Sunday, December 31

The Hours

Last night we watched The Hours. One of those things where when you first begin watching, you cannot remember the story, recall the names of the characters, or even remember why you were initially so enthralled with it ('it' being 'The Hours', and 'Mrs Dalloway' - at least, to some lesser extent). Then, of course, you do remember, once a friend reminds you and comments about your crap memory (I am only 16 – surely it can't be that bad? Selective, naturally, but bad? I'd not've thought so.) And you get excited, you stop prodding the chocolate fondue with those sticks (because, by this point, the fruit has all been devoured, and all that is left is the remnants of the two huuuaaage bars of Tesco milk chocolate), you don't have to worry about prodding yourself in the mouth with the stick, you ignore the dog, forget trying to coerce it to jump up onto the sofa, forget the stash of Celebrations in your pocket, and allow yourself to be absorbed into the film. A rare moment for me. Normally, as everyone here knows, I have the habit of talking through films, recounting lines I already know, or texting through it (only my credit is severely depleted, so I couldn't possibly indulge in this last night).

Okay, let’s cut the crap. (And be glad about it, too.)

A few sentiments that stuck out from the film/ which I thought: 1) without death, we wouldn’t value living one little bit. So it is actually a good thing. And without death, would we actually have any motivation? I don’t think so; most likely, it’d be procrastination at its best. And perhaps existentialism would stand up even better… which is rather depressing. So now I shall move onto something else.

In the film, Mrs Woolf was said to have two lives – one which she lived normally, as most people do, and another which she lived through her current story. (If she had several current stories, perhaps she would even have more lives?) It made me think about two quotes (which, given my gloriously crap memory, I cannot recall exactly – but maybe someone can help me out if you are reading this and know them? Or maybe you’ll just understand enough anyway, even though I can’t credit the quotes… anyway…) Two quotes: one about how writers write themselves and their desires into every story, how it is impossible to not; the other about how every novelist only writes the ‘same’ novel repeatedly – that is, I think, that there is so much about themselves deeply ingrained which they cannot, no matter how much they try (to no avail!), pull out of their novels. It is simply there, their ‘self’ (/one of their ‘selves).

I wonder whether this is what also attracts people to reading, indeed, film-watching, too – escapism, of choosing another life to live in, even if it is not really your own – if you can trick your mind into thinking it is, because you want to so much, is that so awful? Maybe this is our thing with holidays, too – how many people have more pictures of holidays, of rare moments, than of their daily life? You may argue that this is because they are more likely to forget them if they are rarer; not so, I believe; if they are rarer, they automatically will stand out in the memory more, as some sort of irregularity in the patterns which bind together to make that we call our life. Why don’t we have more pictures of the things we do again and again, and delight in them? Why don’t we enjoy making breakfast, or tidying/ rearranging our rooms? Is it so difficult? Yes, they’re repetitive, but only so much because we choose to make them so.

Another thought (and I realise my ramblings are unrelated, but blogging can be whatever you want it to be, can’t it? God, I realise that’s a stupid question; questions are generally asked more for confirmation of the already-known than for any new knowledge, are they not?) was about when people say ‘I can tell you anything’, or, even richer, ‘you know you can tell me anything’. Really? How, given that a part of our self is always even hidden/ repressed from our very own self, can we be expected to reveal all to another self? We cannot be expected to. Perhaps using some sort of psychological technique a person can prise another open; but normally, in daily conversation? Crap!

This is not, however, necessarily a bad thing: who doesn’t find intrigue alluring, in how many adverts is mystery portrayed as something fascinatingly sexy? Again and again, you’ll undoubtedly find. And would we really want to know another person so well? You may disagree with me, yet, I cannot help but think that when stripped away/ known well, every person’s civilised walls will break quite easily, that we will be shown to be purely animalistic. Hardly surprising, given that we are animals. Cultured, perhaps, but animals nonetheless.

Take away our ability to speak, our ability to converse with language, and what would we have? Civilisation as we think of it, remaining? I doubt it. Much as I hate it sometimes though, when there is an obligation to talk (and this, surely, springs the joy of being lost in a city, a sea of people, mulling around, together and also fantastically independent), an expectation to make sense, it must be obvious to anyone how much I adore language. Not only am I dependant on it, as we all now are, but, I’ve an inkling that I’m a little more so than most (so long as I can write, it’s all good; let’s ignore the thought of being unable to)… the page is where thoughts can slip through being curtained, and it provides a medium for them to be tidied, played around with, seen on, naked but for the riddle of rhetoric.

Friday, December 22

My Family

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Family_(television) I'd forgotten how much it makes me laugh. The sort of laughing where you forget about everyone else until you've stopped laughing, and then you realise that you really were laughing quite uncontrollably. I'd like to meet the actors. Don't know their names (as per usual -- do I ever really? no.), or anything about them, and I'd rather spend time watching the programme than googling them.

So, the boys were in bed (who I babysit for), I switched it on, looked gleeful with the realisation that I could sit and watch My Family, that my mocks were over so I didn't feel the need to do any work, that there was no-one else in, so I didn't have to share the lounge. I could just lie there, elbows propped on cushion, head propped in hands, fixated on the TV. (And they have a bigger TV than us. Fabulous.) And the laughing just rolled out -- most of the situations were completely absurd, but they somehow seemed to relate. Whether it be the teenage boy charging the people to take their piss in their lovely bathroom (extra for the ensuite, of course...) -- not that anyone does this, but the way he found to make money -- or the film star coming into the house, all blasé, everyone competing for his attention. It just works. It makes me laugh, and I was glad to remember that.

When the credits rolled on, I wiggled a bit, looking at my elbows (which had gone red and ached from being in the same position for yonks), & I wondered whether perhaps the boys would've wondered why I was laughing, but my thought was quickly pushed out, as I pictured them, running round crazily, fantastically energetic. No, they wouldn't.

(Yes, I am aware of my overuse of the word 'wonder'.)

Monday, December 18

exciting, that's the following:

ideas (big, small, annoying, stiletto-stamping-on-the-brain type ones); parks (swings, benches - the one at the top of the hill... rivers; swings; made from rope and old tree trunk - the sort which break at just the wrong time, like when you've got to go somewhere afterwards); food & drink (maple syrup, white chocolate, milk chocolate, strawberries, Tropicana, baileys, oranges cut open and eaten with hands, melon, grapes dipped in chocolate, pizza, pasta, pesto, tomatoes, olive oil drizzled over pasta, eating lemons -- even if it's a slice I take from my (or someone else's) drink), cooking (kneading dough, slicing fruit) books, the smell of new books, holding a book, scribbling and underling on it, borrowing someone else's and reading their notes, buying new ones from Muji.. and sitting on the sofas, watching; & languages (syntax, punctuation, dialect, accent, certain voices, sounds that are hilarious in one language, sounds I can't get the knack of easily, but which the brother of a friend I made attempted to teach me, repeating it over and over, accompanied by amusing flamboyant gestures, listening to French radio, hearing Germans exclaim 'ach ja, genau!'; travelling, train journeys, going for a run, going for really long walks, working my way around a foreign airport on my own...); painting; drawing; scribbling; making dots on paper; drawing/ playing noughts and crosses on the road; sitting at the end of my road - on my own or with people, doesn't fuss me, I like it either way; swimming, preferably in the sea, in warm, shallow waters (so I don't get pulled out..) but a swimming pool will suffice; mornings when I can just be lazy, without someone from a nearby house having work done, without my parents doing work, without everyone deciding to cut the grass; not having to have a sleeping routine; things that smell good; bike rides (need to get my bike mended. How long ago did I say I would do this? Too long ago..); sitting on the swing/ lying on the hammock in the garden when it's dark; certain people…

only a few things out of all.

