word soup

My kid and his friend, Gus, have so far today been to the fair on the prom, written a tune in garageband, made a video for it in the shared garden of our tenement and uploaded it to youtube. I’m ashamed by my own procrastination…so here’s some word soup.

I’ve been a bit shy about sharing these on here even though I had posted them on instagram, sort of feels more vulnerable to bash them up here. I wanted to challenge myself to write more frequently and consistently so if I shout about it maybe I’ll actually do it…

I can still hear the echoes of distant shitty boys telling me I’m no good on days when I’m tired out but they’re getting drowned out most of these days. Pursuing creative ideas is, to me, the heart and soul of us being here, however much some fuckers would rather have us tied to desks or warehouses 24/7 so they can go to space. Our much missed pal Scott took to giving me paternal pep talks for a wee while and one of them was all about how you can’t let anyone else shut down your creative voice. He said his music teacher at school had told him point blank he couldn’t sing but then every time his band released a record the guy felt the need to facebook a critique. He talked about how there’s not much point in a life where you don’t fully commit to expressing yourself, to trying to connect to something bigger than yourself, to say the things that are sometimes hard to say but make people feel less alone ‘and fuck what anyone else thinks about it.’ He was a smart shambles.

I swapped reading poetry and most of my favourite forms of self expression in favour of shit boys and cheap vodka when I left school but swapped back thanks to a therapist I saw for a while a few years ago, who encouraged me to feed the inner wean. I took up mark making and reading poems again. I’m shit at reading fiction cos my brain goes off on tangents and I’ll read the same page 5 times and retain none of the chat so I like poetry cos like lyrics there tends to be something more immediate in there. I like biographies and art books too. Maybes a wee bit too much, I’ve an overwhelming number of them staring at me every time I sit on my sofa and I’m lucky if I’ve read the first chapter of most of them, should really get to that.

I don’t really know about what’s supposed to make writing good or bad and who gets to decide those kinds of things but I think it’s a cathartic way to express desires, to process emotions and to remember shared moments.

I’m still guilty of being a big fan of all the rebellious writers that we’re probably supposed to grow out of loving, the beat poets, Lou Reed, Bukowski, Hunter S Thompson, all the scoundrels who’d rather slip through to another dimension where the outlaws are left to follow their own rhythms. I feel like we should all be listening to them and reacting to their forms of protest song more than ever.

Another banger of a pep talk involved drunk spitting and finger wagging in my face telling me to stop wasting time placating boring men and how I deserved to have fun with someone who’d challenge me and like I say he was a smart pal to have. I miss those chats, some very funny times. So here’s to all the good ones who genuinely encourage and support us to keep growing and enjoying life. Shitty people drain the joy out of everything and it’s only when you get some time with good people that you realise how much lighter everything feels. An honourable mention to our English teacher, Cameron, who used to invite us round to his place in Porty and we’d drink gin, smoke and watch films of the books and plays we were reading in class. Probably not the type of antics that should go on but it always felt like a safe place and apologies that we got him back on the cigarettes.

I’m not always great at finding the words I want to say when I want to say them so I’m glad writing helps me make sense of the magic and mischief.

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