Sorry, could you repeat that please........

Is anyone else missing 'Question Time' as much as me? Thursday evenings have fallen very flat since its departure on the 4th July. It has only been through sheer will power that I've managed to hold on until tonight when it broadcasts to us eager, all ears, pursuers of truth. Because is there really any deeper bottom to reach than the quest for the political truth?, I would say it's the most infuriating task and I give all credit to those in the audience that do not rush to a member on the panel; with all British decency cast aside, begins to throttle to the life out of a politician. I have found myself purely judging the purveyors of policies on their ability to answer any question put to them in a straight forward manner, but the manner in which we debate never really has the sharp returns of Murry on court, as they are laden with digressions or self certifications on character traits (think Janet Street Porter style).

This brings me nicely to who else blesses the chairs around the masterly shrewd David Dimbleby: journalists who tend, I think, to be less entertaining as the years go by. The recent upheavals and revelations in the press world has knocked the stuffing out of an institution that had, less we forget, a huge amount of clout when it came to delivering answers to our questions; even presenting us with questions and startling reveals that we didn't even know we wanted to ask. However they constructed the stories of the day and classed them as reports; to the public it was a part of the day to be assured, whether breakfast, lunch break or teatime we were being kept informed - did we trust it?, probably as much as we trusted the government, but those paper sheets of words seemed to penetrate on a deeper level, rousing discussions at work, down the pub and over the fence between neighbours.

Since yesterday I have been focusing on the factors of questions and how I have change in my quest for answers. One thing that has come to my attention is the way I weave information together; I believe that connectives are more than they appear to be - coincidences, no, I don't like this word as it douses the possibilities in the subconscious that makes the brain spark and link things together. I'm also a great advocator of further reaching questions in life, although I'm careful not to rocket off into the realm of Plato and Aristotle - yet.....but I have read about Descartes (1596-1650) and his theories. I'm sure his dualism principles would not of been favourable to D H Lawrence but I have always endeavoured to practice, 'I think, therefore I am'.

People make established careers from the art of questioning, and it is an art to ask questions well, according to who you are referring to. Of course simple questions can gather far too much baggage and get loaded down with further complexes - ask any seven year old!

Yesterday I read about a philosopher I knew by name only, C. E. M. Joad who made a name for himself in the thirties and forties by questioning the glories of war, embracing socialism and voicing his startling opinions on women:

'Women, he insisted, were "capricious, self-important, touchy, egotistical and, above all, boring".
(Bourke, Joanna 2013, BBC History Magazine, Bristol: Immediate Media Company Bristol Ltd)


In 1941 he starred in one of the most popular radio information programmes during the war called The Brains Trust along side Julian Huxley who, as well as being a brilliant biologist made studies into social philosophies, for instance eugenics, which was a popular topic for the early Fabian's whose members included George Bernard Shaw and H G Wells.

My last recall from the 11th September 2013 regarding questions was from yet another radio programme, the Jeremy Vine show. Not usually something I tune into but I caught the last fifteen minutes of the modern philosopher Roger Scruton's soothing tones on 'What Makes Us Human'. I will include it on my links purely because it is an appropriate question for yesterday.

What fills me with hope is humanities on going quest with recording the details of life - tragedies and celebrations. For as much as the people who are in charge are being careless with life, society is still 'making things new': the new super library in Birmingham is yet another effort to maximize the post modern theory. Ultimately I have realized - to question all things leads to a better understanding in the actual art of query and this in turn is paramount to our survival.

Thus, faced with the question.....

How is it going out there amongst my fellow bloggers? To redefine a borrowed line from R.J. Ellis's chapter 'Mapping the United Kingdoms Little Magazine Field' in New British Poetries, The scope of the Possible (ed. Robert Hampson and Peter Barry)

'How would one attempt to "map out" the "landscape" of blog activity on the Internet at present?'

I have also recently been asked to give some thought on the issues of commentaries to posts on a blog that is trying to circulate ideas on 'New Technology' - a module that is part of a English Studies FdA.