It'd be interesting to see which are shared, if you are so inclined to share yours.

Sunday, December 17

General Public

I've been thinking lately about why the majority of people simply don't 'do' poetry - yet they resort to it for 'special occasions'; weddings, funerals, christenings...

Monday, December 4

The same poem, redrafted for you. (And me.)

He'd been pulling a bag along
with him, his new-found friend

at first it grew slowly,
and then after a while
accelerated, growing
until it was cutting off
the lifeline. Left him to dangle

between shuffling in his bed
of slim cuttings of soft paper
bundled into a ball, a
cocoon, a coffin already made
for himself. I remember

the days we didn't need
to worry about bulldog
clips on the cage, because
he wasn't going to
crawl up the chimney, not today,
and cleaning would only disturb.

I remember holding him, a baby
again awkward in my hands,
massaging the fur, slowly, so
slowly, circling, urging him to
warm up.

We passed him between us, his
last minutes, seconds, nano-seconds
sp-lit, between the family. My turn

I took him to the radiator,
kneeled down, nudging him,
waiting for him to wake up, warm up,
stop pretending to give up on me.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

©Katy Murr 2006

I prefer it like this. Do you?

I am trying to quash my urge to make the stanzas even. I want to, but I think they're effective like this. (Don't ask me what I want the effect to be, please...)

--

Today I got told I have been offered a prize from the education section of the Poetry Archive site, for the 'most interesting and provocative contribution to the discussion'. A lovely surprise. So, the prize: a signed copy of the CD made by Paul [Farley] for the Poetry Archive. Apparently, 'the recording lasts an hour and includes poems from all three of Paul's collections to date.'

Naturally, I accepted. I only have one CD of poetry so far. It was one from an Aldeburgh festival, if my memory cogs are cogging correctly. Free, also. One more to add to my collection. & listen to, of course -- I do enjoy hearing poetry actually, it's often better that way (and you can hear poems, many different ones, at the archive: http://www.poetryarchive.org, unless, like me, you don't have realplayer on your pc: I would, but my dad remains adamant it slows the PC down. So there we go, I can't listen to them on the archive. Pissy-offy indeed.)

I want one of these especially though: http://www.brownstationers.com/BookItem.aspx?item=9781405501507, which my dad found out about. At first I thought they were only going out to schools supposedly, & so was going to send an email to the people in charge of it asking very politely for a copy. Not so, & so I'm not going to try that.

Should go and do revision. Boring-ness. I really should though, & I have English to do, writing to explain, I think. I was about to go and eat my advent calendar chocolate for today. Guess what? I remembered (sich erinnern... in German, I think...) I'd already eaten it...

Saturday, December 2

Uh-oh.

One of my parents is on the phone downstairs. Anyhow, they sound extremely frustrated and angry. All I can here from hear is mumbling, but the emotions are obvious. It reminded me of one of the stories in 'The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat' -- Oliver Sacks. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Man-Who-Mistook-Wife-Picador/dp/0330294911/sr=8-1/qid=1165079348/ref=pd_ka_1/026-9363733-3336439?ie=UTF8&s=books (yes, I realise I need to work out how to do links properly...) Something about people who could either 1) hear and understand words people were saying, but not recognise the intonation or the lull of their speech (who were basically deaf to the natural emotion, who would not recognise sounds of pain) or 2) those who could not understand the words, to whom words meant nothing, but sounds and emotion could be 'understood' so easily. It made me wonder which I'd prefer, and reminded me of something we'd been asked to do at Warwick -- to write in a 'made up' language, playing purely with sounds and stanza arrangement, line breaks and pacing.

Also, I couldn't decide which I'd prefer. Initially I thought to be able to understand the sounds, without the words, but, as someone who reads and writes a lot, it'd be like I'd had a huge chunk of me sliced off, messily.

Which reminds me about the cake. We have the reminants of a very tasty cake downstairs, which has especially tasty buttercream on the top. I think I'd just prefer the buttercream without the cake to be honest. I should make some, just some buttercream, and invite other friends round, those who like just the top of it too.

Either

1) they have gone walkabouts, magically (and also stolen my magic in the process.)

or

2) I have left them at school. In the locker.

My schoolbooks...

The progress of my day thus far: three hours sat trying to distinguish which paper was 1) worth keeping/ filing 2) to be recycled, or 3) to go in the maybe-keep pile. The entirity of my maybe-keep pile then got shoved into the 'to be recycled' pile as I couldn't decide.

This took about 4 hours, with mini-intervals, to do things such as drink some water.

On the plus side, I have an advent calender. Most deserving of being emboldened, naturally.

Wednesday, November 29

Bleurgh.

Quite simply, bleurgh to the world.

Tuesday, November 28

where do you want to go to?

Me, I want to go away. At first, I thought about a place with purely the people I adore. Of course though, that's impossible.

So perhaps just somewhere different, with new people. France wouldn't be a bad idea, & then I could buy more of the lovely hot chocolate. (I am running out of hot chocolate of the French variety, &, there is no pure chocolate in the house.) I suggested France to my dad last night, after he'd gone through some chemistry with me. It would be educational, after all. More convincing is required though, it seems.

Or Germany. I have a German exam tomorrow. Little late for practise, vielleicht, glaube ich. Aber ich muss versuchen, ich muss ein bisschen auf Deutsch reden, fuer morgen...

Monday, November 27

A draft, I repeat, *only* a draft.

For months, he'd been pulling a bag along
with him, his new-found friend

at first it grew slowly,
and then after a while
accelerated, and grew more and more rapidly
until it was cutting off
the lifeline.

Left him
to dangle
between shuffling in his bed
of thin cuttings of soft paper
bundled into a ball, a
cocoon, a coffin already made
for himself. I remember

the days we didn't need
to worry about the bulldog
clips on the cage, because
he wasn't going to
crawl up the chimney, not today,
and cleaning would only disturb.

