Hope Is Not the Opposite Of Despair

Hope is not the opposite of despair. It is a talent. Suffering is not a talent but a test of it. And indifference is one aspect of hope. Jasmine is a message of longing, from nobody to nobody.

This is by Mahmoud Darwish in his book A River Dies of Thirst, a Diary — introduction by Ruth Padel. I read alongside Ruth Padel, and Lydia Cacho as part of the Amnesty International Imprisoned Writers Series. The Scottish PEN event took place at EIBF.

As a young man, Darwish faced house arrest and imprisonment for his political activism and for publicly reading his poetry. He published thirty poetry and prose collection in his lifetime and was an editor for a Palestine Liberation Organization monthly journal. He won the Lenin Peace Prize, the Lannan Prize for Cultural Freedom, the Chevalier des Arts et des Lettres from France and the Prince Claus Award from the Netherlands.

They fettered his mouth with chains,
And tied his hands to the rock of the dead.
They said: You’re a murderer.
They took his food, his clothes and his banners,
And threw him into the well of the dead.
They said: You’re a thief.
They threw him out of every port,
And took away his young beloved.
And then they said: You’re a refugee.

When Darwish was awarded the Prince Claus Fund of principal prize in Amsterdam in 2004 his acceptance speech explained how he felt about exile, and identity.

A person can only be born in one place. However, he may die several times elsewhere: in the exiles and prisons, and in a homeland transformed by the occupation and oppression into a nightmare. Poetry is perhaps what teaches us to nurture the charming illusion: how to be reborn out of ourselves over and over again, and use words to construct a better world, a fictitious world that enables us to sign a pact for a permanent and comprehensive peace … with life.

Ruth Padel wrote the introduction to A River Dies of Thirst, a Diary, by Mahmoud Darwish. She read his poetry at the PEN event and beautifully articulated the spirit of what Darwish has created in his legacy as a poet.

It was a great honour to read with Lydia Cacho, a Mexican journalist who has just arrived in the UK after being faced with a death threat in her own country. She was introduced on the evening as the ‘bravest woman in the world’. I read a quote recently that said ‘to speak truth in a time of censorship is a political act’ — it is also a hugely courageous, and humane act. As a retaliation for her work — Cacho has been kidnapped, tortured, threatened with murder, raped and left for dead — all without backing down from her position as a journalist exposing criminality in Mexico.

Mexico is one of the most dangerous countries in the world to work as a journalist – since 2006 at least 67 journalists have been killed and a further 14 have just disappeared. In 2005, Cacho published Los demonios del Eden: El poder que protege a la pornografía infantil (‘The demons of Eden: the power that protects child pornography’). In 2010, Cacho published Esclavas del poder, in which she revealed names of people in Mexico involved in the trafficking of women and girls. The English translation,Slavery Inc. The Untold Story of International Sex Trafficking, will be published at the beginning of September by Portobello Books.

Talking to the IFEX Global Forum on Freedom of Expression in June 2009 in Oslo, Norway, Cacho said: “When I was tortured and imprisoned for publishing a story about a network of politicians, organised crime, child pornography and sex tourism, I was confronted with the dilemma: ‘Should I keep going? Should I continue to practice journalism in a country controlled by only 300 powerful men, corrupted and rich? Was there any point in demanding justice or freedom in a country where nine out of 10 crimes are never investigated? Was it worth risking my life and my freedom?’ Of course the answer was ‘Yes!’ “

Cacho’s work exposes the very real threat free speech represents to those in positions of power — and the amazing potential of an individual to fight for human rights and freedom. I chatted to Lydia afterwards and was extraordinarily impressed by everything she has achieved and continues to fight for. Some people make you want to always remember why words have power, Lydia Cacho is one of those people.

Lydia Cacho will be in conversation with Helen Bamber OBE, who works with victims of trafficking, in London on 29 August

You can also send messages of support c/o: Fundación Lydia Cacho. Email: info@fundacionlydiacacho.org

To sign a petition for Cacho and all the other writers under threat in Mexico — click here: http://chn.ge/usUDUa

The Panopticon finds its North American home at Hogarth and Crown

“Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.” -Virginia Woolf.