With both these questions seemingly merging into the same question I thought I'd simplify things and narrow down the geographic to reflect on my experience of blogging so far. Tied into this is also yet another pause for thought with episode two of Radio 4 The Sins of Literature;

Thou Shalt not hide. It's lonely business writing. Day after day at the keyboard with only your thoughts for company. Many writers develop rituals, habits and creative ticks to get them through. Historically lots of them have found succour in the arms of alcohol. The god like omnipotence they hold over the world of their novel can encourage an equal and opposite retreat from the real world (where they have no such powers). Thou Shalt not Hide examines the psychology and the discipline of writing and how writers are necessarily locked into their own heads yet trying to capture the whole wide world on the page. (http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b0383hsr/The_Sins_of_Literature_Thou_Shalt_Not_Hide/
BBC 2013 accessed 17/08/2013)

Is the blogger as lonely as the novelist, is there trepidation in waiting for a stranger to answer or ask of you from the Webs abyss?

I have no doubt that several hundreds of keen, sharp Internet analysis types have critically accessed the blogging phenomena, particularly the fastest routes to successful commentator participation. Or you could just visit 'The Blog Reviewer', ummm. I myself have willingly fallen upon the notion that Google + must be a way of drawing in more of an audience, but who will that consist of? But then, I am happy with my blogs purpose; it is proving itself to be a connecting approach to key people who I am inviting to read about what I do as a writer. The visuals I include are just sparkler's to display book covers and titles, so determined am I to keep that part of the book alive. Photographs are usually my own to show that my ideas are real and from within my imagination or places and scenes connected to my poetry and art.

One can presume that people viewing your blog are enjoying it and whether your receiving comments on a level of great excitement, aroused angered fervour or just a lecture in what your doing wrong (which I can imagine the latter and former could be conjoined for effect!) is all a reaction.  Along the way I  don't seem to have assaulted any ones temperaments and I do enjoy the discussions had with various readers of my blog away from the site. But herein is the key - the discussion is on the topics of my posts, not me as a blogger. It has somehow become part of who I am as a writer, this is fascinating as I rarely publish any poetry for one.....

So is it a working diary like Woolf or Path? Not as such, I keep things fixture around the middle belly of emotion, yet it is evident that I have a great passion for literature and a determination to see my creative writing eventually published. What has led on from my blog is the offer of an opportunity to write about literary things in the South West for an online magazine. My interests and research in this county can now be honed into a regular post that will hopefully shine a light on some hidden talents and tales; even directing a new angle on what is more commonly know about literature in Cornwall. I will as always endeavour to reveal more very soon......

To wrap this up I will briefly summarise that, as I touched upon Ellis's chapter regarding the landscape of small poetry publications the blog's data discourse can be viewed from a similar perspective - have blogs been evaluated by descriptive methods or analytical  ones. The success of some blogs can be viewed on how greatly they express what to wear, where to eat, what is 'now' in the creative arts (be quick to keep up) the narrative persuasive in nature. The speed and direction in which things move on is like a ride in Wonka's Great Glass Elevator .....
To rouse, to conduct, to state, to be rhetoric - it is all a whirl of post modern toppings but I think my approach to good blogging is comparable to the great sitcoms and the fine radio broadcasters who like me just want the audience to keep tuning in.....

Characters shape the plot.....

Has anyone else been listening to the Radio 4 programme The Sins of Literature?

I have pondered over this first transmission with interest, which you can 'catch up' on BBC iplayer. At one point I had practically decided to don my wellies and start digging over my raised beds; packets of seeds at the ready. Is this the worst metaphor for novel writing? Maybe, I am a poet after all....
I agree characters are of utmost importance but where does that leave the novels of rich descriptive attention concerning sense of place, think Thomas Hardy The Return of the Native as one glorious example. The soil of the landscape may be full of the elements to germinate and mature each of your fictional persons in a grand fashion yet what if they spoil the readers view? It could be classed as a conceited concept to let the characters take over such sublime space - are people that important that they can't do without themselves for a few pages a chapter? On the flip side it is worth considering how well we want to know the characters introduced to us by the narrator. Personally I prefer sound strong individuals that do not over analysis every breeze that blows and every emotion they feel...apologies to the Modernists, but then the french writers are so good at balancing both...Merci Colette.