I remember holding him, a baby
again awkward in
my hands, fragile. I remember
massaging the fur, slowly, so
slowly, circling, urging him to
warm up.

We passed him between us, his
last minutes, seconds, nano-seconds
split
between the family. My turn

I took him to the radiator,
kneeled down, prodding him,
waiting for him to wake up, warm up,
stop pretending to give up on me.

©Katy Murr 2006

--

(Don't slaughter me if you think it's crap, I know there's a lot more work to be done, it's only the sketches of something at the moment.)

Few things about it:

What do you think of the stanzas? Reckon I should try to regulate them? I tried to keep it so the line-lengths and the stanzas vaguely represented what I was talking about, or pushing at.

The repetition of 'remember' - perhaps I'm pushing this a bit, and it should be more subtle?

'accelerated, and grew more and more rapidly' I especially don't like this line, I like the repetition which strings it together, but overall, it seems weak: the language ought to be a lot more specific, I think.

Oh, and incase you're wondering, it's about a hamster. & yes, he did indeed climb up the chimney.

Sunday, November 26

The Strepsil People

should automatically make me their friend. I've consumed so many of those lovely strepsils recently, I am very well acquainted with the strepsils at least.

Yesterday

I bought three new books. Technically not 'new' (although one looked hardly read at all), as they were from Oxfam, but still.

Three more books. Oh deary dear. (I still try to convince myself it's all good though, because after all, they were from Oxfam, so, to a good cause.)

  1. Miscellany One - Dylan Thomas
  2. Birthday Letters - Ted Hughes ('Later, inside your poems/ Which they wore like gloves, the same hands/ Left big fingerprints. The same/ Inside your last-stand letters/ Which they wore like gloves.' -- From 'The Hands') I have a thing about hands. I have a thing about poems. I have a thing about letters. I have a thing about gloves. & I shall be reading some more of this. (One thing I wonder though, why the capital letters at the beginnings of the lines?)
  3. A sort of anthology. (Shall not elaborate on this - it seems brand new, barely looked through, and I think it would be ideal for a particular friend as part of their Christmas present. There is a slight problem though - I do want it for myself...)

Really need another bookcase, I really do. I think, however, desperate times call for desperate measures: I shall not be buying any more books until I have read every single book I possess.

Whether this will send me into frequent library visits, pleading friends to borrow theirs, or simply reading a lot more, I don't yet know.

We shall see.

PS A neighbour is trying to train their (presumably new) dog. Most amusing. I can see from the window, and hear. I don't think the dog understands at all.

Wednesday, November 22

Oooooh... those things called 'choices'...

Yesterday, bar my French speaking exam (which I decided to go in for to get out of the way with), I was in, on my own. Spent the day reading http://www.amazon.co.uk/Regeneration-Trilogy-Door-Ghost-Road/dp/0670869295 'Regeneration', in between sleeping, eating, drinking & watching The OC. (Edit* -- I played The Beatles afterwards.)

Sat in near-enough the same position for a day, it was sort of strange. Just watching the weather flitter between moods; the clouds swishing, letting the sun appear, to then block the rays a few minutes after; and the obvious daily changes, watching people moving round the street, it felt like everything was on fast-forward, like how it does in films. Considering I'd done frankly shit-all, the day had gone surprisingly well.

But at times I did want someone else there, or other people at least there at points, just for sake of 'participation', I suppose, & yet that was the very same thing I relished -- that despite the majority being in school, going through a day in the system, as per usual, I had taken a day out. It wasn't that I wanted them there to really talk to or anything though, there was nothing I had urgent to say -- despite texts from friends asking whether I was still alive... -- I just wanted a hug, or someone to talk to me whilst I sat drinking honey & lemon drink, sniffling, curled up under my blanket, feeling satisfactorily mooch-ified.

Still, I was very ill. & Am still, in fact.

Very ill, being owner of bulging, angry-red tonsils, infected throat, blocked-sinuses... yes, the descriptions do wonders for the lovely state of my mind. (Although the 'stiletto-stabbing' thoughts have recently passed. Thank god, even though I've not got a god to thank, but hey, I shall thank her (just to be awkward) anyway.)

I could blame it on the stress, and the routine, but that'd not really get me anywhere. Still, good reading time. & hot-chocolate drinking; of course, most important.

So anyway, I didn't do a lot, but I did a lot of watching, and a lot of thinking, and I remembered exactly why I like reading -- because when you can't find someone who you can offload your thoughts about particular things onto, you can either find thoughts on similar topics in a book to challenge your own, or, immerse yourself in totally other thoughts for sake of distraction. Generally, I prefer the former. If the thoughts are there, they're there, I've given up trying to get rid of annoying thoughts which life would be easier without. & hey, it might be easier, but it'd be a hell of a lot less interesting & absurd, & I'd probably not even be writing this, because it'd not even occur to me to contemplate such matters in the first place.

I told you I did a lot of thinking, & I suppose I found this easier to do because it wasn't so interrupted, & it was like there was space to think. For once, my day wasn't divided up into blocks of this and that, preordered and made into ickle slices of pathetic boredom already. Okay, so a little hyperbole (no need to point out there's not such a thing, really, just don't...) perhaps, but you get the gist that I don't like my life being cut up into slices of boredom. I suppose it's good if the slices are of sleeping & drinking hot chocolate & phone calls with friends & seeing my parents to talk about nice things & reading books which are good for my thoughts, but more often than not, I don't have that choice. I also wanted to go for a walk. You know, good long few miles walk. The sort of walk where you walk through the pain of being tired and your muscles aching, where everything seems a blur but the continual forward-going-ness, interspersed maybe with conversation, if such company is available.

But let's get back to the thoughts. Lots of people live their lives working jobs they don't want to work but do for the money, for the status, for the power, going to marriages which they just retain for sake of not wanting to be 'another failed marriage' statistic, living with people because it's easier to live with them than get out there and meet new people who they might prefer, staying in the same, old, boring cycle because they're too frightened to get out of it.

& This petrifies* me.

I never want life to become a cycle of boredom, repetitiveness, with nothing new or exciting, no new places because I don't make the effort to save to go, or make excuses about it costing too much, or not knowing the language. I want to go, even if it means not staying in the best of hotels, even if I'm having to learn the language as I go along. Don't get me wrong, little-miss-katy doesn't expect everything to be perfect, to not have boring blips, but that's exactly all I want the boredom to be -- a blip, a tiny, little blip, an intrusion upon the normal 'routine' of discovery or adventure or newness.

Maybe what particularly scared me about yesterday was how everything so far seems to have gone so fast, how each year passes with growing speed, how the kids I babysit for suddenly seem so much more 'grown-up'.

