it's time for a little sprinkle....

Something astonishing occurred to me whilst watching the latest episode (21) of  The Arts Show. Broadcast from the new temporary home of The Turner Prize at an ex-army base in Derry, Ireland they had gathered some in the know art people to banter about their opinions on contemporary art and, if this year there was more of a feeling of 'inclusion'.

What made me so astonished though was the indirect comments of Grayson Perry (artist of ceramic urns with many a symbolically mood enhancing tale to tell) about the art scene today and how he would like more "internecine spats" between the different kinds of "tribes inside the contemporary art world". Very good, I think Jackson Pollock had the same idea.

So how does this relate to my point of place? Cornwall...lets start with Time and Change (caps are self evident) and the weight of dragging behind. Does the creative community give society a snapshot of a particular moment that is vital to expose about Cornwall? Where is the present, the now, the happening? How can Cornwall be declarative if it's voice is controlled by people of rooted institutions and with no branches to spare for new shoots. I look at the landscape around me and feel like it has given up waiting for communities to change and for it to be noted and expressed, it is taking its own course and evolving, but yawning all the same. How many more angles of boat, beach, bird, sea and surfer do artists need to commoditize the relevance of Cornwall's usage. I'm convinced that amongst the 'people' there are people who want to race against the herds and propel Cornwall into a new era of creative enterprise....but it would take one hell of a hefty shoulder.

Perry wisely observes the relevance of stand out artists who create work that "can be used as pixie dust to sprinkle on places which are wanting regeneration". These cultural movements into the now  can gain a healthy amount of interest and investment in the people and the place - look at Hull a proud City of Culture winner that will be showing off its stuff in 2017.

Too many moments are poorly supported and woefully unattended in Cornwall - even after months and months of advertising. I'm not suggesting that with the traditions that have long been held and tended to are not still receiving there rites of passage through the new generations - far from it, without these any other radical contributions would look exposed for what they are 'different', unnecessary; 'other'.

It is a tranquil place for the tussled urban artist to display their wares for a month or two, the unique light softening the harsh edges of the raw contemporary emotion of new. Art work often looks so much older in Tate St Ives, relic like and attic found. Nice.

My heart rarely beats to the rhythm of the new age we live in, the future seems to be a dark space with nothing hanging. Dribs and drabs that creep in and creep back out - no big explosions in this county. Can someone else start on a form of sculpture that can make the head reel with the sensuality of shape and texture (Damien Hirst's 'Verity', but Devon) or write a poem that expresses the image of a town going around in hopeless circles....I am here.....or a painting that announces that the sea is drained and off on its own holiday.

Just something outstanding - arm stretched out sprinkling the sparkles - Different.....

A mid-life chapter........

I'm now eight weeks into my third year of this English Degree. How am I progressing? Well that is in the hands of my new lecturers (I've submitted my first two essays). But that's not what I want to discuss here....

I have become increasingly aware that changes are happening in my thinking, learning and formulating capacity - almost as if I have reverted back to being on the brink of infant absorption. The mighty hold of literature is not barring my way; new forms and revisions of  theories are on the boil. I am a melting pot of ideas. So what is this development and how can it be happening so late in my life. One conclusion is that the more I write the more I understand the motivation of language, it is taking me along with it, we are strolling and talking. At curfew I'm led back to where words dwell and I settle in with the pages to read, redundant of any further input from my own expression. This revision is a whole new cognitive structure and I do not believe that I'm loosing any of my 'little grey cells', quite the contrary, I'm growing them.....

Could this be possible? I'm positive that this process is not an expansion of anything I learnt in the past, rather: it is not a treasure trove of buried repressed intellect in my subconscious. I wonder if this is a reserve of brain matter that is lying dormant for precisely this period in my life; if not used it will simply dissolve.

To read of other writers that connect threads through fiction and theories is a huge stimulant. I also strongly believe that if you don't agree with their thesis then change tack....make your own coherent argument. It is never enough to just disagree, or lamely complain. Ideas are orbs that float inside the mind, firing and fading - so one has to be quick. Our conceptual systems are like shutters on a camera (the very old ones anyway) the greatest of ideas can momentarily feel like there on a long exposure, the orbs stretching like tentacles. And like any beautifully figured equation the points need to be joined and patterns formed.