My considerations don't usually follow the idea that a perfect book and a great book aren't the same thing - which statement holds the most truth? Focusing on the frustrating slow parts in the middle can be somewhat like a soufflé. Does the reader approach with caution or rush in and knock the air out desperate to discover the ending? The narrator can aim to turn a runny, sloppy concoction into a light airy delight that melts in the mouth (when read out loud), yet we are warned by one of this panel of published elite that nobody thinks in metaphors. Should the reader therefore be suspicious of metaphors: something is what it is, don't confuse the reader with what it could be like, a book is not like staring at clouds! I believe that fiction is a contradiction - the writer should tell a lie truthfully; a sense of place can be achieved in a sentence and whilst levels of experience are of value, the writer can subsequently deal with an fictional experience without actually having that experience. The key here is to observe as much as possible, use the senses, then respond.

So has there been a writer who I can claim has produced a book of greatness, perceptive to the point that even after bathing the smell of a scene is still on the skin? For me that book is The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1940) by Carson McCullers. I confess this book has only recently been in my possession but I devoured it as one would a meal when griping with hunger. I have tried to not fall into the trap of gasping with amazement at McCullers age or gender at the time of writing this non-superfluous piece of eloquent fiction. What I do consider genius is how she balances the characters and the sense of surroundings - neither fight for the limelight but work together harmoniously, the narrator moving  words strategically in order to deeper enhance the stories scenes. A masterpiece, and I for one did not skip a single sentence, even the punctuation detected exactly where it should be, decidedly and sound.



The next few weeks I will be probably leaving the world of fiction and applying myself to theory and my approach for my third year dissertation. My personal achievements in writing are still forging ahead and I'm trying very hard to gain feedback on some of my poems before I send any more off to competitions. I have four diverse competitions which I will be entering this year. A lasting memory was attained last week when I found amongst a donated collection of Cornish books a signed copy of Jack Clemo's Confessions of a Rebel. It is just his name and no dedication and that is all I needed to make the daydream a tad real - remember a signature lends itself to the myth, a 'language-object' as Barthe termed could also be the author themselves....

Eyes to the skies.....

I must have been wandering lonely as a cloud.... unloaded... puffy-light; now I've fallen back down to home with a thump; surrounded by young expectant faces - the summer holidays are here.

I'm keeping one eye on that vast expanse above, the calm blue density which has blessed us since the beginning of July as Sound of Fable are re-emerging with a concept EP based on Sky and Space. This has been simmering for a while, as far back as Circus of Words, our first album, when a  song 'There is a Moon Calling' was placed in the 'on hold' file till a later date. Other poems and pieces of music have been formed and tinkered with and now it looks like a serious prospect.

Getting back to the array of tonal travellers in the skies, clouds have been quite a talking point recently. I few weeks ago an app was launched to educate on the types of clouds we witness through out the seasonal shifts - http://cloudspotterapp.com/

My interest in clouds started in my teenage years with Peter Reich's 1973 memoir of his Father's radical meteorology experiments, A Book of Dreams that inspired Kate Bush to write Cloud Busting - nothing short of an epically rousing tune from Hounds of Love (1985). Whilst in my first year at college I'd discovered an inspiring book The Invention of Clouds by Richard Hamblyn that explores the little-known scientific studies of the early 19th century defining the cataloguing of clouds. With the wonder, awe, terror and beauty of our skies and beyond still enthralling many writers and artists of today we musical types from Sound of Fable are about to debark on an ethereal journey too....

am I inside....outside....balanced on the edge of both sides

sounds like the beginnings of a song....
no seriously this will be one of the small few philosophical posts I have to deliver and so ... this morning I had a Glastonbury feeling, and not the fling a ragged tent, dented pack of beer and blanket wrap cardigan sort of festival feeling but the feeling I had back in 94'  on the brink of the Glastonbury (free) experience; suspended on a 16 foot corrugated metal fence in denim shorts; where there was no time to think about a safety roll to the field down below as another three revellers were making there way up the make shift shoe lace rope (I kid you not). I had a mere split second to think 'tip'.....

