Monday, September 04, 2006

Wobble, wobble

I'm pissed off this morning. It all began gorgeously after I got up, having had a stupendously fantastic weekend away. I was positively beaming after breakfast. But the shiteing shitheads of doom have descended and I'm well fucked off. I've been hoovering furiously through my flat, which always gets me in a bad mood, as its the one thing a) designed to give me a bad back b) there will inevitably still remain, despite almost grinding the carpet to death with the end of the vacuum cleaner, a thousand cream coloured dangly bits all over my rug, which seem to need sandblasting off.

I then did my usual checking of my blog to see if anyone has deigned to comment on my last, or indeed, any recent post. Oh, what a surprise, no one had, and so I considered whether to spill my blood and guts and entrails out onto the blogosphere for all to see, to dredge up my deepest desires and longings and fears and thoughts from my innermost being about my weekend away, and post them onto the world wide web in the knowledge that, most likely, it will be once more met with a big fat silence at the end in the comments box.

It's been getting to me lately. Writing into the silence. Throwing my words and my soul out into a big gaping void. So today I have been considering turning my blog into a place for 'things that viewing figures demonstrate that the public seem to actually want to read about', eg: the hilarious minor mishaps of life such as missing the bus/dyeing your hair the wrong colour, pornography, gorgeous cuisine that you will never be able to afford, 'my husband ate my dog' stories, celebrity cellulite, close ups of car accidents etc etc. You know, a kind of This Beautiful Hunger/ Take A Break/ The Daily Sport, with a bit of Hello magazine thrown in for good measure. Or maybe I should have a live naked spoken word poetry web cam.

Sure as hell my existential ponderings aren't exactly gonna hit the mass market otherwise. I need to sneak it in between the fancy new knickers section and the 'funny things your pets do'. For it seems that the stuff of my own writing will never hook immediate interest in that same way. Hey everyone, come read about about loss and suffering and a mad bird who likes to swim out to sea as far as she can so she can scream at the top of her lungs in fury at how fucked up this life can be! Wey hey! Cheer up love!

It's a mass market, after all. Hey, we must promote ourselves and create a package the punters want. Even if it's an artsy, deep and meaningful package. Get the clothes right, get the photo just so, create the image, create the persona. She's poet, can't you tell?

I want to reach a lot of people. I know I have something worthwhile to say, something that I think is a helpful thing for people, that could have a positive effect. In this superficial, artificial, alienated and sanitised culture of ours, I still believe that people want tenderness and fury, fire and mystery and love. We are all alive and we all know what death means. And it is what interests me, this stuff of life, in all it's oddities and weirdnesses.

Though I realise I'm no great yardstick to go by. My idea of a good time is turning over giant centipedes on the beach til they wiggle their bums at me. My idea of romance is a humming power station at night. My idea of good pornography is the sound of a squeaking tea cup. Perhaps I've always been a bit strange. But I believe that ultimately all people are pretty weird when it comes down to it, whether they realise it or not, and life is pretty bonkers. And I couldn't stop my writing even if I wanted to. And so this blog continues, despite my frustrations because, at the end of the day, I need it to for my own sanity, and because I want to be able to offer other people a place where they can read about the nitty grittys of existence, because it's what I always want to read about, it's what always makes me feel a little bit saner.

I am pre-menstrual, I've just realised. That makes me feel better about throwing the hoover across the room and shouting "Die! Die" through the open living room window. And writing this post has made me realise that the fantasy of deleting my blog and writing a column for OK! magazine would probably not satisfy me for long. Voila! That's what I'm here for. Writing reminds me of my integrity, it is my integrity. And so I can only write from that. Aha! Life feels simple again. Till the next wobble.

5 comments:

Olivia said...

Ah, go on, love. Tell us about your holiday. And don't mind about the comment box. There are days when I wish no one was listening, so I could spill my guts a little more. But people lurk out there, and I do notice that they are much more comfortable commenting on clothes dilemas and lost socks than the death / darkness / heart and soul posts to which we both are prone. But that doesn't mean it isn't of vast and incalculable value, and that people reading don't resonate with it. And even if they don't, bugger it, they should. xx

Susanne said...

i chortled and snorted out loud with laughter about the bits on the carpet, nad sprayed forth frothy saliva onto my computer keyboard. it may not be the most beautiful of responses to your work that you have achieved but i think it could qualify as an impact of sorts. i think a tabloid slant could really work alongside your creative journeying. maybe with top tips too. !

Anonymous said...

I always read..I check everyday...what could I say in response that comes anywhere near the same galaxy of the beauty and honesty of your words?
lurking..always reading..I can't be the only one...

clare said...

ah bless, and thanks

theseus said...

purposeful integrity has more validation than most things.

i read too, even if mostly silently.

many things are silent for me these days, corporeally, though not necessarily in thought.

c.