Tuesday, 29 January 2008

here we are, then...

Enough is enough. Bugger deviantART. Bugger myspace. Bugger the cocking Post-Neo forums (what a damp [anti-]squid they was, eh sirs?). I shall, at long last, grasp my green candle and bite the bulletin board system. I shall bloody well get myself a blog. This blog, apparently. Yes.

This blog will not be for political rantacising. It will not advertise pornography (well, probably not). It will not be about my pets (though lovely things they be). This blog shall be a place to air my soggy, lumpy unorganised ideas. It shall be the slice of internet in which I shall inform the few who care of what I am currently doing, what I might be doing next and, most importantly, what I’m probably not going to do after all.

So let's get the last of those dealt with first, shall we? Milk. Those of you reading this who have kept a beady eye on my dA page this last year or so may recall that I made many a reference to, and indeed posted extracts of, a proposed novel about me going to fetch a glass of milk. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. So many of my ideas do. To me, anyway. That’s why I have them. So many of the fuckers, all of them in silly, slanty directions and all wearing such pretty pretty hats.

Anyway, I can’t tell you exactly what happened to Milk. I think it was probably the Summer. Summer does things to me. It makes me think that I can achieve something because no one’s on my case for a couple of blissful months. Alas, what this means is that no one is on my case, including myself. And so I fritter away my days tossing off the occasional substandard poem with words and gaps and numbers and things, thinking about plays I might one day write if I started believing in theatre again and doing a lot of sweating. Such was how my Summer wafted fruitlessly past me last year. And it seems Milk wafted by with it.

Recently, I’ve been writing some stories about some peculiar tramps, quite possibly inspired by the pleasingly diverse crop of wandering souls in Totnes, a place I sometimes call “where I have to be at the moment”. I’m there now, incidentally, which is why I’ve got the internet again. Yippee.

Anyway, these stories are probably going to converge into a substantial publication of some description, though not for some time yet. The style of the pieces is such that it seems likely I can work much of what I wrote for Milk (and still manage to read without wincing) into the lives of my free-footed protagonists without losing much more than the self-consciously flimsy premise on which the novel was based. Whether or not I do eventually choose to do this, we shall all have to wait and see, but rest assured that I have not abandoned all hope of producing a substantial work of fiction. It will just look and feel a little different to Milk and be about someone(s) entirely else(s/ism). I think.

I’ve got a lot of other things I’m nowhere near finishing that will hopefully all see the light of day over the next year or so. These include:

A card game that encourages and creates endless futile arguments. I’m currently trying to find a manufacturer for this project as several people have assured me it could be potentially accessible and fun for a lot of people. If I’m unsuccessful in this (as I fully expect I will be) then I shall attempt to make and distribute copies myself, albeit on a much smaller scale.

A new book of poems (some visual, but all for voices). Written ‘from the top down’, i.e. starting with the title. I’ve not yet decided on a title for the book itself yet. Possibly A Body of Water, A Mind of Silt. How does that one strike you?

A series of plays for radio. These include an adaptation of my short story Nobody Liked the Moth, (a great improvement on the original, IMO), and three new ideas involving club meetings, dead people and sinister, talking crabs. I hope upon hopes that I can gather enough talented voices together to get them recorded before my time at Dartington is up so’s I can hand them to soundart radio for broadcast before I leave. I really wish I’d done more for that station, but what with flitting between Devon and Gloucester, Amy’s illness and excuses excuses ex-fucking-cuses, it just doesn’t seem to have happened. Amy and I have at least two other semi-formed radio pieces we could work on but I just can’t say whether or not they’ll ever happen.

A text-based adventure game I’m writing with the aid of this nifty little program. The object is to throw a walnut at Germaine Greer.

A spoken word CD. To be honest, I only started properly work on this a couple of hours ago but I’ve been itching to record something new with my little device for ages, and seeing as I’m never in the right place at the right time to do any of the gigs I’ve been offered these last few months, it seems like recording something in a quiet little room might be the way to go. I’d like it to be a jolly disc, but so far what I’ve written has turned out quite creepy. Again.

