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I knew that last mouthful of onions was trouble…

August 23, 2012

2:11 am, Thursday 23rd of August 2012.

I was half awake anyway, suffering from an attack of bad wind, when the police started to bang on the door of the house over the road. Then prop some ladders against the bedroom window. Noisily. So I woke up enough to realise I hadn’t had anything near enough sleep – 2 and a half hours, if that. I’d been having bad dreams brought on by the wind, so I wasn’t that bothered about waking. I would just fall back to sleep. Living in the centre of town there’s a lot of noise, especially during the Summer when I sleep with the window open. But then they battered open the door and I knew me and sleep would part company for some time. So up I got and decided to write this week’s blog. After a Lemsip to help clear the cold I could feel coming on. There was 7 slugs in the kitchen, two of which I managed to stand on – barefoot – before I started to look where I was standing.

It’s been a funny old week at BLERoom HQ. Mind you they’re all pretty funny weeks, and not always in a ‘ha ha’ way. I did the first of my Walks on the 18th, and that went well. 8 people turned up, one of who I didn’t know. It was a little long for most of them, but I’ll know for next time. It felt good anyway, and I made a last-minute booklet to go with it, which felt good too. Bob took a workshop for us back at the cafe, and that was fun too. I’ve not been sleeping too well lately, due no doubt to my regular visits to the cafe. I’ve been reading, mostly, in the wee hours, though early Tuesday I managed to write a couple of paragraphs of a short story I started last year, which features the artist Victor Brauner as the main character. I’d last made some progress on that in February and it was a relief to get it moving again, making me feel positive about getting it finished very soon. I’m not one of these people who can churn out prose stuff – not that I’m knocking them – and this Brauner story has a certain tautness to the writing, which if it isn’t there I have to scrap what I’ve wrote. (there’s a facebook page dedicated to him if you want to see some paintings). I finally got back to sleep around 5 Tuesday and slept in till 20 past 8! That ended up being a good day in the end, recording with Ian on yet more Pre-Dating the 13Th. material. As if the world doesn’t have enough Noise going on in it! Then Mudfog got in touch to say that they’d like to publish me, but after being told they might not being giving me so many free copies as payment I’ve mailed them to say that I’ll have to decline, even if they are half the rrp. I’m trying to get my own press off the ground and the money I’d spend on Mudfog would be better employed on BLERoom product. I’ll see what Pauline says when she gets back from her hols. The mag is coming along nicely, and I’m hoping for a quiet launch on National Poetry Day in October, but that’s all down to how much £ we can make on the August event. Speaking of which…we had to cancel the August event, which pissed me right off. There’s been some mess up with the Python cafe again, so we’re hosting it at Coffee Beans, which will is a lot nicer than Liberty’s. I’ve even managed to write some poems, one which – see below – was inspired by picking up a collection of H.D.’s poems in the reference library upstairs in central library.


‘They have sent the old gods from the city.’ H.D. The Tribute


In The Reference Library


Above me, crossing from one side of the upper level to the other,

hang plastic pennants emblazoned with Union Jacks

and tiny hand-painted triangles of various colours.


There’s a breeze, blowing in from the open windows,

high up, old fashioned affairs that must’ve been here

since the library opened a hundred years ago.


Almost impossible not to find some peace here,

the smell of old books always soothes the ragged edge of my senses.


Behind me an old boy is struggling with The Times crossword

and in front a suited gent pores over a massive tome

with red stained page ends, possibly something Legal.


Ahead of him, close by the counter where the two assistants carry on

a hushed conversation, an African student sits with a small black bag

by his side, pages laid out in front of him, engrossed in his work.


From outside the rush and rise of the water spouts in the ornamental pool

gets carried in on the breeze as well as the constant rumble of the buses along Albert Rd.


What spirits remain in this town we must hunt for

as they are no longer themselves amidst the neon and the glass.


I feel their energies stirring in me, a proximity to something Other.

A shadow that calls to some deep part of me not confined to this time or place.


Tuesday 14th of August 2012


Anyway…2:37. Time to head back upstairs and read.


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