My brain works like my brain, and this tends to mean that when I’m without ideas I don’t write. The two issues with this are (a), inspiration shouldn’t be the reason to write, just the occasional genius that populates writing and (b), it tends to mean that I’m lacking input.

Narrative.

Since a young age, my brain has been narratively driven in the way that…well, I assume most people’s are (we all enjoy stories) – so as to applaud extensive cohesion and the development of ideas.

Yet I think my brain requires narrative in extraordinary quantities. It wants to gorge on them, chew them and taste the best bits, the worst bits and process the whole. Not to produce inspiration, but to produce more appreciation of words, language and my own understanding of the work I enjoy so much.

Gao Xingjian, the Chinese novelist, playwright, critic, translator, screenwriter, director, painter (read as: ‘work ethic guru’) has said:

Writing eases my suffering…writing is my way of reaffirming my own existence

…and I get that. Not so much the first bit, but certainly the last. Writing is my life’s work, and I’m now realising that writing is dependent on reading. On listening. On the input of words into my narrative combustion engine.  No input = no output, and no output means no writing. No blog posts. No anything.

I’m trying to address that. Not only have I signed up to Lovefilm to plug the visual arts sinkhole, but I’m taking and making time to read more. First up are the essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson. I read them before at university, but never really paid much attention. Couldn’t have done, else I’d have been as inspired going into Am. Lit seminars as I was when I got off the train today. Superb. Check him out if you’re at a loose end.

And that’s that. I only wanted to type something here just to keep people updated on me. This being a blog of sorts and all. To writing. To narrative. And to input.

Til next time.

The best ideas, those formulations of words that provide a resonance and clarity/originality – or those at least chosen for that effect – are more often than not the fruit of arduous labours and research. Research into what can be made of the overall content from its parts, but ultimately research into the possibilities of what can be written.

Take it, scarily, existentially and you argue that everyone’s actions are subject to the same crazy construction process: Considered clothing, greetings, conversations and thoughts are all the fruits of infinitesimally small decisions as well. But I want to stick to writing and research here, and so thanks to kottke.org and Life.com for this fascinating image .

Einstein’s desk at Princeton, on the day he died. Incredible eh? Imagine all the workings and notes in there that never made it to publication. Further theories we might have now, and Einstein’s own little question marks and screamers.

The mind boggles. What’s more, if you read the editorial on Life, you’ll see that the image is one of a selection, taken by Ralph Morse, the others of which were previously unpublished and forgotten about.

To be honest, it makes the raft of unpublished posts hidden away on this very website, that I don’t deem anywhere near good enough for publication, a little inconsequential somehow.

A bit of preamble here: This was my entry for the National Poetry Competition 2009. Obviously I didn’t win anything, otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed to share this here. But the competitions loss is someone’s gain…or something else equally consolatory :) Anyway, here it is – I hope you find it enjoyable in some way. I quite enjoyed writing somethign a little bit different.

—

I type my password again.

My account is unavailable I’m told.

Down for unscheduled maintenance.

And just like that, this 21st century life is on hold.

Sad as it seems, this is the only thing I do.

So, though I feign interest in the BBC’s stories.

Re-check my emails, from me, from you.

And consider my guitars, forlorn, unloved.

I smell coffee, a scent of progress,

measuring out the lives for some  writers’ nostrils.

But just passing the time here.

And I guess that perhaps there are five pieces of clothing

In the pile on the floor.

I retype my password again.

I notice the second part of the message then, powerless.

‘It should be available again within a few hours.’

But the mess that my room is in can wait by the door.

Near the jewel cases crest fallen from the stereo.

I debate whether to shred those papers.

Sift them slowly – allowing the developers time to finish -

but decide to shift them below me.

And while I wait, I could check my myspace page.

But it’s just a pretender these days.

My glass of water is empty.

My throat scratchy.

No doubt due to the dust that is all about me.

I could do something about that, I suppose.

But my account might be ready, who knows?

I retype my password again.

And Log in.

I have no new notifications.

No new messages. No updates.

And I like nothing sufficiently to comment.

I log out.

My word! I mean, I thought it took me a long time to get home after two and a half hours because of a line-side fire at London Bridge, but a four hour or so game of tennis? They must be shattered, I know I bloody well am! Fair play to the gent though – he’s through to the Quarter Finals and a step closer to being the Brit we Brits hoped would once again win Wimbledon…and the Scot he hoped would. It’s not the same thing, but anyway, most people tend not to notice…

I am slightly perturbed by one thing however, and that’s my mum’s insistance that ‘that could’ve been you playing at Wimbledon’, soon to be followed by a comment along the lines of ‘You like his [Murray's] girlfriend, don’t you’, after my purely innocent comment that I thought she had a hell of a lot of hair (she does). Two things wrong with that. One, I never seriously played tennis when younger, and two, that might be the most bizarre compliment likely to mean you like someone ever. I can see me trying that one out in Central London. 

“Excuse me random lady, you appear to have loads of hair.”

“Oh, my, they say that about Murray’s girlfirend – you must really like me.”

No. Exactly. By the by, another golden parental moment was when she randomly said at a happy lady in the crowd (on the TV, may I remind you) ‘Yes alright, Boobs McGraw’… but I suppose you had to be there for that.

Anyway, aside from my Mum’s insistance that I could have been Andy Murray, though as my mum, she should realise I could never have been, and the insistence I want his woman, I must admit to feeling a little lost as I do when I watch most sports I enjoy. I really wanted to be a pro sportsman when I was younger. Immensely so. Now it’s rather grating that I probably can’t ever be, but there we go, horses, courses, roads and forks etc.

To be honest, I’m just glad that I’ve managed to fill the first Monday Mandible with some words. Oh and that I can go to bed Murray’s through.

G’night.

They make me sullen.

To see how much fun you’ve had while every day,

I amuse myself with mp3s, book lost on trains

and swaying daydreams as carriages loll.

Your profile makes me soften.

That you have such an effect on my newly scaffolded frame. 

Weakening the joints, and melting rough ends.

As the same old regrets fill my head and

then pour out both ears.

Do you know, they would strip the images from the picture postcard you sent me. 

Attempt to tell me you never enjoyed  yourself  so much 

And made me sullen in envy I could not be with you.

When the truth is it’s my own doing.

Green eyes are but the mixture of the bright blue Irises I possess 

And the gold light you beam into them, gleaned from experiences this wisher missed.