This post might seem silly when I look back on it, & I know there are a great deal of things people do not because they want to, but because they feel the need, or really do have the need. & I know growing-up comes with responsibility; thing is, I don't want too much of that, & fear I never will. 'Growing-up' shouldn't mean having to adopt routines because the majority does, nor should it mean doing so because the other options seem too daunting because they're new; 'growing-up' (& here I use inverted commas not merely to mock the general idea of 'growing up', but also because I severely doubt I will ever really manage such a thing in the typical way; I am far too awkward) should mean more opportunities, more choices, more chances, more enjoyment & ability to choose the way to go about spending life







*Notice the special effects - good, don't you think?

Saturday, November 18

unpunctual

A diplomatic neighbour, for whom I often babysit, whilst in convo about what time I am to go tonight: 'Not that I'm implying you're unpunctual, of course.'
Me: [Laughs]... [thinking: Quel horreur! No, course not...]

Why anyone would even stretch to the effort of implying such a thing, amazes me; I thought it was a well-known fact.

--

I sent the MS off.

I repeat: yes, I sent the MS off. Finalement. Je suis tres contente au tour de ca. What a pity I can't be bothered to do proper French accents, eh? Oh well, stuff it. I still SENT THE MS OFF!

--
& I found something I'd been looking for since a long while ago. Phew, oh phew oh phew.

--

& I tidied/ rearranged my bookcase. Makes me want to read lots. I like just having books, even if I'm not feeling like I want to read. I just like them. It's the anticipation which makes me so, I think.

Thursday, November 16

Butterflies.

I found out a lot about them last night. & about other things. Have 2 sides of A4 with loopy squiggles and shapes and thoughts scrambled over them. It's just the arranging, that small matter of putting it all so it feels right. As always.

Wednesday, November 15

Guess

'Mad thoughts clad in stilettos'

-- Guess where it's from, Rowena?

Tuesday, November 14

Essaying.

Is it OK to completely wreck the premise of the essay question, to say that it's phrased badly?

Wednesday, November 8

.

That dot, in a sea of everything so confusing that it almost seems blank because the things end up indistinguishable, that's how I feel. Don't get me wrong, this isn't about 'I feel like an ant, oh dear, dear, dear, help me' insignificance crap; I don't want or need sympathy, I just feel swallowed.

Sunday, November 5

Present for YOU!

Yes, that's right, you get a present... let's guess what it might be... hum... (I hope you're switching your stage-lights on and getting the butterflies excercised in those stomachs...)

Honey and Lemon Drink

Droplets of liquid water
surge out, dancing from
the Winnie the Pooh mug,
to clash with air.
Footsteps in our kitchen
are light, deliberately
like how you soothe a throat.
Tingling to touch,
hands grip. As you rise
up and up and up
you seem to be hurrying
to escape the heat, to separate
as you turn to rain
down on the heat.

©Katy Murr 2006

Like? Dislike? Hate a certain word? Adore a certain phrase? Think it's all a jewel-studded present of Katyness? Think it's a load of crap?

Tell me.

Saturday, November 4

Friday, November 3

Bang. Bang. Bang.

guess what's going on outside? Hummm...

The sister came back from uni again today, I presume she misses me too much to be away from me too much, and even though she was scowling at me a fair amount today, that this is her greatest form of affection for me, because she is unable to express how much she loves me. Really, I really, really think so. & so should you.

We went for lunch. They (my mum and her) thought it was a fantastic idea to tip the barman. I did not. Why? He's doing his job; certainly, he was friendly & everything, but still, I think that's a bit generous. He poured us three drinks. Big deal.

Or perhaps it's just because I'm moodifying over the fact I don't even have a single note in my purse, in typical poet-in-western-style-poverty (joke -- don't sue me for being unpolitically correct) style. Nevermind lovely purple £20 notes, I don't even have a scrawny fiver! But fear not, I don't expect you to pity me, just that when my oh-so-fabulous chapbook is finally published, it'd be nice if you bought it. It'd make me smile. Really, it would. Not convinced I'd tip people even then, but it would make me happy. & Everyone knows a happy Katy is a good thing.

Still, the food was very good, I shall admit that much.

---

Tscch... enough self-indulgence, or not?

---

photos. I have them. From 3 disposable cameras. Most turned out ok. Some of Warwick & friends from there, others just from pottering (I've never understood where that verb comes from, but it sounds nice, I like the rhythm to it..) around the house, others from London. Eeee, they are so lovely, lovely, lovely. I might make a big collage of them on the inside of one of my wardrobe doors, but that might mean having to take another display down. (I used to have photos all around one wall, around the circular mirror, though after I took them down to take with me for Warwick -- after all, couldn't be expected to cope without such lovely things, could I? -- I couldn't be arsed fiddling round getting them in a nice display.) It's also far easier -- and misconceivably (is that a word?) 'tidy' to put my 'displays' up on the insides of my wardrobes. That way, only people I know a bit at least, should be looking in there, and also it makes my room look a bit tidier on the facade, even though it's a tip of stacks/ piles of everything, & altogether much mess.

---

editing is going very well. & I mean, verrrrry well. Things should be finished (for this, at least) verrry soon!

---

All lovely people (I think 'lovely' seems to be my word of the day. Anyhow, it doesn't go down in value because I've used it lots today, it retains entirely wonderful) who've managed to get this far into my ramblings deserve a metaphorical pat on the head. I'd say 'pat on the back', but I prefer to pat people on the head because you can then make their hair all messy & see whether it bothers them. Very amusing, I can assure you. & immature, but hey-ho, I'm not going to grow up just yet.

---

PS. Hopefully I'll come back with some meaningful stuff another day.

Thursday, November 2

Important Writing News!

I shan't even do the whole 'guess what?' thing, instead I shall get to the point: Zoe Brigley from The University of Warwick returned my manuscript -- either yesterday, or the day before, and I have now received it!

As a writer, the best feeling I can get, bar having written/ edited something which makes me 'oooh' all over, is having someone spend time critically reading my writing and telling me what they think, giving me nudges in the direction they think I should head in. So I am incredibly thankful to Zoe for this (who also was a tutor at the NAGTY creative writing summer school).

I love editing. It's addictive, and appeals to me a LOT. Which is why I am -- yet again -- editing the poems. Thing is, I am actually getting so much happier with the writings. I don't want to publish something which doesn't show my work at its best, I really want to make it as strong as I can.

& Then I need to sort out the drawings. Ooh, much excitement! Plus I'm listening to that Queen CD again which just makes me dance like hell, I am finding it so difficult to try and sit still; another reason I'm typing so fast, to exit my fidget-ness this way.

Wednesday, November 1

Pasta's cooking

& takes about 8 mins, has already been in for about 3, will probably boil over if I don't check soon, so this is a quick post. Plus, radio1's on loud downstairs, and my dad will go beserk if he knows I've left the pasta & the radio on while I'm up here.