Additionally, I’ll be getting some stuff together for a small exhibition of my work (alongside some other far more interesting artists) in America what Olchar E. Lindsann be organisin’. I want to have at least a little bit of visual stuff for it, as well as plenty of stuff to be performed and a splash of audience-participation pieces. I’m thinking I might write a series of instructions for simple things to do with specified quantities of milk (pour it through a sock, sing at it, slap it about until it’s learnt its lesson… that sort of thing).

And, on top of all of that I’m meant to be writing a dissertation. Ah yes, the BA Hons. That old thing, eh? *sighs* I’m trying to base it round the notion of implicitly funny words, but apart from some choice examples from certain beloved entertainers of mine (most notably Python’s Woody and Tinny Words) and the delightfully frivolous loops of Jonti ‘Weebl’ Picking, I’m not sure there’s much to go on. Why has no one written a book on funny words yet? You’d think someone would have gotten round to it by now! Well… I would.

Oh, and finally, for those of you who don’t yet know… I’ve got a ukulele. I’m not very good at playing it yet. This has not deterred me, however, from plinking out some terrible little songs. I need some proper musicians to help me sort them out and make them how they are in my head. Fuck knows when that’ll ever happen.

So that’s it. This is, apparently, what my blog will be. Lots and lots of whining about all the things I’d have already finished if I didn’t spend so much time eating, sleeping and holding hands with a pretty lady. I don’t wish to leave the dedicated few of you who’ve read this icky sprawl of a first post to its sour, doughy end, so I shall leave you with a couple of poems what will probably be in that new book I mentioned earlier, assuming I don’t decide I hate them both one day or keep the titles and write entirely new poems underneath them instead. Vom:

For The Bar Bar Baron

A pilk habitat’s one I’ve frozen.
It’ll never blink nor taste its pickle.
A pilk mariner’s one to savour
Cut it into strips and watch it trickle.

A pilk salamander votes for Clinton,
Give it sugar, steal its tar.
A pilk forensic isn’t likely,
Instead it pokes an open jar.

A pilk mistake is white as Toshiba.
Give it a bone - befriend it for life.
A pilk horn is one I stand on,
It hurts incessantly and sleeps with my wife.

A pilk forget-me-not has no feelings,
So why not brand it with a spoon?
A pilk suggestion has its roots
In Madagascar, melt and moon.

A pilk conclusion slams its wingnuts,
Hear it chortle – ha ha ha,
A pilk salamander votes for Clinton,
Give it sugar, steal its tar.

Throat Haggle
For Ellie and her thoughts especially

Your neck sings sweeter than a factory alarm system
as I haul it out of the Thames on a wire and toss it to a dog
playing cricket with itself; yelps, knocks it for six
licks his balls and bounds along,
to the ticking of your song.

The jam inside is raspberry pink
it sinks when tasted,
smells like a man and can't be helped
no matter how I titter through it,
bellow through it,
make it gargle Anti- 'til it chokes.
It will always be your very much,
will always shake its penguin for sniggering,
Squeeze, rinse, kiss it gently on the belly and
march march march march march march march march march march march march
to an identical VIM.

O! to express my joy
when I feel your throat haggle under my chin,
making pure banality dance like a sack of
bent in sicking retreat.
How many more rubber chickens must perish
before we realise why this actually matters?
Or even fewer than 100?
94, perhaps?
Regardless, it will still sound bad.
A grating, scratching oaf of a tune:
Three walruses banging on seperate drums.
Three voices tossing off through a nutcracker (admit it, you would!).
Three gulls cawing ceaselessly a sudden "be there/do that/won't you?" refrain.
Three ugly actions imposed upon a seperate sheet,
making unsense of the sensual,
shitting elements of grief for copper coins.
This is what I want from my Britain.
This is what I want from my hat.
This is what I want from my throat.
I want to be a gobstopper.

A throat might die,
a thought ejaculate,
a vol-au-vent tickle its sister.
Yet all, yet all, yet all, these won't if we can feed them sufficient stupidity.
Cack your cack and shove it in a sack,
stuff your knackers in your overalls and underall it
march march march march march march march march march march march march
to an identical VOM.

Your sanity is most unwelcome,
profanity a must.
is very much a mustn't.

Your neck sings sweeter than a shopping centre alarm system,
as I suck it out the packet and toss it to a frog.
He bursts 'HOORAY!' and leaps inside.
Don't say I didn't warn you.