 

In 1917, Virginia and Leonard Woolf started The Hogarth Press from their home, armed only with a handpress and a determination to publish the newest, most exciting writing. Hogarth brought the world authors who shaped the culture of the past 100 years: Virginia Woolf, T. S. Eliot, Katherine Mansfield, E.M. Forster, Christopher Isherwood, Sigmund Freud, Gertrude Stein, Vita Sackville-West, to name a few.

This year, what began in London in 1917 finds a new life in New York and Hogarth’s goals are no less lofty: bring readers the authors who will shape the culture of the next 100 years: Anouk Markovits, Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya, Stephanie Reents, Jay Caspian-Kang, Vincent Lam, Shani Boianjiu, Lawrence Osborne, Ben Masters, and Jenni Fagan.

A rose, is a rose, is a rose. I adore Gertrude Stein, and vintage print presses that pushed the boundaries of what was possible for their authors. I am pathologically drawn to all beautiful books, old and new. Over the last week or so I have had some great conversations with Alexis Washam, Senior Editor at H&C, in New York, and I am hugely impressed by what this new imprint are bringing to the publishing world. I am exceptionally happy to announce that The Panopticon is being published by Hogarth and Crown in the US, Canada, Greenland and all of North America. I am one of those writers with a true travelling hobo soul — so to find this kind of home for The Panopticon — to see it continue its journey out into the world, is totally amazing! I will be looking forward to updating on this one, as and when news comes in. In the meantime I am about to read a bunch of books already being published by Hogarth, can’t wait, I hope they send the canvas bag too. I love to geek out on these things, I played in bands for a long time and it reminds me of great labels like 4AD, or Sub Pop, early Geffen, or Apple. It makes me dance anyway! 

Hogarth is publishing a list of all fiction, all the time: contemporary, voice-driven, character-rich, eclectic, adventurous, provocative, vividly written. “We are honored to create an American life for a great publishing name, and we look forward to building a list of worldly, provocative, and well-written works for a broad and lasting readership,” says Molly Stern, Publisher of Hogarth and Senior Vice President, Publisher, Crown Publishers.

For Books Sake

Sometimes people get something, they get it and they give something back. That means something to a writer. We spend endless hours spend putting one word in front of another, it’s a way of life, a way of being, and sometimes — it’s good to be got. For Books Sake made my day with this review, so thank you … Also to everyone else who has been putting their support behind this novel, this last week or two has been amazing. Word on the street is the literati are swapping it, the cool kids are quoting it, and there’s a drag queen in Akron who does a mean Anais. Their is a rumour that there will be a lit tug of war held at Trafalgar Square, the Panopticonites vs the living dead, my bet is they’ll win easy — gin in one hand, vintage shot-gun in the other.

I will be having the book launch at Word Power Book Shop on West Nicholson St. Edinburgh, 16th May 7pm. All are welcome.

Here is the review from For Books Sake — a great online source, picky, discerning and wholly passionate about literature.

24TH APR
THE PANOPTICON BY JENNI FAGAN

The Panopticon is the début novel by Scottish poet and writer Jenni Fagan, and my favourite novel so far this year.

It’s the first-person story of Anais Hendricks, a fierce and irrepressible narrator with a vivid and original voice, like going on a joyride with Irvine Welsh‘s teenage sister while off your face on amphetamines.

Aged fifteen, Anais finds herself in a police car, on her way to the Panopticon, a detention centre for chronic young offenders. Across town, there’s a policewoman in a coma and Anais has been found with blood on her school uniform. And although she’s committed all sorts of other crimes, when it comes to this one, she’s adamant that she’s innocent.

Fucked or fucked over by almost every adult she’s ever met, Anais’ life so far has been a never-ending cycle of care and foster homes. But for the most part, she’s blase and upbeat about the violence and despair she’s witnessed; Anais is a survivor, and she’s smart and funny with it.

Sharp, intuitive and self-assured, she’s upfront about her sporadic escapes into drugs and sex, and honest about her fears of the mysterious and sinister Experiment that track her every move.

Although tentative at first, she soon forms a makeshift family with her fellow inmates at the Panopticon, but the authorities are watching and waiting. And if Anais makes one wrong move, she’s had it.

Her predicament and personality alone are enough to keep you turning the pages, but as you might expect from the subject matter, there’s a dark heart to The Panopticon.

Parts of it are uncomfortable and potentially triggering, with prostitution, rape, self-harm, animal and child abuse all playing their part. But Anais has seen it all before, facing extreme situations with bravado and defiance. And those are at her moments when she’s at her most heartbreaking.