Pouring out the pasta reminded me of those shakers we used to make. You know, the ones everyone makes in primary, rainy-day-makeshift-'musical'-instrument type thing. No childhood complete without them. I like being inbetweeny awkward adolescent, don't feel like growing up. It'd be fun to be like this forever, never having to be adult or child, just able to choose between the two, and shove them together in an awkward, hilarious-to-the-person-who's-doing-it clash. Mmmm... I need to go check the pasta.

My fingers feel weird as I type this. I'm cold, yet I'm sat here in jeans, t-shirt, shirt, extra-large hoody which goes just past my bum, socks and fluffy slippers. I plan to move abroad when I can. I also plan to holiday - whenever I find my passport, that is. It actually worries me, just not having the option of getting away, even though I'm not planning to. Hey-ho, pasta calls...

How To Remember, & a link.

How To Remember

(for S.V)

Hurl reminiscing away. Smash it up,
the photographs, spit out that saliva
you sucked inbetween your teeth – spit it,
on rose-tinted snaps, which had you –
stomach shaking, eyes stinging.
The cochlea echoes, a voice
that tossed over past waves.

Show willing – for once,
just this once, put out the reeking bins
again. Watch from your windows, peer around
the apple tree, spying with permission.
They take the bin bags out,
empty your stuff into
a gross churning machine.
And let’s listen to the metal, chomping away.
Don’t succumb.

©Katy Murr 2006

---

Writing my writings out into the Muji notebook I got was extremely cathartic. I was also pleased; most I am as content with as I think I'll get, and it helped to make a few changes by physically writing them; you concentrate on the overall thing, and I suppose it's more effort than just re-reading/ scanning them.

S.V, it's changed a tad since you last saw it- I hope you'll agree it's improved, though?

---

The sky's a light blue for once. An exciting change to wake up to!

---

( http://www.guardian.co.uk/women/story/0,,1936408,00.html

I've a feeling that without mentioning women -- and here I refuse my urge to use an exclamation mark or embolden the font -- in the actual link, more people reading this would open it. Feel free to disagree, but I doubt I'll be changing my mind.)

Tuesday, October 31

18.30

is apparently when I'm meant to be going out. So I have four hours in which to do a lot of things. Likely or not that I will finish my list? We shall see.

A neighbour with annoyingly loud tools in the garden

is annoying (it gets bold and italics, that explains the state of my annoyance!) me. Lovely...(you get used to them if you live here) sounds of northern rah-rah state weather, trees hitting into each other, branches smashing together, rain whirling round, plant pots falling over and rolling over the patio until they reach another pot and clunk! (I'm only resisting elaborating and having a go about the person for the sake that my identity is perfectly clear on this blog. Fear not, otherwise, I would.)

Grrr... why interrupt the sounds? Plus my room (and the study) are at the back of the house, so I get more of the noise than you do in anyone else's bedrooms.

{I'm now playing The Raconteurs, Together, over the annoying sound. I think it'll be one of those songs I play again & again. Unfortunately haven't yet fathomed the 'loop'/ repeat button on media played. I suppose I ought to have by now, particularly given my listening habits}

[Did you notice that I didn't just use ordinary brackets there? Maybe the pretty things have a different use, I don't know, I thought I'd give some alternation to your lives. Thank me if you wish; I doubt I'll refuse it.]

I always think of things to say on here. Like I wanted to say how surprised/ glad I was when I woke up the other day (canne remember which, I lose track of time during the holidays/ breaks) and the clocks had given us another hour. Actually, that would've been Sunday, the day when I decided to wear my new boots for a family outing. Bad idea. I should get walking boots. We all should. It would probably make use of the NT card; at least, it makes sense that it would, even if my parents don't agree. (Personally I just think they want to disagree with me most of the time. What is a parent-daughter relationship if not full of disagreements? One where the daughter models the mother, blow-dry perfect hair in tow? Scary thought.)

Anyhow, I made a list of things I wanted to do today. So far I have done two. I feel quite good about that.

I did my college application forms. & I made more 'presents' for friends. Believe me, if you're going to be receiving one of these presents -- or more than one, although that's highly unlikely when you think about approximately how long it takes me to make one (a ridiculous amount of time, stupid, stupid length of time, but I'm only starting, so I'm slow at the moment with it) -- then know that I love you. A lot. I wouldn't spend so much time over them if not; if not, I would just go out & buy you something, an excercise in giving a little money & a little thought, but not an excercise like that I am currently undertaking for you. Perhaps after Christmas I shall put some pictures up of the presents I am making for people (the presents aren't the same, btw, there are different types, and different variations)

{bloody hell, the pictures still won't upload. 'Error'. Crap. I wanted to show you that post card. It would give you a good insight, believe me. You'll see soon, hopefully. Perhaps I need to change the file type? Or make it smaller? Someone with technical knowledge, if you could help, I would be grateful. Probably not eternally grateful, but grateful nevertheless.}

yes, so I can put up the pictures, & everyone else can look at them, & know how much I love you :P & Feel jealous that they don't get such wonderful presents. (Unless, of course, they do -- or, if they're simply not arsed -- Mum, if you're reading this, pardon my use of that word; and of all the others you'd disapprove of -- yes, so if they're simply not arsed about getting delightful 'oooh' presents, then, well, I doubt they'll be bothered about it.) Still, I would quite like to put the pictures up of them, so I can sit in my chair, musing 'nerr' to myself. :)

(Oh, & I have bought some people presents. But they are still very special ones. & They aren't 'gettable' -- shove being articulate for another blip -- anywhere.)

-------

*Writing news*

  • I am indeed allowed quotes; although they shall have to be examined on a case-by-case basis.
  • I have begun writing out my sort of 'finalised' collection in a book I bought from Muji yesterday (I bought 3 new notebooks. & tries out the sofas again, naturally.)
  • I am going to do the following today:
  • try to finalise my collection, so I can send it off & ask for comments. (how many times have I said this? But I really need to do it!)
  • narrow down the ideas for the title (I never was good at choosing when it was something which excites me; & yes, the prospect of the title certainly does this.)
  • do more drawings (to accompany my writings), &, hopefully, get my lovely dad to show my how to scan them on really, really high resolution
  • find/ locate some more quotes, and think about where I want the quotes to go. (This will be made easier by the fact I forgot to return the books to the library in town -- is it about 6 times I've renewed them online now? Something ridiculous like that. There's a quote I want from Larkin's bio (can't remember who it's by. Not Motion's.) about the sectioning of the self. I shall hunt it down!)

But now, I think it is time to go & make myself smell good.

Monday, October 30

Today

was lots of fun. Town, shopping, Muji, seeing friends, a clarinet lesson which actually went well... what more could the Murmenator ask for?

Have bought a book from Muji especially so I can copy out the poems I want in my chapbook. I think it will help me finalise it, having something to actually hold.

Sunday, October 29

Anno

He is at the very top of my 'interesting things' folder on my favourites.

http://www.anno.co.uk/

Not enough people know about him.

