Let Yourself In, See Yourself Out

Can’t Write, Won’t Write (via Simon & Garfunkel)

These past few days have been a series of misfires, if I’m being honest - the highlight being that I made a really big house when playing Minecraft last night. No joke.

I’ve been trying to write a proper article/poem/piece of prose and nothing is forthcoming, so I’m hoping that me writing any old gibberish here will improve my chances of churning out something decent in the near future.

I’m listening to Simon & Garfunkel at the moment, which I never used to do. They’re a pair that I took for granted, because I know that their music is ubiquitous - you hear a song of theirs in The Simpsons (that repeat about Grandpa), in Starbucks or being sung by a well-meaning tramp in a dark alleyway quite often. So I took it upon myself to actually listen to them properly and I was impressed.

(INTERESTING FACT ABOUT ME: As a child, I used to confuse Art Garfunkel with Engelbert Humperdinck.)

In other news, I’ve decided that this summer I will endeavour to write something substantial every day. Substantial to me may vary from day to day, but I am going to stick to it - mainly because there’ll be nothing else for me to do when I get back home from university.

A little bit about university. I handed in all of my coursework last week, which was a brilliant feeling. To be honest, I didn’t think that I would make it to the end of the first year let alone the end of the second, so I’m pleased with myself in that respect. The only problem I have with university work is my organisational skills, in other words - doing everything a couple of days before.

I wouldn’t even say that this year was an improvement on last year, because there was less work for me to do (I had already completed a half-module in January). So I don’t know, organisation brings me to my knees a lot of the time.

But yes, my mind is little bit clearer not that I’ve written this little post - if you’ve read this far, then you deserve something better than what’s coming next. The only major thing I have to look forward to is seeing The Tallest Man On Earth on July 3rd - I might see you, but I hope I don’t (unless you buy me a drink).

Watch this video by Alabama Shakes, then close your browser window and look outside at the beautiful sky:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Le-3MIBxQTw

Fund My First Novel!

Jilted By McDonald’s

Are there worse situations than finding out you’ve had toilet tissue attached to your trousers all day? That time when you found your flies were undone on the coincidental day that you had gone commando? The first time you had sex and discovered you didn’t actually enter anything apart from a fold in the duvet?

Yes there is: Getting a rejection email from Mcdonald’s.

The last bastion for anyone that finds themselves unemployed - if in doubt, fill in a McDonald’s application form and they’re bound to offer you something. But oh hell no, they rejected me and what’s worse - they didn’t even give a reason why.

I don’t know why it has affected me so much that I had to write a blog post about it, but it clearly has affected me far beyond the “oh shit, better look somewhere else” reponse I normally give rejection for everything.

Oh well, it could be worse - I could get a rejection letter from Burger King *fingers crossed*.

Am I A Poet?

The reckless thought that I could, perhaps, make a living out of being a full-time poet is not even a pipe dream at the best of times. It’s a dream that sees me looking out of dirty window and seeing a dog constantly shitting itself, as an octogenarian woman creaks her hip replacement while she picks up the deluge. In other words - it’s not very likely. Or is it?

The romantic notion that one could pore over a mere five or six words, edit them down to four or three and sell that (most likely non-coherent) phrase for about £10,000 or more, is definitely an ideal job for anyone in any walk of life. I think about it almost as much as I do sex and food. If it’s a particularly radical notion, I can combine all three and excuse myself from the room.

I gave myself the future Poet Laureate-ship in my head as I was completing a poetry portfolio for one of my second year university modules. I had edited ten poems and said to myself: “You’re really good at this poetry lark, aren’t you?”

Of course, I responded: “Yes. Yes, I bloody well am.”

Other people agree I can write well - which I’m grateful for, of course - but this only serves to elevate an ego which is always in a state of flux. So tomorrow, I may think that I couldn’t even write a decent post on a blog (self-referential. Ha!) and the day after I will consider myself the second coming of Philip Larkin.

The results of the Eric Gregory Poetry Awards will be common knowledge within the next few weeks, which I had been talking about with a very good friend of mine in recent days. I suppose that’s what made me think about whether being a full-time poet is a feasible occupation in today’s society, which leads me on to think about my own potential and shortcomings as both a poet and a writer in general.

It’s all a simple conclusion for me: poetry is something to be loved and cherished as art, not to be seen as something which puts bread on the table. And while it would be nice for that to come to fruition, the primary purpose of being a poet is to write about one’s own personal journey through life. Something which has no financial equivalent.