Crude, honest and often hilarious, she is impulsive and unpredictable but always believable, coming out with all sorts of caustic put-downs, wry observations and classic claims:

“[The word] vagina sounds like a venereal disease. Or like the name for some snobby rich German countess’ daughter; her entry into society would be announced in some glossy magazine, and underneath it would read…Vagina Schneider at the débutante ball, wearing an electric blue Vera Wang – a true glory to behold.”

Anais subverts stereotypes and the judgements of those around her. Acknowledging that the authorities expect a uniform of ponytail, gold jewellery, tracksuit and fake tan, Anais is nostalgic for the romance and glamour of bygone eras, inadvertently showing her softer, more sensitive side with her secret fantasies of painting in Paris:

“I adore dragonflies. I adore the sea, the moon, the stars, vintage Dior and old movies in black and white. I adore girls with tits and hips and class and old men in suits who have that dignified look about them.”

Although the system may be broken, Anais is sticking to her story, and The Panopticon is as memorable and exhilarating as its narrator. Published next week by William Heinemann, you can pre-order the hardback for £8.44, or pre-order the Kindle edition for £8.04.

Rating: 5/5

Recommended for: Anyone who loves an underdog, or who has ever had cause to rage against the machine; rebels, delinquents and daredevils of all ages will love Anais’ strength, boldness and bravery.

Other recommended reading: For more rebel girls in over their heads, read Colleen Curran‘s Whores on the Hill, Bella Bathurst‘s Special, or Weirdo by Cathi Unsworth when it comes out later this summer. Or for another stubborn, defiant and memorable narrator, try Nell Leyshon‘s The Colour of Milk.

Jane Bradley

Now, here’s Kurt to play you out.

Dwang 3, An Artisan Anthology from Tangerine Press

tangerine press: outsider poetry : prose : graphics in handbound limited editions.Dear people’s of the little planet, the next anthology from Tangerine Press is due out soon, I have some poems in there and the company is truly divine. If you have not encountered Tangerine Press before, then you are missing out on some of the most immaculate artisan publishing around. There are many books worth buying from TP – I keep mine in a vault, guarded by a gin soaked gun-toting troglodyte. So, don’t be square all you Daddy O’s, go take a peek through the hole in the wall.

x

Previously unpublished poetry, prose and graphics. Published May 2011. Poetry from: Billy Childish, Ntozake Shange, Kevin Williamson, Charles Plymell, Salena Godden, Geoff Hattersley, Ronald Baatz, K.M. Dersley, Adrian Manning, Gerald Nicosia, Douglas Blazek, Jenni Fagan, K.V. Skene, David Barker, Steve Ely, Joseph Ridgwell, Hosho McCreesh, Ian Seed, Tim Wells, Richard Krech, Paul Harrison. Also, a chapter from an erotic novel by Johnny Goldcunt, translated by Sabine D’Estree.

Prose: News From Nowhere: six original pieces by Will Self.

Graphics: dark, disturbing b&w images by artist Jase Daniels. Also, a rare image from R. Crumb.

Special section: As Close As It Gets by US poet Fred Voss. Includes new poems, a critical essay by Alan Dent (editor of The Penniless Press) and an in-depth, exclusive interview with Mr. Voss by Jules Smith, author of Art, Survival and So Forth: The Poetry of Charles Bukowski (Wrecking Ball Press, 2000). Also ‘comments’ from, amongst others, the likes of Gerald Locklin, Joan Jobe Smith and Martin Bax of the legendary Ambit.

General information: 104 pages. Large format, approx. 7″/175mm wide x 250mm/10″ tall. Handbound at the Tangerine Press workshop, using acid-free papers and boards, conservation glue, hemp cord; distinctive Tangerine logo stamped onto the front cover in orange ink (numbered copies) and black ink (lettered copies); 3-colour title page. There are 74 numbered and 26 lettered copies available for sale. Body text set in Baskerville Old Face–three other classic fonts are used throughout the journal.
ISBN 978-0-9553402-8-4

All 100 copies have been signed by the poet Fred Voss.

Now, let Can serenade you with Mother Sky …

The Dead Queen of Bohemia Wins Poetry Book of the Year at 3AM

Dear peoples of the new decade,

I just found out that my recent poetry collection The Dead Queen of Bohemia, is Poetry Book of the Year at the discerning 3AM Magazine stable. I am keeping some most excellent company, see below for winners of the other categories, all well worth checking out. I’m now going to celebrate with a cup of tea and a waltz with Gringo so shimmy sideways, polish the moon and kick against the pricks always! The angels of fire are sleeping, and it is time we dreamt their dreams.