Have a read, have a look, have a listen.

(& thank you for giving me the book in the first place.)

I don't want to ramble more about him, or waste your time when you could be having a look. Just have a look, please.

---- (Little interlude, again...)

PS - I left the mp3 at home, and my mobile. Aren't I lovely, eh?

PPS - I find myself adding 'so' at the end of each sentence again, when I'm speaking. It comes and goes in blips, but came from going to Germany. Argh.

Snapped,

the state of the much-loved clarinet reed which I'd spent a few sessions trying to break in. Went downstairs this morning, it lay on one of the tables in the front lounge, tip of it snapped off.

I decide to ask my dad about it, whilst picking at my fruit toast (part of my lovely brunch, which also comprised of about half the pack of grapes, a glass of tropicana, and some mini caramel shortcake things. Note to everyone: fruit loaf toasts quickly. I went to get the door to let my mum in & mine had already burnt.)

'Oh, I was playing with it last night.' Yes, this was the last night they went for a meal at a neighbour's... probably aided with lots of wine... But still, 'playing'? With my clarinet reeds? No, my clarinet reeds are to be left alone. People don't realise how easily they snap if they don't play.

'it snapped by accident'.

That's pretty much all he said. With a smile at the end.

Not impresed.

People who don't play also don't realise that it can take a loooong while to break a reed in. Anyway, I'm not angry about it. For one thing, I wouldn't be blogging about it if I were as they can read this perfectly easily, as can anyone else. Two good things came out of it 1) I used a new reed, which looks just as lovely aesethically (sp?) as the other one did (the reason I wasn't happy that it got snapped) & also has a far better tone, much more rounded & full, the first scale I played on it (simple, F major) came out fabulously.

2) I had a free house, so could have friends round without parents fussing. Lovely.

& Now I have to go, to be a good daughter and spend time with my parents. Smile with me.

(I think I might take my mp3. Perhaps... and maybe wear my boots? Or will they get too muddy? Uhm...)

Saturday, October 28

You tell me...

You tell me you read it, you talk to me about it, you mention things you've read. You ask me which catergory I'd put you in for certain things, or pick out a certain line and muse over it, or tell me how you think the lines should go.

But mostly this is off the blog. Don't get me wrong, I love to hear what you think, and it's still great to hear it off the blog, but isn't the idea of a blog to comment about what you think on the blog, so other people can read/hear it too? Don't just tell it to me offline; be wonderful, & put it on here too, so other people can see. Just because you comment here, doesn't mean you can't talk to me about it offline as well. Go on, you know it's not that difficult... & it doesn't have to be profound or a long comment, it doesn't have to 'be' anything. Just let me know what you think if you're reading it, that's all I ask.

So, thank you to all of my readers who've read this so far, who've put up with the followings of my postcards (I've actually found the other one today -- am going to go and post it very soon!) & everything else. Apparently I have 18 posts up here, but I don't think my blog is quite full-grown/ an adult yet. I don't think it ever will be; the thought scares me. (Which reminds me, I was pondering earlier, and realised how if I say 'it's not that I don't want to, or don't want to sometime, it's just that the thought scares me' this appeals to so many things. Bad thing or good, I don't know. I suppose it's neither, most things can't be seen in a bad/good, child-like way...) Still, I have a little nugget of happiness in knowing that I've kept up with my blog. So far, OK, right? (ha, & here I quashed my ego, resisting the urge to say 'so wonderful'.)

PS Armitage: how is his poetry so damn addictive? The collection 'The Dead Sea Poems' is certainly something to drown in, in a wonderful way. I cannot fault it.

Friday, October 27

C-o-n-t-e-n-t.

I actually am feeling verrrry content. & Happy. But that goes with it, right? (Yeuck 'right'. I am lefty. I detest anti-lefty-ism, and yet I find myself using the word in such a phrase...) Mid-afternoon showers with the radio blasting aid such, believe me. Always believe me, only this time especially.

(I realise there haven't been many posts about writing recently. Or reading, in great depth. There will be some to come soon; again, just believe me on this.)

Having returned back

back home, I was about to say, & it is, but it's just that I quite like being in different places as well.

(I did fit everything in the bag, & am very proud of myself for this, & I wore my new boots for two days, ouch!)

One good thing about being back is that I can now check the news more easily. I mean, I know I could buy a paper whilst I'm away, but I prefer reading it on the net, in a lot of ways it seems easier; my fingers won't get newspaper print on them, and also it seems easier to naviagate. Plus I can have a few different sites open, comparing the articles more easily. Oh, & the fact that I don't have to pay is a good thing. I suppose maybe if my parents bought a paper often (preferably The Guardian, or The Independent...) then I would prefer that. They don't though, so I don't prefer it.

I have one real aim for my half term: to find my passport. It would be helpful, considering I need it to go to Germany or France really, or anywhere else for that matter. & I know it's in the house, it's just whereabouts, I don't know exactly. Probably inbetween some books on my ridiculously overflowing bookcase...

Having just drank a hot chocolate with maple syrup, chocolate from the orange tub which comes from France, and marshmallows; I am very happy. Not only for that reason, but hot chocolate generally contributes to it. As does dancing to the radio when it's very loud & no one else is in the house & it's raining heavily (as it often does here, up north) outside.

I have just invited (well, ish) people round tonight. Does that mean I have to tidy my room? I think it does.

---- (This can be a sort of interlude, I want to break it up because now I'm going to talk about other stuff.)

*London*

(it deserves stars, really, doesn't it?)

I like the place. I like getting lost in all the people, it's strange... up north I feel more of a requirement to talk to other people, like when I'm on public transport, I do make an effort, and often end up talking to people. But there? No. You're not expected to make an effort, you're more expected to keep yourself to yourself. There really is a great difference between the north & the south, not only because London is so utterly touristy.

& we got to go to the Tate Stores!! (Notice not only one exclamation mark.) It smelt nice, warehousey, open, the smell of paint and storage and art. Plus it was good to see the pieces of art we're looking at. (I understand that the 'we' is vague here, but I think it would take too much for me to explain it, so I'll just not, ok? I hope you don't mind.)

The security was very high though. I didn't like the security people too much. Very un-smiley. Why do people find it so difficult to smile? It's not like life has to be utterly glorious for people to smile.. & yes, I'm rolling my eyes. If you know me, you know the look.

I also need a new logbook. It's not a diary, or a journal, because I put into it what I want, when I want. So basically it's really uneven and consists of all sorts from lolly sticks, to breaks of about two weeks, to four pages of fast writing in a pen which was half running out. (Or something like that anyway.) (& I want to stick some of the stuff I picked up in London in there, but I think I've only got about 1 page left in the current book.)

Muji calls, it seems. Next time I need to get one with thicker paper as well, because despite the expense, I don't want my pages falling out, or worrying about them falling out just 'cause I choose to stick/ staple/ shove something(s) into/ onto a page. What a mathematical way of writing that sentence. Heh.

