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 If you were in Brockwell Park this morning you may have noticed a big heavy lump, limping along at a pitiful pace while wheezing like Yahweh's death scene in His Dark Materials, that was me. It was my first time out jogging for two and a half years, since I started a well intentioned fitness regime after leaving the gardening job. I must've been lapped at least twice by one jogger who looked like the little one from Dick and Dom. I wanted to say "Happy New Year" to all those that passed me by, it was so bloody obvious. As obvious and well intentioned as a return to blogging, eh? Still I am determined to pull some of my shit together this year and that includes getting back in shape.
It also looks like the inevitable has set in after bringing out "Ventriloquism for Monkeys" at the end of last year: writers block. This isn't too special, I'm pretty sure it's a necessary part of the process. The final part of bringing out a book is the editing process, a period of intense self critical analysis and it's hard to come out of that gear and open the creative floodgates. I'm sure I'll be happily writing crap soon enough, just don't ask me for any new work as an exclusive.
Anyway, I'm back at the Poetry Cafe tomorrow to get rid of the ring rust and I'm reading on Thursday at Borders bookstore in Angel at around 7ish. I'm really looking forward to waffling the usual bollocks to my beleaguered audience. I have a few books left from the first short run of Venriloquism for sale, so if you want to be one of the few to own the special "twenty empty pages padding out the back" limited edition copy you better get in there quick. Nobody seems to notice the poignancy of their following a poem about staring at a blank white screen in an empty cinema, a poignancy that is of course completely unintentional.
After the busy end to last year, I've begun this one feeling shagged out, lethargic and a little disillusioned. I know that there's plenty to be happy about in my life so I'm not going to beg any sympathy. There's currently one image I carry with me like the image of the red sun I carried in the poem 12 Seconds. This time it was the sight of a huge bud on the end of a branch of a plane tree on Herne Hill. The thing was clenched tight and ready to burst in the most spectacular way. When I think of that huge bud, I clench my own fist and watch my knuckles whiten. I currently lack the means to express it, but this fills me with a sense of enormous satisfaction.
Bloody Hell, that was a bit Freudian...
Happy New Year Dear Reader.
5:04 PM
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