Jxxx

3:AM Awards 2010

3:AM POETRY BOOK OF THE YEAR 2010
Jenni Fagan’s The Dead Queen of Bohemia (Blackheath Books)

3:AM NOVEL OF THE YEAR 2010

Tom McCarthy’s C (Jonathan Cape)

3:AM NON-FICTION BOOK OF THE YEAR 2010
Owen Hatherley’s A Guide to the New Ruins of Great Britain (Verso)

 

3:AM ALBUM OF THE YEAR 2010
Jon Savage’s Black Hole (Domino)

 

3:AM FILM OF THE YEAR 2010
Robinson in Ruins, dir. Patrick Keiller

 

3:AM MAGAZINE OF THE YEAR 2010
Nude

 

3:AM PUBLISHER OF THE YEAR 2010
Melville House (interview with Dennis Loy Johnson)

3:AM WEBSITE OF THE YEAR
> kill author

3:AM BLOGS OF THE YEAR 2010
A Journey Round My Skull
Dangerous Minds

Unthology

I have a short story in this new collection called Unthology. It is the first collection published by Unthank Books in Norfolk, it’s had some great reviews and is a really eclectic book of quality short fiction. Unthank are a new independent publishing house seeking to publish new, innovative work. The name Unthank means unclaimed patch of land, it’s in Alasdair Gray’s dystopian novel Lanark, a beast of a novel that sits in my pile of books to read. They seem like a publishing house as much inspired by the independent publishing world of 4AD as they are in providing a platform for work they believe in. Put it in your stocking, read it in suspenders, especially if you are a cherubic boy. You can read a free preview, or buy it here - Unthology

Edited by Robin Jones
Price:	£12 +p&p
ISBN:	978-0-9564223-1-6
Genre:	Fiction (222 pages)
Published:	1st December 2010
UNTHOLOGY NO.1 is the first in a series dedicated to showcasing unconventional, unpredictable and experimental stories. Containing seventeen pieces by brand new as well as established authors, this is a hard-hitting, hilarious and entertaining collection. Inside you will encounter a motley crew of animals, objects and even humans. These are tales that inject fresh venom into the shorter form.
The Unthologists Viccy Adams — Sandra Jensen — Mischa Hiller C. D. Rose — Melinda Moore — James Carter Lora Stimson — Martin Pond — Deborah Arnander Sherilyn Connelly — Sarah Dobbs — Jenni Fagan Maggie Ling — Tessa West — Karen Whiteson Ashley Stokes — Michael Baker

 

The Lunatic Pavilions

I’ve been in the archives of libraries and hospitals across London this week. I discovered The Lunatic Pavilions, Hope and Faith. They were the original mental health facilities built at Lewisham Hospital and were said to provide a home for imbeciles, idiots, lunatics. Anais, my main protagonist in The Panopticon debates what happens when they ‘fry the voices out’ in a chapter I’ve been rewriting recently. She wonders if they fry a memory out … or electric shock it out to be more accurate, what happens to the memory? Does it lay dormant in the spongy bit of brain that is left behind? If they pickle the brain or preserve it in formaldehyde, are the memories just gone then?  If you look at a brain in a jar it is nothing at all, just a mushy organ. There is no little flap you can open and see movies playing of a red bicycle behind a sofa, or a sunrise, or the hills on fire, or god awful sherry trifle. There would be no clunky television made of wood and plastic that had four big square buttons, one for each channel. There would be no squiggly bit of brain tissue – that if you leaned in close; would whisper the first words love said. You would not hear songs sang on beaches past midnight, or up hills, or in dirty little rehearsal rooms, or to entire chapters of bikers in remote desolate Scottish bars. The brain tissue in a jar … has no smell o vision, no scent of heather on hillsides, no lilies, no early morning cigarette, no brandy, no wood-fire in the back garden, no rain, no brine from the sea. Dead tissue has no taste transmitter with which to enjoy a familiar sip of tea! It’s only an organ. What lives in there is us. What were they doing in those Lunatic Pavilions? Does frying it out really work? Spike Milligan used to get shock treatment when his depression was at his worst. It obviously does something. I used to score of a guy that would give himself electric shocks or stab himself with a screwdriver when the voices got too much to deal with. But what of voices? What of memories? What of faith and hope? If memories are gone, the brain tissue pickled, and if there is no-one else that shared those memories, then I suppose those memories are gone for good too. Is it like they never even happened then? I mean the things still happened, just because they are not on record somewhere, doesn’t mean they did not exist. There still was a red bicycle, a first kiss, breaking into an outdoor ice rink at 6am to skid on ones knees in a silent city. It has made me consider if this is why I write? Mortality is fleeting. In writing I can hear the ocean, or fields of barley swaying like waves. Perhaps I am sentimental but the times for me are changing and will never again be the same. I salute the Lunatic Pavilions and those who defy logic and reason to originate their own ideas on what this strange existence is … that we all find ourselves in?

