Now You, Then Me

NOW YOU, THEN ME

So now you know how it really feels,

To be given permission to go off and be free,

To never hear the words ‘God, please don’t leave me.’

Because being possessive and clingy just isn’t PC,

Because to admit this thing and commit to this fling

Just wouldn’t be hip,

Your fangirls and boys wouldn’t tag it as rad

Or comment ‘I dig’

And the reality of our freaky bond

Would no longer be hid.

And if you ever actually did

Let them know

Or even dared to show

Me then it really would defy convention,

And strip away pretensions.

You’d be the hipster outside the box

The One with the really neat fox,

But you don’t believe in it that much,

To go round admitting it and such,

So go ahead and be free,

Chase your own tail and dreams,

And if you ever need me

I’ll be back here in reality.

If you love someone let them go

But what if they don’t though –

Love you?

Does it work then too? Will it work for you?

What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,

So now I’ll make my own propaganda,

And make believe I really am the star,

That you clearly already think that you are.

I must have missed you getting famous

So I must apologise,

I must have missed everyone judging us,

Before my very eyes.

I had forgotten that they mattered, you see,

I had thought that it was just about you and me,

So when you’re alone out there among the masses and life is hard

By all means send me a postcard,

But don’t scribble ‘Wish you were here’s

Because I would have been

If not for your fear

Of chipping your polished veneer

And letting someone real get near

My dear.

(c) Words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission.

 

Share and Share Alike

So, on Thursday it was my birthday and I celebrated with a share-out-loud picnic. It was one of my friends’ ideas. Or rather they had suggested that we have the picnic and that I entertain people with my poetry. That seemed a little too ‘me, me, me’ for my liking and so I altered the plan slightly so that others were invited to share something of their own – a poem, a story, a joke – anything, just so long as it could be ‘shared out loud.’ I’m so glad I did for as well as finding the confidence to share some of my own creations and getting some lovely support and appreciation there, I was also fascinated by what everyone else had to share, particularly those who had shared their own work. It seemed that there were more people in exactly my situation – people who wrote and wrote furiously and copiously … and then didn’t quite know what to do about it.

The gentle invitation to share something that ‘could be a piece of your own writing’ but didn’t have to be, seemed to allow people that freedom to do so and really, what was unearthed was an absolute treasure trove. Among the offerings one friend had even written some poems especially for the occasion and revealed that behind claims not to be much of a writer there lurked a humour, a warmth, an unmistakable style. Another friend offered a synopsis of not one but two plays she had written. There were poems that revealed the rough edges of smooth characters, that shouted loud the quiet whisperings of their soul and as the evening drew to a close, I was left wondering not what on earth had made me do it, as I had feared might be the case but what on earth had taken me so long. For my part I shared three poems – chosen at random and in the moment:

1) Flame – about how an ex lover can mellow into a calming presence as you both mature

2) Not the Messiah – an angry rant about someone with delusions of grandeur who clearly thinks they are

3) Mourning Wood – a surreal and satirical ditty about a man consumed with lust induced by funerals and the paraphernalia of grief

I feel that in those few hours on the beach with the backdrop of a stunning sunset and the embers of a burning Harvest Moon, we truly had created a circle of trust. I feel buoyed by the experience, keen to share more and to hear more and to read and discuss and fall in love with whatever people are kind enough to share of their own.

It was a privilege. The perfect birthday gift.

I have mooted the idea of a repeat performance some time in the not-too-distant future for interested parties – an idea that has been met with enthusiasm. At least part of my puzzle of when to share my work, with whom and how has been solved and I feel like this is just the beginning.

Style Over Substance(s) – Yes Please!

As my contemplation of Dylan Thomas and his undeniable genius continues into today, there’s one very real aspect of his life as a writer which I have been focusing on and that’s his dependence on alcohol. It’s always been fashionable to draw these links between alcohol and substance abuse with the creative process, not least of all writers. There’s a long list of critically acclaimed (and dead) literary genii who are well documented alcoholics and the list of writers who abuse drugs, particularly opiates and other psychoactive drugs, is rich in tradition and depth. I only have to mention  Thomas de Quincey and his Confessions of an English Opium Eater to put that into some sort of context. However, in the belief that it is either the alcohol or the drugs that leads to creativity or the great process of mind expansion that allows such is, I would suggest, putting the cart before the horse.

My reasoning for this is crude but nonetheless unshakeable: that in today’s society there are increasingly people of all classes, intellectual abilities, backgrounds and social groups given to experimenting with an abusing drugs and alcohol and if the relationship were as simple as these theories suggest, then they would ALL magically become creative genii. And they don’t. Not at all. You only have to subject yourself to any given episode of UK talk-show Jeremy Kyle if you require any further evidence of that. To suggest there is a simple, direct correlation is naïve and romantic at best or just plain ridiculous or even dangerous at worst. To live in a world that continues to glamorise and romanticise this (non) connection troubles me deeply. If anything it muddles and fogs the brain so that you are unable to produce anything of any great coherence, structure or substantiality. So where has it come from?

I would suggest that it is because if you put the horse and the cart the proper way around then there is the possibility of a connection – that many gifted, artistic, sensitive and creative minds have a great need, a hunger, to quiet the constant chatter of new concepts and creative thoughts, to quash the painful passions and perplexities presented by every minute of every day and so they turn to drugs or alcohol to tame – not unleash – the creativity already surging through their soul.

As a result, the voice that presents itself under these conditions, through their writing, is as you would expect – slurred and slowed and disjointed. In my view, they haven’t unlocked their authentic voice by running headlong to these false doorways, they have killed it. They are the doors of deception, not perception. They push their way through them, hastily searching out a hiding place from their authentic selves and only then – safely hidden away – do they have the courage to confront the ‘curse’ of their creativity – now that it is safely contained and calmed.

I don’t doubt that this is, for some, a huge comfort and that without that safety mechanism many truly great works would never have struggled free from those constraints of intoxicated conformity within ‘creative circles’ and into the world. However, I would suggest that it would be far more interesting to explore other ways that creativity and insights truly can be enhanced, that greater clarity and can be obtained and that the authentic voice to express those can remain loud and clear and true. Perhaps this whole notion of the tortured and toxic creative soul was created by those very people who would seek to destroy it because maybe, just maybe, without those self-imposed distortions, those creative minds could really push some boundaries in a way that’s not masked by a smoke-screen of substance dependant semantics. Now that really would be something radical.

After all, what’s the point of ‘broadcasting’ on a frequency that nobody you seek to reach can tune in to? Because what those lists also tell us is that if you’re waiting for people to catch up with you on your jolly jaunt through wonderland, so they can really understand your message – you’re probably going to be dead before they get there. And, as a teacher, how could I possibly guide a generation to embrace their own authentic creative voices, if I was so terrified of my own that I had to hide from it in an alternate reality?

These aren’t my thoughts on the morality of drug or alcohol abuse – they belong somewhere else. These are my thoughts on the mistaken and misinformed theories about the relationship they have with the creative voice and the dangers, dumbing-down and deaths that can occur because of it.