Just counting the days at the moment, this is another of Bernstein’s exercises: write a poem in which you try to transcribe as accurately as you can your thoughts while you are writing. Don’t edit anything out. I’m not feeling so creative this weekend so thought this would at least be a quick solution. It’s too much though to do this, it’s worse than confessional writing, my sad little mind. I listened to a Patti Smith talk that was posted on Facebook today and I thought it was interesting the way she talked about Art and doing what you want to do and how technology plays it’s part and how anyone can post a poem on the internet. I like the idea of posting stuff on the internet, and I know a lot of people are wary of it because once it goes on you can’t send it out anywhere else and also someone might take it. The internet doesn’t reject anyone though, it’s very inclusive that way, like a Grandma. Sam Steinberg’s got to me I think, hey mistah you want a poem for free? Although, that only actually works if the poems are interesting and this one isn’t, but another day done, and back to school tomorrow and I got homework to do and some dill to use up:
A few minutes in my head
I shouldn’t have painted over the blue with the red,
it looks like I don’t care.
I need to read John’s essays and Ian’s essay.
I should make a list. I’ve not used the parsley or the dill
they’re probably not fresh now, the dill might be alright.
I hate it when Paul is on call, I’m glad it’s raining.
Why do they make a special trip into my vicinity just to argue.
Sleeping dogs, a game. No they can’t come today, it’s too late.
Why are they obsessed with war games? I like listening to them.
Why do they always congregate behind the couch?
They’ll make the radiator leak again.
There’s no way I can write another seventeen poems. This is diabolical.
I should list my achievements. I hate myself,
I think David Byrne might have been listening to Brian Tracy
when he wrote the line ‘and you may find yourself
in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife’.
There’s nothing in the purple box. It’s impossible not to censor.
MyMaths and Hitler. FDR was rubbish. It wasn’t called that.
Was the photograph of the black accordion player crying
to do with FDR’s funeral? Those women looking
at him all disapprovingly and filled with prejudice. I don’t care either way
that she’s dead, it’s boring: Everyone knows about it, from the Queen
of England to the hounds of hell. Jack White cannot sing
so why does he sound so good? I should think about that abstract.
What is an abstract? I hope people turn up. This is embarrassing.
I can’t write what I’m really thinking.
I should look at some photographs instead.
I need to get the photographs developed,
I knew this would happen again, there’s about a 1000. Every single time.
There’s too much noise in here. I should email Jeff. I’ll do it tomorrow.
I’m not going to ask for any blond at all after last time.