The practice of poetry has been on a hiatus for a little over a week or so. In that time I've been preparing a vivisection of one my old favourite musical artists, it's being written very much with the personal touch in mind and I'm proud to keep it that way. I've also been writing dregs of fiction, inspired by some very good novels and short stories i've been reading over summer, one of them being 'The Corrections' by Johnathon Franzen. As a landmark event, my bath tonight marked the end of my dalliance with 'Pastoralia' by George Saunders. I had to finish it because otherwise getting out of the bath leaving the job undone (reading, not washing) would've felt like a crime.
Other than that, this week, I've been marvelling over all my stuff. When I'm living at home I pretty much take over the whole house with my paraphenalia. Perhaps I am a periodical, whirlwind tidier. Maybe I work with the cycles of the moon - so might start recording the date each time I tidy to check for any patterns. Anyway, despite my mothers pleas that I become a more neat and tidy person (we've been having this tug of war pretty much since I left the womb) , I've never quite mastered the art of putting stuff back when I'm done with it. Plus, I kind of like all my piles of stuff around me...comforting, reflecting, intrigue-providing - that's stuff for you.
Some evidence of actual output soon.