Friday, 18 February 2011

You know how I said I'd get my life back? I almost have. The next show is close at hand, and rehearsals for that are starting to become more time-consuming. But I am considerably less busy. I'm even reading for pleasure at the moment, desultorily slipping into various books of poetry (at the expense of poor Sir Gawain), such as the complete works of e.e. cummings, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin's Selected Poems, Jo Shapcott's On Mutability

Valentine's Day came and went. I lay in bed with a friend, nursing a hangover, watching soppy films, and eating chocolate. I'm thankful not to have the pressure to do something for someone - not that when I'm with a person, I feel pressurised to do something special. I flat-out disagree with Valentine's Day, and they'll just have to like it or lump it. [It's not particularly interesting, my reasons for disagreeing with the whole concept of V-day, so I'll paraphrase: it's a Clinton's Cards holiday and has no basis in anything real or actually pertaining to truthful emotions of love; it's a money-maker for card companies; the pressure surrounding it is absurd and totally unnecessary; you ought to show your love throughout the year rather than build it up to an acme of love on one particular day].

Have a poem.

mr youse needn't be so spry
concernin questions arty

each has his tastes but as for i
i likes a certain party

gimme the he-man's solid bliss
for youse ideas i'll match youse

a pretty girl who naked is
is worth a million statues 

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