This could be called Talking To Myself, that seems to be all I’m doing, in this blog, as distinct from real life.
I wrote a poem today, called Own Goal, which I may or may not put up here. What for? Who knows. Its short, shouldn’t take long to put up. I may and probably will put it here, if I keep going I’ll have a Hell of a lot of stuff here, all recent. Again I ask, why? No one knows its there. Keeps me off the street, I suppose.
I have in mind an unwritten piece called Lost Boy, me at four years of age. Not a tear jerker. That would take some time to write. The bit put here today, Old Folks, I had no clue what it would be before writing, a vague idea about the beginning. It seems to have worked out okay. How did Tolstoy feel when setting out to write War And Peace, or Beethoven before writing his Seventh Symphony? Did he say this will take time and effort and may be claptrap at the end of all, a waste of time? Is doing nothing an option? There were some good ideas in my head today about that Lost Boy bit, probably not at all included if I do write it. It might be long, too long, very long. I’ll see what I can do.
I may add to this piece here from time to time, generalised moans and rants or, failing that, ring Joe Duffy, the complaints department radio show. Why couldn’t I have been born with all my stuff already written? Possibly that would not be possible. For me or anyone else. My life’s work requires work. And reworking. I enjoy it, all the same. Anticipation is described as the sincerest pleasure. Not mine. I anticipate holidays, not work. I was the same at school. That’s me.
Tich Ennis 18th April, 2016. 21:54