What else? I have writing on my right arm. (I'm left handed & wrote it.) By Juan Monos (with a funny little Spanish accent on the 'n', which I couldn't draw too well on my hand with the pen, but remember having to balance quite particularly to give it a go.) "Either too late or too early; it's always the wrong moment." Shouldn't really have put that in speech marks, it's not a direct quote, I paraphrased it if I remember correctly, but anyway. It looks really pretty I think, some of the ink has gone slightly pink, & the rest sort of deep lilac/ light purple. Makes me wonder what it'd be like to have tattoos. Although I don't think I'd like the permanency (is that a word?), I'd probably get bored of it quite quickly. Suppose I like this because I know it shall wash off soon. (When I finally have a shower. Although I need to watch the film first. Well, don't need too, I want to. Might take a piece of 'art' downstairs with me and do it at the same time...)

The thing on my arm was on an information cuboid on one of the walls at the Tate Modern. Out of interest, has anyone else seen the slide thing there? Or even been on it? & Don't you find the escalators confusing there? They sort of miss out a level, the ground floor one... so you have to take the stairs instead, oh the grand effort of picking up my feet to walk there...

I'm going to do something else now. Wonder whether anyone else has had so much fun in the past two days? (I love the ambiguity of 'that' word.)

Tuesday, October 24

Packing in one small (relatively) backpack.

I will find it difficult. Which, I tell myself, is why I'm putting off doing it. Although I have got as far as to tip all the contents of my schoolbag onto my quilt (and now have probably made it dirty by doing so). Plus I can't decide what to take. I don't like knowing what I'm going to be wearing the next day, I don't like planning it. It's like perfume. You put on what seems right. I am definitely going to take my new boots though, they look fabulous. & I feel so whilst wearing them. But...

onto the writing. I wrote something... 2 nights ago? 3? I like it, it's rather rhythmic and is quite playful. Here's the first 2 lines:

'you are pink spilt-ink wine striking stroked notes, which
run, run, run'

& your thoughts...?

Confused.

Very confused.

Sunday, October 22

Update on the postcards, arty stuff, and writing.

Am just in the proccess of editing that poem I told you about yesterday, and also trying to find a title for it. One friend gave me two ideas for the title, taken from the poem. I actually completely forgot about that way of finding titles. Sometimes titles seem unnecessary, other times obvious, and other times apart from that, they wander inbetween of want. Right now, I'm thinking that 'Not to mention' is the preferred one.

I promised an update on the postcards though... one is by the front door, waiting to have its address written out, and already with a stamp on. (Blue, if I remember rightly, so second class?) The other is somewhere in my room. Where, I don't know, although I have actually tidied it ish. & it was hoovered today (under the bed as well, you'll be glad to know.)

Arty stuff... I made a 3d photograph today. Of the tap and a sink, and a wineglass set just in front.

Need to work out how to put pictures up...

Saturday, October 21

Showing writing to other people.

One of the things that annoys me most about my writing: I can write something, which I am so amazingly awed, about, so, so excited about (!), and yet for the sake that it contains stuff so innately bound up in other people who're close to me - in not only my stories, but theirs, ours. And so despite these pieces being - to me, at least - some of the most important, I have to keep them hidden, because I'm a slave to my writing, and know that people would get so uppity towards me if I published them just now. So I won't.

To keep my parents remotely happy about my writing, I decided to be a very nice daughter - yes, do agree here, if you're reading this - and show them something I'd written. Okay, so it was only a draft, and it was about family stuff, but yes, I managed to actually show them something. & I feel *good* about that.

There's more that needs to be said on this topic, though I am off now, to try and throw my headache away.

Thursday, October 19

People.

There seem to be different types of people I talk to, regarding conversation and interest of it, and a few ways I'd group them would be...


  1. Those who start off with chat and never move onto having an interesting conversation.
  2. Those who start off with interesting conversation and move onto crap chat.
  3. Those who always maintain interesting conversation.

and then, there are those who constantly shivver between blips of interesting, decent easily-moving conversation, and the worst sort of chat where you don't actually feel the smallest drip of effort being put into the 'conversation'. The sort where idiosyncrasy is no where to be found, no matter how much effort you, personally, put in.

The question of why the fluctuation? is one which requires some steady conversing of ideas in my own mind, nevermind the other person's, or people's.

Two things seem obvious, and I don't wish to seem patronising at all by writing them here, but I need to so that you can track my thought.

A. The person is just making no effort, and can only make interesting conversation with a great exertion of effort.

B. The person is behaving so due to being in a group.

Largely - & this is one of the reasons I detest social psychology - people fit into group B. Clearly we all change so much about us when we're around other people, but the extent to which some people change is extremely unnerving. Especially when you've not seen them in a group situation before.

People in group A, who're constantly in that group, I pity. I mean, really, is it that difficult to be remotely interesting? (And no, this is not an open advertisement for you to all slag off my blog as crap, although of course, if you really do have a qualm with it, then say. Or anything else for that matter. I like getting comments, especially *interesting* ones.)

(This was due to a bout of struggle on MSN, struggle to get remotely interesting conversations. I've said it before, and not really done it, but this time, I think I shall: it's time to 1) cut the numbers on my MSN, and 2) use the lovely feature known to mankind of those who use MSN as that device which allows you to block people.

Alternatively, of course, I could just abandon it completely...)

Wednesday, October 18

Messy room, messy mind.

It's currently half tidy, half extremely messy. I gave up tidying, and came on here in frustration, to earn some procrastination points. It's in need of a hoover, a *real* tidy. From moving my bed out I unearthed several things, including vaseline, a green pen (one of the clotty, biro ones), a 2b pencil of a blue colour, and a lypsal (is that how you spell it? You should know what I mean, anyway) which I had when I went skiing. The lypsal smells GORGEOUS. Seriously, all vanilla-y and creamy. I don't know why I decided to do this blog, but part of me hopes that it will be a good place to put all the blah I don't know who to give it to, and to put my writing up. I read a lot of stuff I enjoyed last night, really funny, hilariously human poetry. & I wrote a little bit, too. The plan was to type it up, having done my schoolwork, oh, and music practise. Plans are failing right now though, they're rubbish when you've a divided self.

Tuesday, October 17

Contrast, contrast, contrast.

Thought from the hour & a bit after school in the art room. I am supposedly now teaching (can you believe it? Me, teaching? I'll give myself a few 'sessions' before I get fed up and frustrated that they can't do it...) one of my friends (would say his name, but I dunno how hoo-ha-ery he'd get about it, so, to avoid that, I shan't) to do art. Ha. Well... supposedly. I quite like the idea of it in a way -- but it's also ridiculous. I've said on numerous occassions to many people that if I ever begin trying to 'teach' they ought to stop me right there. Maybe I should say 'help out', instead? Then it doesn't have the cloyyedness that 'teach' does. I suppose it's only one person though. & it's a friend... to be continued...

