under another sun

A good end to the week. I felt as if I had been struggling with my identity of being a writer, and if I should chuck it all in, and focus on something less pointless, but as Wordsworth says in the Prelude, "The Poet, gentle creature as he is,/Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; /His fits when he is neither sick nor well,/ Though no distress be near him but his own/Unmanageable thoughts." Although the issue was this week whether I was a poet at all, which I suppose is demonstrable by having quite a few actual poems published. But this proves nothing as there is an enormous amount of rubbish published (some of which I witnessed last night). On that note, someone posted Facebook posts of one or two people reading, but as I was sitting near the front, they were also loving portraits of the area of concern, which now appears to be the size of Australia. Bah. But today it was all different. Did some practical stuff, like a spot of billing for the scraps of freelance work I...

Here comes the sun And today I felt positively cheerful. I worked this morning, then went in the bright warm sun to the gym for a long workout. From there I met Dipak in the Marwood for some strong coffee. Dipak reminding me of the virtues of meditation. On the way home I left two copies of Clameur at the library, which were gratefully received. People like free stuff. Later in the day I listened to a Melyvn Bragg radio discussion about Lyrical Ballads , by Wordsworth and Coleridge. Nothing to write home about, but it did force me to re-read Tintern Abbey . Funny how my tastes have broadened. In my hotheaded youth what I saw as Wordsworth's windbaggery literally made me feel sick. Now I find I really enjoy the pacing of his more reflective work and see unnoticed depths. When I first tried to read Dickens as a child I found it crushingly depressing. Now I think Dickens is a world treasure and full of comedy. Perhaps I should read The Trial , which on my two previous attempts commun...

Windbaggery The best part of this week is that I have made a new friend in the form of Sean the art director. He is a very funny guy and we have been setting each other off during the week. However having got everyone happy with the neuropathic pain work by the morning, it was all, rather comically, blown out of the water by the new creative director last thing in the afternoon. Sean and I, however, have been asked back for next week to continue working on it. This at least means a few more doubloons in the Kenny coffers. Home at eightish, and took myself to the pub to wait for Lorraine. Had a slow pint reading my recently purchased copy of the first edition of Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge. I wanted to discover any thinking that Richard and I can use. But Ancient Mariner aside, its poems really are tripe and onions. While I can appreciate his historical importance, The Prelude aside, I have always found Wordsworth to be a tiresome windbag. Very tired this evening too, ...

All's well that ends in the Eddy Grey damp cold weather. Started the day in a grey damp cold mood too, feeling decidedly out of sorts in many ways. Retreated to working on poems but simply breaking them the more effort I put into them. Gave up in disgust. Waiting for the wet weather to abate so that I could paint over the fresh graffiti on my green fence. Much solidarity in the Twitten, though, chatted to some of my neighbours further along as I was painting it out in the evening. There is now talk of a CCTV camera which may be a deterrent of some sort. However cheered up progressively as the day went on. Lorraine and I went for a long walk and talk along the seafront, which made me feel much better. Then we had a cheeky late lunch in a tiny and delightful tapas place opposite the Corn Exchange. A beany tapas was absolutely ace. Like Guernsey bean jar but curiously thick and full of garlic, and we had some really nice house red wine. I want to produce the ultimate Guernsey bean jar...

A Thanksgiving Started the day learning that my poem A sparrow at 30,000 feet will be in the first issue of a new magazine from Guernsey called Written In. The editors have also kept hold of other poems to use them in subsequent issues, so this is all good. It is important to me to have work appear in Guernsey. Also I recieved a note from Joan who has been talking to Dick about my megalithic find, (see previous entry) and thinks it is a stone age scraper used to scrape hair and fat off hides. He was familiar with this instrument because he just read a book dealing with the prehistoric natives of Ontario. I have sent my jpegs off to a local museum to see if they make anything of it, or simply tell me it is a piece of stone. Then up to Edgware for Mason's tradional late Thanksgiving supper. A cheerful gathering there, with Tanya and Robert, Ben and Poppy (over from Guernsey) and Diane who is looking remarkably good after her recent radiotherapy treatment. Nice to fork into some turk...