That's how I'm feeling - do I tip over into the poetry community, brassy and bolshy - present myself at every 'session' to read aloud, express my words and then onto a Saturday morning share and be subjective group at the local library. This is all that's on offer (or so it seems) but where are the non-poets? Where are the public who just like to be given to: the gentle caressers of words in a scented bath or on a Sunday afternoon to help digest the roast or even the pissed up students who want to rant in rowdy fashion but not in 'Beat' mode or Byron snipe but with the new, the now, the next in line, I am not the nemesis just the light....

Some of what has helped piece my theories together is a book by the American poet Dana Gioia, Can Poetry Matter? (1992). His summarization of what has concluded from the network of professionals teaching creative writing and the growing body of poets themselves has formed a 'new world' within a world where poets read poetry (not such a new theory) and some even go on to become notably qualified to publish many books and papers on the merits, substance and relevance of the craft and who produces the finished article well.

Consequently, the energy of American poetry, which was once directed outward, is now increasingly focused inward. Reputations are made and rewards distributed within the poetry subculture. To adapt Russell Jacoby's definition of contemporary academic renown from The Last Intellectuals, a "famous" poet now means someone famous only to other poets. But there are enough poets to make that local fame relatively meaningful. Not long ago, "only poets read poetry" was meant as damning criticism. Now it is a proven marketing strategy.
(http://www.danagioia.net/essays/ecpm.htm)

Sounds cosy? The question for me is am I pulling out the black ball? In other words how can I get past all this mass congregating  bullish tag teams of poets and find a little space to let the public see that they are not obliterated, poetry can still be enjoyed if you don't write it yourself, (newspapers get back in the game please). When I don't want to write I take the gift bestowed upon us from the past and present poets and divulged in glutinous joy.
I am weary of all the poetry competitions that employ the talents of the published elite. They backstroke through the oceans of submissions sinking a few here and casting a pile out to oblivion, the winner carefully watching from the shore dry and home free. This is not the cynic at thought but I find all the inclusion and welcomed diversity a veil of hypocrisy, when the audience is a select committee and the poets of the realm 'unheard' are simply left there to jump up and down trying to catch a glimpse of what the 'real' poets look like.
Look at things differently - if your highly respected as a poet and critic whatever is placed before you
should be a challenge to your sensibilities. Start to read again and enjoy the words, take bold steps out of trendy comfort zones and again read like you read before when it all kicked off in your head and certain poems that struck a cord stayed with you for days, weeks.....
I don't want to write about the seaside for a while, or the clay landscape, or being a woman....all these things are around me, are me but its not quite enough because I can't reach out to an audience beyond the restraints of so many poetical departmental demands.....
BUT I can write a poem about the North, about Lowry's painting Discord(1943)...so I did...and its a good one....

Welcome to the wonder-room....

Back again so soon and with weird and wonderful tales of odd curiosities...
I have, for as long as I can remember, had morbid fascinations with curio artefact's which would explain my love of the Victorian age with there automata, taxidermy, conjuring and magic shows, contraptions and hidden fetishes.....My favourite of all is locks and cogs - engineering at its finest and if its employed into puzzles then so much the better...All I can say is if one gets a chance to return to the Science Museum in London to see there interlocking devices again it would be heaven.
And so.......
It was delightful to see an announcement on the Truro College website for a production called
Wunderkammer:

‘Wunderkammer’ fuses both satirical and downright absurd comedy, physical theatre and puppetry alongside perception changing philosophical theory to tell this psychological tragicomedy, a moving yet humorous story.'