I am formulating a new idea, connective threads are waving and it is very exciting. My central word is ideology.....I'm willing to except that this concept in practise is still valuable, however the world is ever more idiosyncratic and our social behaviours are breaking down to such an extent that to generalise on structured formula's that we abide to might be too simplistic. We are still drifting in a post-modern phenomena - but it feels over extended. The consequences that build on a daily basis due to societies actions and the institutions in power need to be acquainted to new terms: obviously these ideologies are not functioning as well as humanity would like. I would like to see a new system which configures what influences the world today, but not to harmfully disrupt the previous set pattern of organised ideals as these are long formed and complex.

This is a long term diversion, firstly I must find a way to write about D. H. Lawrence which actually seems a far less daunting task now I'm reading Ulysses. Why does Molly Bloom remind me of Elsie Tanner so much? Better get the pan on.....

What about Yeats......?

I've come to Yeats late in life - not that I was unaware of him as a poet. The most important thing is I've cast another thread that links my devotion to Blake and Clemo. So what is it about this 'Mystic' description of these poets that enthrals me so much? Well it is still an on-going investigation that broadens over time. I keep collecting all this inspiration and adding to it as it filters through the mass of poetry I read. I had a remarkable chance just recently to voice my thoughts on my reading traits in a meeting with the poet Alyson Hallet (see links).

 

I booked the session through 'The Poetry Society' and every minute was a revelation. This was time to discuss not only my own writing but the reasons behind what I like in the writers I indulge in. The next discussion was narrative voice, does it tell the truth? This matter of truth can be a heavy burden to the writer and at times you can question not just why one writes poetry but how. Technique obviously is picked up on and the keys used to unlock each subject matter can also be scrutinized. I still maintain that I quite happily lug my case full of observations with me (I like to call them snippets) and often I don't even have time to pack them as the poem is impatient to be heard. This is what I call the guts.... this is what I trust; I believe in this voice, thus I believe in the Mystic in me. I find talking to people that avoid poetry more fascinating than the endless time that the old hands and academics spend dissecting and accessing do. All that analysis of cause is valuable but if the truth is so important, and it is, then I want to hear it from ALL readers. The point is, or should I say the question is why do so many readers who avoid poetry find so much relief (when forced) in their moment of understanding to what you've presented on the page. Poetry becomes a revelation; more importantly it becomes memorable.

 

Coming back to my brilliant meeting with Alyson: my work, or should I say my words, are shifting a little uncomfortably under the glare yet it will bring about a change of voice volume. I will be a better poet if I turn up that Mystic inside. It also needs to focus more, the subject demands it. The clearer I become the more the poems will 'insist' in all honesty to anybody who takes the time to indulge. After all I took the time to create it for just that reason: consider  T.S. Eliot's 'The Waste Land' that took over a year to write - recently myself and a couple of fellow students had less than two hours to 'figure it out' - enough said......

 

 

 I find that the most important and helpful question to ask myself when I'm working on a poem is "Am I telling the truth?" TS Eliot said that the greatest difficulty for a poet is to distinguish between "what one really feels and what one would like to feel". (Cope, Wendy 2008, Online)

 

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2008/sep/21/poetry.writing.wendycope?CMP=twt_gu

Just a little bit more....

I was leaving this to the last minute but I now can confirm that tomorrow evening I'll be interviewing singer songwriter Jim Causley who has been touring a new collection of songs that incorporate a certain distant relatives poems....

To any lovers of Cornish literature the surname Causley will definitely ignite memories of the multi faceted writer from Launceston, Charles Causley (1917-2003). Highly original and constantly mixing shades of language in his layered poems he entertained with the sharpest of wit and considered observations. Equally, there is magically captured the culture at the heart of Cornwall's communities. But he also had a gift for entering (in glorious 'Brothers Grimm' style) the light and darker sides of folklore and nursery rhymes; playing wonderful games with words in his own way.

So what will I be asking Jim Causley? I'll start with 'just how do you go about putting these poems to music?' I have a little experience with this myself as my husband and fellow band member creates the most fabulous compositions that weave in and out of my words but it is always fascinating to discover other techniques.

After the interview I will be watching Jim's performance which is part of the St Ives Literature Festival's amazing array of live music gigs. The final piece will be posted on Writing South West, (date to be confirmed).

 

 

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....