Fuck Rudyard Kipling, Penetration & Rebel Inc

I had the good fortune to get these first four copies of the original Rebel Inc magazines recently, also an original chapbook by Edinburgh poet Paul Reekie and A Visitors Guide to Edinburgh, a collaboration between Kevin Williamson and Irvine Welsh. That’s what I’ve been reading this week and it’s been great. A Visitors Guide to Edinburgh is very funny, very old school, very of its time and a nice take on my beloved hometown. It made me remember the first times I took ecstasy, odd little bars and shops tucked away in town and favourite clubs I used to go to when I was fourteen wearing velvet hotpants and platforms – like Pure on Calton Road, or sometimes the bigger ones in Glasgow. The interview between Kevin and Irvine recorded when they had taken ecstasy together for the first time is kind of innocent, it’s nice, it reminds me of what seemed like a hopeful time. For literature too, these magazines heralded the beginnings of Rebel Inc, a publishing house that modern literature would do well to turn to and take a good long hard look at. The modern publishing world seems to be becoming stagnant and this has to be in part because less risks are being taken. What’s fashionable is often not what is pushing the boundaries and those who publish and those who are published seem to be more middle class and closed minded than ever. I was told recently that there is little to no people working in publishing houses in London that did not go to private school. Why? It is like things are going backwards instead of forwards and the consequences for innovative, non mainstream, challenging, original literature are depressing. Literature needs risk takers. It needs Kevin Williamson’s, it needs a Rebel Inc for here and now but looking around, there is nobody out there challenging the mainstream on the level that Rebel Inc did. Why not? Who knows, but if someone does not step up to the bar then the world of literature will be all the weaker and all the more diluted for it. In the current political climate Britain seems to be sneaking back to it’s elitist, restrictive, censoring, class divided conservatism. This is a time for artists, publishers, authors and musicians to say fuck you, to do what they want to do, exactly how they want to do it – without asking (the big boys, the establishment, the authorities, those who think they hold all the fucking strings) without asking those cunts for permission. I saw James Kelman speak recently on how he felt about being a post-colonial author. He said he did not see the fact he writes in his own tongue, in his own way, as a colonial issue but a class issue and one that has been going back throughout Britain forever. He said he never felt like he needed to stick his hand up and ask for permission on how he wanted to write a story. Well I suggest this, we need literature that does not hold it’s hand up and ask for permission, that does not sit up nice and play ball, that does not ask politely to be let through doors but knocks the fucking doors down and pisses in the establishments carefully cultivated pot plants.

I also enjoyed Zap- You’re Pregnant by Paul Reekie. I liked a lot of lines in there including fuck you Rudyard Kipling or the radio speaks to me, every bad songs about us or: got to get my flaps down here, excellent. I’m sure I know the private party of the opening poem. I did not get to see Reekie read in Edinburgh when I lived there and will not have the chance to now as he recently passed away, I hear he is exceptionally well missed by those who love him.