By former A-level student Jimmy Addy from the Wild Oak theatre company that was started with his fellow college acquaintance Alan Neve. The title of said production is pulled from, I believe, the 'Cabinet of Curiosities'

The 'Cabinet of Curiosities' was originally a personal collection of things of wonder (the cabinets were also referred to as Wunderkammer - or Cabinet of Wonders).These cabinets reached the peak of their popularity in the 17th Century; they were the personal and often idiosyncratic collections of individual, wealthy owners and contained both natural and man-made objects:

The main function of cabinets was to provoke a sense of curiosity and wonder in the viewer; in many ways they represented a world-view that valued the 'wonder' in an artefact much more than the need to analyse and classify that artefact. There were not yet universal systems of scientific classification and each collection sported its own unique organisational structure. The specimens in one corner of the Anatomical Museum in Leiden were grouped by type of defect. Sitting side by side were "separate pickling jars containing two-tailed lizards, doubled apples, conjoined Siamese twin infants, forked carrots, and a two-headed cat." The cabinets displayed their owners' notions of Art (man-made artefacts), Science (natural artefacts) and    Spirituality (sense of wonder at God's works) in a physical form. [http://www.middlestreet.org/cabinet/whatisa.htm] Two of my particular favourite takes on this area of interest is of cause Dickens' Old Curiosity Shop and Stephen King's Needful Things. There is also a blog link opposite to a few weirdly exquisite objects if you dare..... Wunderkammer is on in the Mylor Theatre, Truro Campus, next Wednesday 19th June at 7pm

A slow start...a sad end...a new beginning..

It has taken me a while to get on with this post, mainly due to sorting out my three sons with sport days, exams and a lot of new adjustments for my middle son who is now living with us again. Both myself and my husband have celebrated big birthdays and amongst all this came the Jack Clemo conference. I did mange to get my pieces finished and the end result was a little flustered but I grew to like them more once they were up in Wheal Martyn's foyer and more still once I'd reflected over the many talks and celebratory moments of the weekend.

My art work was displayed along side numerous old photos; Clemo and Ruth's diary; letters from fellow writers and poets and other artists who had either found inspiration in the poets characteristics or from the actual poems. It was pretty overwhelming really especially the images of Jack as a younger man. I had never seen photo's of him in that period of his life; so now I could connect the earlier poetry to a face - it became right for me at last. On Saturday night we sat in Trethosa Chapel for local stories and the memorial for Jack - and the chapel too, as it will be no more in a few weeks. A mixed bag of sorrow, loss and the hardship of change (am I now gaining a Cornish temperament with this reaction?) was felt within me as I stood outside Trethosa and watched the sunset over the fields of the clays.

I took a few pictures whilst milling amongst the old and new folks that came to catch up and remember and regardless of how little comment was left regarding the display on the feedback sheets at Wheal Martyn, personally I feel that I have gained some ground with this constant struggle with Cornwall.

 

 TRETHOSA CHAPEL

                                  
Maybe its my stubbornness and perseverance to want to make use of what this place has to offer and bypass the grumbles, doubt and ever widening divides between rich and poor. I even find that I have stumbled across new understandings on the margins of academic shifts that involve change; (Alan Kent mentioned 'Ecocriticism' and Clemo's impact with words: a witness to man's intervention on our natural surroundings. Further renewed discussion on the clay's landscape/environment is necessary to determine where future decisions will lead, something which I brought to the fore whilst delivering a talk on Thomas Hardy) whether we like it or not it has been happening for a long time. All this nostalgia mingling with the emergence of the new reminds me of Gabriel's speech from Joyce's 'The Dead' in Dubliners,

"Ladies and Gentlemen,
"A new generation is growing in our midst, a generation actuated by new ideas and new principles. It is serious and enthusiastic for these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is misdirected, is, I believe, in the main sincere. But we are living in a sceptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belong to an older day.
(Joyce, James 1993. Dubliners, Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions Limited )

I can safely say that the organisers of the conference, Gemma Goodman and  Luke Thompson showed tremendous humanity and humour to their guests and never more so than at the chapel where a large proportion of them were elderly and obviously feeling the sad regret of seeing such a loved local institution filled for the last time, so the three h's from above can be passed on to the next generations.
My last words on this event is for the minority of residents who although not born in Cornwall take part and contribute to the people and places that are regarded as an embodiment of Cornish culture and heritage - keep seeking insight, there are those who want to include everybody it's just a matter of time before they are the majority.

I'm getting back on with my two short collections of poetry this week 'Endless Lesson' and 'Marriage' only stopping my own creativity to watch the wonderful Miracle Theatre's production of Beckett's Waiting For Godot in its 60th year of performing.