theme to one I read years ago by Tanith Lee. It's reassuring... both that even highly talented people end up echoing one another, and that both stories stand alone in spirit, even if they shared the same twist.

5- DIY

Most people think that DIY is a practical and physical pursuit. They couldn't be more wrong. It is in fact a modern day form of arcane and mystic magicks. The secret to good DIY is precisely worded spellcasting. Only the correct sequence of swearing and cursing, punctuated with the ritual dancing in a circle clutching your thumb, and backed up by the correct sacrifice (sometimes the bit you swore was there a second ago, but more usually blood) will cause the component parts to rise up and bond together into the bookcase of your dreams.

(What? You mean you don't dream of bookcases? Strange people...)

---

I am really enjoying writing these. It's the let-your-mind-unwind-ness of writing fiction, but without the terrible perfectionism that always ends up hobbling that. I got some good suggestions of topics to ponder upon earlier today, but I'd really like some more. Go on, throw me a word or two!

And is it just me, or does the cheerful icon look like it's plotting something?
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Wednesday, May 27th, 2009 12:48 pm
[livejournal.com profile] ladybirdintheuk took pity on my LJ block and gave me 5 topics to write about, so here they are!

1- Bananas

The banana is a wily fish
it's never caught at sea.
It hides from natural predators
in the branches of a tree.

(It's a Pratchett thing.)

2- the best holiday you've ever been on

The sky was blue, and electric orange, and the strangest purple I've ever seen.
It was huge and empty, and filled with stars, and low red-tinted clouds, and sculptures, and dancing snow.
There was a thunderstorm at midnight and the rain was warm.
There was a shower that smelled of woodsmoke.
There was a busride that we all claim not to remember.
There was a tiny unfrozen corner of the lake where all the birds in the world were paddling.
There was a whale, far out on the horizon.
There was a blissful moment of absolute nothing.
There was always 'I don't ever want to go home'.
There were pacts and promises and fights and good sex and bad sex and confessions and competitions and faces that got lost on the way home.
There were carnival crowds and birds of prey and Klingons and Stormtroopers and goats and backpackers and friendly goths and racing camels and proper hippies and blues singers and stealth wallabies and the-thing-that-hides-under-an-umbrella and spiders and strangers and friends and friends-for-a-night and family and 'family' and not a living soul for miles around.
There were deep velvet woods and volcanoes and movie-set buildings and jewel-blue seas and white snow on black rocks and fairytale cottages made of concrete and well-hidden galleries and lazy beaches and wild twisting roads roads and deserts and secret waterfalls and floors and floors of balconies as far as the eye could see and rollercoasters and hot springs and the end of the world.
I was swimming and driving and skinny-dipping and hiking and laughing and footsore and brave and crazy and scared and stupid and young and flying and dancing in fountains and skating on ice and peeing behind the bushes and taking so many photographs that the pockets of my combats rattled with spent film cases and spent an entire day missing the bus.
There was sangria and kangaroo steak and sandwiches bigger than your head and whiskey and baby octopus and noodles and haggis and cheap, cheap wine and camel burgers and gothic paella and mystery fish and potatoes of fire.
It was in Australia and Scotland and Iceland and Atlanta and Berlin and Lanzarote and New York and Denmark and Barcelona and too many places I have yet to see.

One day I'll get round to posting the photographs.

(I'm not very good at making decisions!)

---

Ran out of time so I'll have to do the other three when I get home from work!

Anybody else want to give me some random things to write about?
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