Where is my blove

My dog is getting fat.

But what I wanted to write is that I am suspending this blog as I am writing poetry right now (please imagine that I wrote this message half a year ago); I no longer have the finger strength to muse in a colloquial fashion, although the economics of poetry is not its only attraction. This is my secret drug, usually pursued under the covers with a torch, producing a literary mess all over the pages of a little black book.running away

I lost my little black book over christmas, which made me very anxious as well as alerting me to the folly of not backing up my work.

Having had a few poems published online by random submission, I have taken this and a great dose of someone else’s confidence in order to make myself a better woman. I am nothing, but I still want for what I make and do to be appreciated. Aren’t folk complicated that way?

I am working on another site with a gaggle of gentle friends on the theme of Proletkult, which I believe I wrote an article about a while ago. I hope it will turn into a magazine of little artistic disquisitions, belle lettres, interviews, music, drawing, or if you prefer you can simply fall asleep on your keyboard and submit the outcome; this would please me no end. Sleeping produces a cacophony that cannot be reduced to a mere sequence of z’s. This is what I have learned during those insomnial dark hours.

And If you would like to contribute please let me know somehow.


Necessary preamble

I was eating a carrot of debatable texture when it occurred to me that I should start a blog dedicated to what I do the most in my spare time, which is chewing over the mealy stuff of life (pow), forcing together topics in an intimidating and meandering style comprising sentences of formidable length and dwindling interest, sandwiched together with a considerable amount of filler material, mostly assembled by my fervently mind-dredging my favourite comedians on youtube in a desperate ploy to sell their hard graft as my own. Aside from fixing the world as I rather hubristically assume I can, there are other things going on in my life, naturally, but if I were to write about the things that fill most of my mind for most of my day then it would be an absurd exercise indeed: filling my precious spare time by filling my head, and hence a page, with the things that occupy the meat of my day. In that vein, I would unashamedly post macaroni art and recite the three little pigs repeatedly. However, as time wears on and I run out of ideas, I am sure this will become increasingly likely to occur. Continue reading