The Visitors Guide to Edinburgh has Greyfriar’s Bobby on the front of it. I was playing in a punk band in Edinburgh when I was fifteen and there were rumours among the punk community that it would be a good idea to ram raid Bobby right off his marble statue and take the wee iconic mutt hostage. This plan originated from my old bass player Angry Al and was thought up to save a venue that was frequented by many musicians, artists, degenerates and general lunatics and was being closed down by the council. We didn’t do it but it did make me laugh when I saw the cover. I’m off up to my homelands this week and I intend to drink water from the tap, talk loudly in my own tongue at the breakneck speeds we at home call ordinary conversation, have a cup of real tea, go read a poem to a Highland cow (from a distance cos those fuckers are unpredictable) spend some time with friends and also bring me back some stones from my own shores. Below I’ll post a pic of my first band with me Angry Al, and Dave dcb. I think they called me Jailbait as my stage name, our bio said I slept in a body bag and claimed to have been conceived at the exact moment that a pregnant Sharon Tate was slaughtered by one of Manson’s gimps. This would have made me about twenty years older than I am but I was so young when I was gigging that it didn’t really matter much. Sometimes it is the myth of a thing, the creativity of perception, that is what counts.

The Failures Bought was taken at the Water of Leith, right down on the docks where we used to rehearse, by an old scrapyard near the rehearsal hut thing we had.

Penetrating voices going through my head, I haven’t listened to a thing they said, always there with the answers, won’t suffer the consequences … don’t dictate to me. My favourite song when I was fifteen xxx

Urchin Belle, Dunedin Gallery

Urchin Belle, Jenni Fagan

Urchin Belle, Jenni Fagan February 2010 Edition of 50, Hardcover, 32 pages. Woodblock cover illustration. Published by Kilmog Press ISBN: 978-0-9864567-7-0 Urchin Belle is a debut collection that combines a genuine poetic originality with a piercing clarity. This is a voice born out of a life lived on the edges of society. The erotic and mundane collide with the surreal and extreme to produce a voice at once beguiling, shocking and entirely unapologetic. The stories of those living within and outside the system recur alongside the kind of raw erotic base need that leaves the reader wanting more. About the author: Jenni Fagan is a poet, playwright and novelist. She represented Scotland as a young playwright and has had plays read at Edinburgh Festival and in Athens. Since her birth in 1977, Fagan has had three legal names, moved forty times, travelled, and played in bands.Urchin Belle is her first poetry collection to be published (available in the UK from Blackheath books). Jenni was recently awarded funding by Dewar Arts Awards to write for three years and gain a degree. She lives in London with her two cats and is completing her fiction novelThe Panopticon. $45.00 Click Here – http://artgallery.marketeer.co.nz/product.pasp?categoryid=1&productid=138

Tideland

I have squirrels living in the roof of my building. They freak my cat out, are very bold and appear to have began tapping on the wall behind my bed, inside the old boarded up fireplace. Either that or I’m living next door to a Fritzel. Or, as Joe suggested, the guy upstairs spends a lot of time cutting out deals. This has made me consider two things. Firstly I need to get out of bed. At the moment I am finalising my collection of poetry The Dead Queen of Bohemia, writing an epic long short story, a novel, doing all end of degree essays yadda yadda. I do this from my pit and although it doesn’t look like Emins lovely boudoir it nevertheless is tuning me into shit like squirrels in the walls. Say no more. This reminded me that I hadn’t watched Tideland for a while. I wrote a poem that was inspired by it, I love a lot of the cinematography and the idea of darkness in childhood and the brutality of reality combined with an absolute ability to disappear into imagination and magic. The protagonist, a kid called Jeliza Rose, incidentally shares the names I intend to use if I ever drop girls, possibly twins; apparently its in the family. Eliza (one of my middle names) and Rose (i just like it). So I have to do Tideland tonight. I can live harmoniously with strange tapping squirrels.

Only four weeks to go now and my degree is done. This summer I will finish The Panopticon. I will also read some stuff that I actually want to read or re-read, like Tesla’s Ghost by Darran Anderson or Cigarettes in Bed by Adelle Stripe, John Dorsey’s book, Joe Ridgwell’s Burrito Deluxe and Lost Elation again to name but a few. Incidentally – in writing people are always going on about not being ‘incestuous’ even though all scenes: just are! I am inspired by a lot of people and interested by a lot of writers work: who are not necessarily well-known (neither am I) why is it so bad to write about that or turn people onto great shit still languishing in relative obscurity? In music, which I did for ages, it was all good to find other music you liked that existed in a maelstrom of undergrounds .. an tell all the other musicians you knew about it. Writing is too self conscious about itself. Everyone seems to be trying to be clever or create a really cool persona and be taken seriously by not fawning. Well fawning is yawnworthy right enough but writers are not cool, we’re dull as fuck and are probably best avoided.

