Diary of a Somebody Page 13
Tuesday June 5th
Haiku Club
haiku club first rule:
avoid words like antidis-
establishmentar-
It was Japanese Night at Poetry Club. This had been Mary’s suggestion, having admitted last month that she’d been flirting rather heavily with haiku.
It was interesting to see how we’d all managed to instil something of ourselves into the form: Douglas had written a haiku sequence based around the attack on Pearl Harbor; Mary took inspiration from a trip to Tokyo she’d gone on with her first husband (on which it appears she had also flirted rather heavily with her soon-to-be second husband); Chandrima focused on the ephemerality of cherry blossom as a metaphor for the transience of life; Kaylee took up the cause of discrimination against the Ainu people; Liz had me reaching for my pistachios distractedly while she spoke of tantalising kimonos; and I did my usual nonsense. Toby Salt declared the haiku to be too mainstream and chose to present his own poems in the form of the tanka and bussokusekika.
All this short-form stuff meant formal proceedings finished an hour earlier than usual. Discussion moved on to the battlefields trip. Chandrima was in charge of the itinerary and took us through what was planned and when. Douglas expressed disappointment that we were focusing predominantly on the literary aspects of the First World War and less on specific military manoeuvres. I updated everyone on funding, including the good news that we’d successfully been awarded a travel grant for £5,000 from the British Poetry Council; this means we can now afford to employ the services of Dr Dylan Miller, an academic specialising in First World War poetry, as our tour guide, as well as an accompanying actor, who will perform key poems on the battlefields that inspired them.
To my annoyance, Toby Salt spent most of this time trying to chat up Liz, bragging of his Twitter following (he has now duped nearly three thousand people), whipping out a proof copy of his forthcoming book and offering her a ticket to his reading at Saffron Walden.
It wasn’t until the end of the evening that I had the chance to ask her whether she was free to meet up on Friday.
‘I suppose so,’ she snapped. ‘Assuming your GP hasn’t warned you off me, that is,’ and headed out the door.
Wednesday June 6th
Odium Chloride
I think my body needs rebooting;
it’s sick from all the crap I eat.
I salute it with three fingers,
then press CTRL+SALT+DELETE.
For some companionship of the non-feline variety, I listened to Radio 4. The molecules from its background murmurings seeped through my semi-permeable membrane and by early evening, I’d osmotically absorbed the entirety of its daytime output, including programmes on the naturalism of Pliny the Elder, the ethics of marmalade, life in a Bulgarian shoe factory, a consumer affairs show entitled Ombudsman and a potted history of houseplants.
But I was particularly interested in a documentary on the harmful effects of salt. Salt is very bad for you. It causes hypertension and increases the chance of heart disease and stroke.
I kept thinking about it all evening. Salt is an utter disgrace! The world would be better off without it.
Thursday June 7th
I’ve just finished my submission for the next quarterly Well Versed poem competition. The theme we’ve been given is that of ‘Rebellion’. I have called my poem ‘As I Grow Old I Will March Not Shuffle’ and, by my own standards, it’s something of an angry affair:
As I grow old I will not shuffle
to the beat of self-interest
and make that slow retreat t o t h e r i g h t.
I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist
marching with the kids. I shall sing
‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing
homemade placards that proclaim
‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING’.
I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,
and build unscalable barricades
from bottles of flat lemonade,
tartan blankets and chicken wire.
I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.
I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,
armed with a ballpoint pen
and a hand that shakes with rage not age
at politicians’ latest crimes,
in strongly worded letters to The Times.
I will be a centenarian centurion
and allow injustice no admittance.
I will stage longstanding sit-ins.
My mobility scooter and I
will move for no one.
And when I die
I will be the scattered ashes
that attach themselves to the lashes
and blind the eyes
of racists and fascists.
Ordinarily, faced with writing a poem about rebellion, I’d end up with something about stacking my dishwasher in a disorderly way, or refusing to use the tongs provided. But from Monday, I shall be a Professional Writer and it’s about time I did some growing up and tackled more serious matters. Kaylee would be proud of me.
Friday June 8th
We went to the cinema; it was some awful romcom, one of those dull ‘will they, won’t they?’ affairs. But the film itself was a mere sideshow, a divertissement from the real matter at hand (Liz). In a sudden rash of promiscuity, we shared popcorn; I gallantly compromised on the salted variety, despite being a sure and steadfast lover of the sweetened version. I pointed out this sacrifice to Liz a number of times but she didn’t seem that impressed. On several occasions, our fingertips touched in the tub; the dark hid our blushes (at least I think it did, it was dark in there and hard to tell).