Monday, October 16

Monologue? Dramatic scene? Poem?

I have the basic scratches of a poem. & these, I permit myself to say, are looking quite good. But I'm just not sure *how* to present the ideas. & that is what makes a poem, right? Basically, it's like an argument between two people, about some shoes that someone chose to wear to school. And I sort of want it to sound like it's replaying in the person's mind, as if they're taking the piss out of the person who was telling them not to wear the shoes. So far, the person whose POV it's from is speaking in normal font, and the other is in italics, but it just.. doesn't look very much like a poem. Then again, it's difficult to define a poem, and I fear that by having just said *that*, I've now put myself in the 'tries too difficult to categorise poetry' box. And I don't really want to be in any box, who does? Anywaay... it's just... looking like a script at the moment, which I don't suppose is necessarily a bad thing.

Perhaps I could put 'Script of...' as the title, or, to be more illusive, 'Excerpt from script of...'?

Ideas welcome. Ideas needed.

In need of...

Am in need of several things.

  • own copy of To Kill a Mockingbird (to scribble wonderful things over)
  • stamps, normal UK ones
  • international stamps for letter for German friend (actually need to re-find letter though)
  • to find bike lock. (So can practise using it, as James kindly explained to me, not something I think should really need explaining, but I did ask...)

Oh, and

  • more sleep.

And I need to try and get my final MS edits done, plus drawings. Wish I could put drawings up.

I've tried to put pics up, but it doesn't work. Any advice anyone? Oh, and I want to edit the blog links, as well, although that link seems to be down at the moment, so perhaps in a couple of days...

(Think I did say that not everything on this would be relevant to anything, and that most would be irrelevant. If not, I have now, so don't complain.)

Sunday, October 15

Postcards. Of the type which you make yourself.

I made two today. One I was going to post on here to show you. I think quite a few people who know me would laugh when they see it. It's a crappy drawing, though I'll blame that on the pen, not me. 'Scruffy but in a tidy way'. (Did I quote that correctly?)

I know I'm going to get through the pack of DIY postcards swiftly. A ridiculously expensive buy from the Tate (£3, I think), but just the paper itself is gorgeous. Another trip to Paperchase is required soon...

Friday, October 13

Does red wine stain lips?

I had some red wine tonight, (embarassing thing is I just spelt that as 'read') & also some white as it happens, with my meal, although not a lot as I knew I might be drinking later.

To the point: my lips now seem to be slightly purpulish. As far as I'm aware, there should be no other reason for this. I haven't eaten anything particularly strange. (Sweet chicken starter -- tastes more attractive than I can make it sound right now -- and, real italian pizza, ie the stuff with the thin base and ingrediants you can actually taste.)

Is it the red wine? It did taste very nice. Even though I'm verry sleepy now. & I expect the stain (if that's what it is) will come off with a dab of Aquafresh or Colgate. May be that it's the Colgate which is out tonight actually with my sister back.

Can't fathom the quote from Larkin's bio.

Drafted something today, in lessons, which was mainly provoked by the psychological idea behind a quote in Larkin's biography (the Richard Bradford one). Having flicked through, I really can't fathom it, nor even which section I think it may be in. Need to return the books to the central library soon (they've already been renewed far too many times!) so am pondering whether it's worth re-scanning the whole thing -- at least, until I find the quote. It would just be SO apt! It was about the automatic sectioning of the self, which we instinctively do, much in the same way we change the register of our speech according to the situation. The analogy was fantastic though, and would sit fantastically as a little footnote to the poem. Just *can't* fathom it. That's the problem with reading and not bothering to write down specifically intriguing quotes. Even better is when you can scribble over the text with pencil, of course, but sadly not for library books.

Thursday, October 12

Lines from something, which is better?

'beneath the arc of the roof
and above the bottom'

or...

'beneath the arc of the groove of the roof
and above the bottom'

Which do you reckon? I've had contrasting opinions thus far, and although no 1. scans better, I think I prefer no. 2 for that particular line... but then it'd be like I'm sacrificing the scansion for that particular line. Confusing.

Routines - I try, I fail.

Am going to have to write this extremely fast, as I really have a LOT to do. One thing being that I need to email my French penpal, who I promised I'd email over two weeks ago... eeep.

Anyway, one thing that's really bugging me, is that no matter how much I try to establish a routine -- for writings, for schoolwork, or even for getting enough sleep, it just doesn't happen. Something /always/ gets in the way. I get too distracted. No wonder I'm always late. In the mornings everything's so crammed in, that one thing gets delayed, I'm late.

Like with the shower. (This was what I began blogging about yesterday but got distracted...) I decided to half-attempt being... (the word has lost my clutches)... being... energetic? Anyway, the shower decided not to work. As in hot, like steam-room style, and then too cold. Goosebumps either way. And so my plan to actually be on time (having got up a whole half an hour early, yes, believe it or not) completely went, quite literally, down the drain with the utter crapness of our water yesterday. I'd say rant over (and it would've been apt, had I finished yesterday's post and pressed send), but that doesn't /quite/ qualify as a rant; I'm sure there will be evidence of one sometime though.

On to other matters... I like how the title of the last piece, the poem, clashes, the different colours, don't you? Non-intentional, but contrast and clash is always better than not.

Back to the routine topic though: I quite like the way that I can use the excuse of being arty, not that my parents do, or anyone else, I don't think.

It's sort of a routine/ getting things up to the gorgeous stage of completetion, on time murmuring that's in my head right now. This is where I realise that being wonderful at procrastination is a baaaaad thing.

Shall be kind & not bore you even more with my list of what I've got to do, but shall return (hopefully) with some typed-up stuff to ask opinions of when I've done some of the many things which are swirling round prodding my mental state.

Tuesday, October 10

Last Night's Gloop of Marmite

Last Night’s Gloop of Marmite

Kicked wide quickly, your kitchen door
two pairs of trainers crushing the beans

steam sits comfy on your skin
as origami skills lack.

That coffee lid you fumble for is losing itself
in last night’s gloop of marmite

and now, coffee is stopping spilling
over freshly vacuumed floor.

©Katy Murr 2006

Doing the blog shizzle...

So, here it is.

I'm going to be able to put up my writings, or parts of. I'll be able to chart the progress (or, at the moment, not so much progress, as stalling of) my pamphlet/ chapbook, & the wonderings of The Murrmenator. (That's me, by the way.)

It's very scary really; having it put out there, even though it's what I want, but hopefully it means more people'll read my writings, so I'll get more opinions. Other than that, I'm not too sure what I'm expecting of this.

I don't hope you'll like or not like, I just hope to provoke something in you; and a drizzle of delight thrown in there somewhere wouldn't go amiss.