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The Flesh of the Bear
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Tuesday, June 29, 2004 |
Do you think launching this book (http://www.literaturenortheast.co.uk/events/Flesh_of_the_Bear_book_launch)in a vegetarian restaurant was such a good idea?
Not that the veggies had turned out in force (maybe Sunday is sacred to them in some way?)- they voted with their sandals and stayed home / went to Glasto/ watched some more footie. In the meantime, an assorted assembly of Teesside and Finnish poets wowed the gathered few with readings from the new collection accompanied by the amazing Kev Howard on didgeridoo and the legendary Shaun Lennox on guitar, harmonica and bongos. It's a beautiful restaurant (The Waiting Room in Eaglescliffe)but I felt like we were a bit of a rabble - we were a better fit in the rock club in Turku. But it's always nice reading with these musicians - both of them are really sensitive to the spoken word and find a new emotional twist with every reading. Also was fun reading other people's work - I love reading the men poets' stuff - it's odd getting your tongue round another man's thoughts - interesting also how some of them are easier to inhabit. And tonight Matthew I'm gettin out my false beard (yes, madam, it IS false) to do the legendary Esa Hirvonen whose work i love at the Hydrogen Jukebox. It's a beautiful life.
Hey Michael - your hair, man - sort of lovely new puppy look - I like to see a man's skull .. |
| 9:12 AM
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Friday, June 25, 2004 |
I'm a poet, me.  |
| 3:17 AM
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We woz robbed
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OK actually I never really watch football - even though I live in the north of England where it's practically a bye law. But I've always liked the drama of the big game and can find myself screaming like a banshee at crucial moments (much to the disgust of nearest and dearests), throwing things at the screen (only cushions - I paid for that TV)and even (occasionally) weeping when we lose. "We" for the purposes of this post, is the England team - that brave bunch of hugely overpaid lads who risk their all to delight and diappoint us time after time.
It's weird. In my rational head, I'm with Chomsky on this. I hate those morons who chant and swear and probably bum each other in the toilets whilst touching up their face paint. (no Jojo Chomsky is not a queer basher - he just hates nationalism - yeah well me too - but I also hate latent gay queer bashers like these inbred undereducated scum) But when they play the national anthem and the camera pans over the boys, mumbling their way through the words and looking daft, I wanna go "Aahhh". And when I see little David wander uncertainly to the penalty shot in front of thousands of people and make a complete arse of himself I wanna - well, slap the back of his legs, actually.
Dangerous stuff. So it's probably just as well that a short-sighted (or wilfully blind) ref disallowed poor old Sol's goal and we're out again. All those flags will have to come down from the bedroom windows of every boy in town and the taxi drivers will have to go back to using verbal abuse to show their support for their country. I'll revert to despising nationalism and all forms of tribe and being the sweet, caring pacifist I always was. No, really. It was just a temporary lapse. I'm a poet, me. |
| 1:00 AM
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bringing me all back home
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Wednesday, June 23, 2004 |
| Bob Dylan concert at Newcastle Arena - the fifth time I've seen him but there's been a long gap since the last time. My how you've changed Bobby (hey but who hasn't?)- from strutting folk cock of the walk to strangely elegant, rather fragile old undertaker (one-eyed? surely not)dude, with a beautiful dark suit, red shirt and exquisite cowboy hat. Maybe he is the man in black since Johnny passed. But he wasn't doing country this time - more a kind of R and B (old school) with just a dash of ZZTop (actually, there were several members of that band in the audience - or their lookie likies anyhow). It was well danceable - or at least i thought so - there was nothing in there moving - and I was certainly not alone. The good news was that I didn't know anybody except the person I went with so could boogie until the old legs packed up without fear of countable mockery. Although I've had a really passionate love affair with Bobby all my life, the concert didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. He's in another zone now - and so am I. Respect due to a true poet who's done enough. Why not have a bit of a rest now, me old mate? I think some of the guys in the audience got you mixed up with Wayne Rooney - lots of "Go on Bobby! Go on my son!" and requests for "New Pony". I ask you. Still, the old fella was oblivious. So was I after several pints in the Forth. |
| 8:00 AM
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Bloom's Day
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Saturday, June 19, 2004 |
Celebrated this year at the Royal Station Hotel in Newcastle with sundry poets and literary hangers on - best was Kev Cadwallender the mighty Prophet of Loss reading his McGod poem a spiritual experience and closest to Joyce we got that night (not that you necessarily want to be that close do yer?)with John Hegley next. Mainly because they are funny, don't take themselves too god almighty seriously and are both good poets. Otherwise it was a bit frightening. Can't think you'd want to meet any of those other people on a dark night. Still managed to catch up with the lovely Joan Hewitt, have Chas Brenchley ignore me completely (we have met four times now and I am clearly completely unmemorable) and got a quick chat with Adam Fish (nice shirt, Adam) and Kate Fox - would love to know what they thought of the evening. Was also great to catch up with Nick B and exchange poetry bitchin...
Connie, love, hold that microphone just a bit nearer yer gob .. |
| 6:04 AM
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Tuesday, June 08, 2004 |
This is me introducing Electric Ladyland at Darlington Arts Centre earlier this year |
| 8:27 AM
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first posting rookie bloggist
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Monday, June 07, 2004 |
Er ... where am I? I decided to start a blog because I wanted to post a comment on another blog ... now I'm here and it's a strangely empty but expectant world. I'm calling this blog electric ladyland because I wrote a poetry/performance piece called this - about Mary Pickford, Sylvia Plath and Ethel Rosenberg. My current (but not sole) obsessions.
Let the blogging begin. |
| 6:33 AM
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