Afterwards, in the pub, we proceeded to discuss Toby Salt at length, with specific focus on his crocs.
‘If there’s one thing worse than wearing crocs,’ said Liz, ‘it’s wearing crocs with socks.’
‘That’s got the makings of a poem,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could perform it for him at next month’s Poetry Club.’
She laughed and my heart skipped several beats.
‘Good idea. We could call it “The Crocs of the Matter”. By the way,’ she added, ‘I’ve changed my mind about my favourite Smiths song.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It’s “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me”.’
It was a fine choice. At the bus stop, Liz leant in towards me as if to whisper something but she must have got confused because, before I had a chance to think, she’d kissed me on the lips. Behind us, her bus pulled up. Liz asked if I was coming her way and would I care to hop on.
After what had happened last time, I’d meant to just say yes, but instead I listened to myself explaining that it wasn’t really the right direction and how it would probably add another twenty or twenty-five minutes to my journey time. I’d be far better off waiting for the number 5 as it stops just at the top of my road, although there’s a temporary bus stop in place, which means the walk is a couple of minutes longer than usual at the moment, and, sure, it’s an inconvenience but the roadworks should only be in place for another two weeks, and it’s nothing that cannot be coped with, given a little forethought and planning . . .
I’d missed Liz climbing noisily onto the bus as I was saying this, but, as it pulled away, I noticed her on the top deck, staring grimly out into the distance.
I stood there for several minutes, striking my head repeatedly against the bus timetable, before gathering up my stupidity in search of my own stop and the last bus home.
Saturday June 9th
The Nine O’Clock Water Shed
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Studio erectus! It took a team of four experienced shed-builders a whole day to assemble it. They didn’t finish it until nine o’clock this evening. I’m not surprised; it’s not so much a writing shed as un palais jardinière des lettres.
The crew turned up just as Sophie was arriving with Dylan. She had questions.
‘What’s going on?’
‘They’ve come to assemble a shed. Well, I say, shed. It’s more of a studio. Or un palais jardinière d—’
‘Is that what you’ve squandered your redundancy money on?’ she interrupted. I was sensing a little hostility in her tone.
‘I’ve not been squandering. If anything, I’ve been unsquandering. This is an investment.’
She snorted. It was not an attractive noise.
‘Did you not consider that it might be more prudent to save that money until you have some regular and reliable income?’
Sophie has considered herself an expert on personal finance ever since she once happened to catch an episode of Money Box on Radio 4.
‘Well, if I get hard up, perhaps Stuart can jump out of a plane for me. Preferably without a parachute.’
That went down as well as somebody jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Sophie made another unattractive snort and flounced off.
By the way, I should say that I am sitting in my shed as I write these words. I may be sitting on the floor but it still counts: I am actually writing in my writing shed! It is magnificent! A Wi-Fi-free oasis for literary endeavour. A cedar-clad creative hub! It is situated right at the bottom of the garden and the cat is yet to discover it. I wish I could say the same about Dave; he has already asked whether it’s available to hire for garden parties.
Sunday June 10th
Dave, Martin and Marvin helped me move my furniture into the shed along with the few other bits and pieces I’d assembled. Three hours later, I placed the final volume of Gibbon on the bookshelf and the job was done.
To celebrate, I broke open a new packet of custard creams and put the antique globe mini-bar to use for the first time. Glasses were raised to my future literary success, which promises to shine as brightly as the disco ball Dave had tried to hang from the ceiling until I told him to get down from my writing desk.
It was when they’d left that I made my second resolution of the year: by the time I finish this diary, I will have created something of note in that shed, a work of importance that will silence my critics (Toby Salt) and my doubters (Sophie, myself, etc.).
For once in my life, I need to focus. But I know my own foibles and frailties only too well. The world – with all of its temptations and distractions – must be blocked out for a while. And out of all those temptations and distractions, Liz is the most tempting and distracting of all.
I reached for my phone to tell her I’d be incommunicado for a few weeks; I was sure she’d understand. There was already a message waiting for me from her:
I’ve changed my mind again.
My new favourite Smiths song is ‘How Soon is Now?’.