I am not a critic. I like what I like and if I don’t like it I’m not wasting words writing about it. I don’t like critics. They lack imagination. I don’t personally feel the need to elevate myself by pulling someone else’s work apart for no reason, (critics quite often seem to be doing this to appear – credible or because they think they are the gods of good taste or maybe just to make themselves seem important to somebody?) I don’t need to appear credible, my credibility is ingrained, I have no persona to create, I am not a performer, I am a writer and poet and for me the words come first, that’s all. Sometimes critics just like a good witch-hunt. For an example of this take a look at the response to the playwright Sarah Kane’s plays. She often wrote some stunning stuff and used lyrics to great effect in her work as well. Maybe a lot of critics represent a social place in society that they feel needs to tell everyone else – they are right, and what is good and not good. That must be the other reason I don’t like them. I have never liked being told what to do and even less so, what to think.

Personas are not there are some people I adore to watch read or on stage, I could  have listened to Burroughs all day, Gertrude Stein although I don’t like all her work I would love to have seen, Henry Rollins live is great, I can watch Nick Cave do bits of his novels or poems quite happily, I adore in writers what I like in older comfortable musicians like the Patti Smith group or Can or when I saw Odetta sing at 80 years old a few years ago, a really natural sense of ease and I’d like to get to that state of ease some day. Interestingly a lot of the best writers seem to be the least socially smooth and a lot of the wankers seem so confident it gives me the creeps. I get told I’m prickly at readings and I don’t want to be I just suffer from acute social anxiety, am not too strong on the comedic crowd pleasers and what seems prickly to a lot of people .. where I come from, was just a necessary and normal way to be. Doesn’t anyone like to be scared by anything anymore? Iggy Pop was great at antagonising and weirding out audiences who came to the early Stooges years. And also – to be fair, readings are full of tossers. Every-time I go to one I cringe at how self indulgent they can often be. Show me something honest and you’ve got me. It doesn’t need to be shiny. Shiny has its place though, I guess it is different things that catch me but that raw bit that is a real writer not being a persona or even if they are; not acting, I guess I just get that the most.

Anyway. Critics. That’s for academics or theorists, I’m not one of those. I’m a writer, so if asked for honest feedback I will give it and most writers hate that. I don’t know why. Every single time I have got better as a writer it has been because someone, usually a better writer, has been able to give me good solid criticism. Words can’t kill you and they rarely pay the rent; grow a leather hide if you want to be open to genuine honesty and improve, it’s necessary!

Anyway. This summer I plan to do a load more of J.G. Ballard, also some scientific ones I’ve been wanting to read for a while, James Kelman’s new novel and perhaps some of his old stuff. I may do Mervyn Peaks trilogy, Wallace Stevens and Celine. I will read The Faraway Tree.

I did a reading last night. I got drunk before I read which helped with the palpitations. I cannot seem to get to the point of loving the sound of my own voice on a stage on my own with staring people. I would like to though. I owe the words it, I spend enough time on them. Perhaps I might read for the squirrels. Maybe they can help me relax into just telling stories or poems, and to lose my acute sense of awareness on how it is to be.

Anyway, here is my film poem from the original Urchin Belle, sayonara Jx.

It Should Be Dark,

So You Can See

There is always a scene

you didn’t see last time.

A horse wearing a dress,

a fold in the curtain

that wasn’t there

an’ a line

you never heard,

delivered as she adusts

a stocking you swear

she didn’t wear

before breakfast.

The grey skies of the first time

blink to orange glass.

That celluloid breathes,

re-coats the dream

in a silent whirr

whilst you sleep.

The barley fields

sway in waves,

an’ his submarine

is a burnt out car,

the bombs he lobs

are apples whose stalks

he pulls out with his teeth.

Bee lady of murk marches

with her square face,

an’ her widow scarf

an’ that one

creamy red engorged

eye un-blinks; your fear perceptible.

The room should

be dark, so you can see.

So you can hear the score,

as shadows leap an pirouette

along the walls

and kiss through all the adverts.

And you too

are in the silent shadow film,

wigged in smoke curls

lifting a cup of tea that points in disbelief

as horns grow out your ears

and your nose falls off.

You are different;

each time you watch.

Same jeans but sore heart

chipped nails, patting the cat

glasses on, after she died

eating popcorn, snow

an’ rain an’ hail outside

an’ that scene you didn’t notice

the last seventeen times

materialises.

And the same scenes,

they too are different.