Again, I couldn’t fault her choice. It was six minutes and forty-four seconds of undisputed magnificence (or three minutes and forty-one seconds if you were listening to the somewhat inferior seven-inch single). But I knew there was more to Liz’s selection than that. For once, I needed to rise to the challenge:
I’m sorry. I always go about things the wrong way.
I promise you I can be better.
There’s just something I need to do first
and I won’t be around for a couple of weeks.
Perhaps when I’m back we could catch a bus together.
Brian x
I pressed send and turned off my phone. Draining my glass of wine, I reached for another custard cream.
Eat, drink, and be merry – for tomorrow I write!
Monday June 11th
Not quite the first day I’d hoped for, if I’m honest.
Tuesday June 12th
Still settling into my new environs.
Wednesday June 13th
I think my chair was too low. I’ve adjusted it now.
Thursday June 14th
I don’t think it was the chair.
Friday June 15th
Saturday June 16th
Dylan came over. I am finding it very hard to write with all these interruptions.
Sunday June 17th
I’ve started to read Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It has 1.5 million words.
Monday June 18th
Still reading Gibbon. It’s taking longer than I thought.
Tuesday June 19th
I have discovered that the Roman Constitution in the Age of the Antonines is not nearly as interesting as it sounds.
Wednesday June 20th
I threw Gibbon Volume III at the window today and now there is broken glass all over the floor of my writing shed.
Thursday June 21st
I need to find something to write about. Anything.
Friday June 22nd
Broken Glass
This glass, which
is broken
Saturday June 23rd
A Glass, Broken
Every day is a shard of glass
Sunday June 24th
The Glass That Shatters
The glass that shatters
Like glass
Monday June 25th
Spent the morning in A&E, having a piece of glass removed from my left foot.
Tuesday June 26th
I am surrounded by £10,000 worth of stupid shed.
Wednesday June 27th
4´35˝
‘How’s the writing going?’ asked Darren, as we sat waiting for the performance to begin.
‘Very well, thanks,’ I lied. ‘Still very much at the ideas stage but that’s actually where a lot of the work gets done.’
‘So what is it you’re writing exactly?’
‘Well, it’s . . . look, there he is!’
My merciful, ministering angel had just appeared on stage. Daniel Blink: erstwhile student of Philip Glass, and one of the world’s leading exponents of minimalism. We stood up to applaud him and then settled ourselves in for the performance.
It was while he was playing a cover version of John Cage’s composition 4´33˝ that I felt my literary constipation unblocking itself. I had the sudden inspiration to translate that piece into poetic form. I’d written a similar piece a while back but had never been entirely happy with it.
I shifted in my seat as 27th Club’s lyrical laxative kicked in. Darren had to persuade me from leaving early so eager was I to get back home. After Blink had taken his bows, Darren confessed that he felt rather circumspect about minimalism.
‘It left me wanting a little more,’ he said. I agreed with him, more or less.
I hurried home to write my poem, keeping well away from the shed. It ended up being slightly longer than Cage’s piece as I didn’t want to stop when in full flow. I may revisit it and edit it down one day. I wrote it on the sofa, beneath a cat, wallowing in front of Wallander and the sound of two weeks of ignored messages and notifications pinging into my phone.
Thursday June 28th
This is the Title of this Poem
and this its first line
and while this poem is perhaps
not one of my best,
it still has its moments,
such as the surprise appearance in line six
of a capybara, snuffling in long grass,
and a beautiful descrption
of the dance of light upon sun-dappled Umbrian stone
in line eight.
It also contains
, in this very sentence,
the striking incongruity of Charlemagne,
kneeling solemnly at the altar
in Saint Peter’s Basilica, juxtaposed
with a muddy puddle, in which lies
one of Jeremy Clarkson’s driving gloves.
In spite of all this delicate brushwork,
this poem has generally been poorly received,
described by the Sunday Times
as ‘irritatingly self-referential’
and the Guardian as ‘promising much
but delivering little’.
Considerable schadenfreude
has been experienced on Twitter
concerning the typo in line seven.
Yet this poem harbours
no delusions of anthologized grandeur,
waits not for recital,
cares not to be remembered
for more than thirty seconds
after being read.
This poem is just happy to be here,
to have filled these pages
which were all so much nothing before.
It feels good to be writing again. I’ve been careful to do this with the curtains drawn so I can’t see my shed and my shed can’t see me. The cat seems pleased by my return to the house and I’m finding Mrs McNulty’s daytime sawing nostalgically soothing.