I just hammer something half way into shape, throw it up against the wall and see if it sticks… have a look at aftermath… maybe sugar and spice.
(J. Loving, private correspondence)
Doing what the customer wants is a recipe for conservatism and the reduction of humanity to a bunch of “yes” people with no innovation and certainly no improvement.
All the best writers (and philosophers) are clear and coherent. Those who are not are shams and silly children trying to be clever clever for lack of talent.
(Oscar-nominated filmmaker Anthony Howarth, private correspondence)
poets leak internal weather
the outside has less meaning when the inside is open
I like it when words do different jobs to their usual, proper ones. I don’t want to write if I am only prepared to stay on the safe side. There is no growth on that side.
I have my fave writing tools on the table always – black Bic, blue, green Bic, orange felt-tip, also, there’s a yellow felt-tip this week, and I like using a magenta felt-tip, sometimes HB pencils… and a red pencil I keep losing, then it all depends which one is closest to hand when I need to write… so it’s almost Random, but I’d say it’s emotional and aesthetic, too. Like if I was drawing or painting. My notebooks are my best friends, constant. They go back years and are jam-packed with thoughts, ideas, drawings, rough drafts etc. going back, sporadically, to 1973.
I call it MY writing, that’s all. It is MINE. It has to be Mine. I have to make it MINE, make the words MY very own words. I wouldn’t bother doing it if I couldn’t find ways to make the words mine. Like, I’m facing a brick wall built by men, tradition etc. and I find my own ways to dissolve the grout, seep through the cracks, climb over, dig under, go around this ugly, brutish wall. Wall built by dullards. My only tool is the slippery part of me that is very me. Very me speaks my words, not theirs. Very me speaks their words in my own way. Their words – used by me – can become my words.
(Penny Goring, private correspondence )
Me to Penny: panic, fascination, release, a whole jumble of feelings I cannot and shouldn’t disentangle. It was a purity, a rawness before the Word. And yet it is language. And I wondered which images you were calling to mind before you exorcised them. At the end, I saw a woman who was exhausted, yet purified, somehow.
Penny to me: I had to psyche myself up for a few weeks.
Ladies & Gents,
Garden of Snow:
Sitting on that see-saw between science(of fiction) and fiction(of science), switching gears, switching frames. It not only feels good, it feels right:
i. Make up (verb): to invent, to create.
ii. Make up (verb): to embellish, to enhance.
iii. Make up (verb): to reconcile, put together again, to re-member.
iv. Make-up (noun): components, elements, constituents
To learn is to make up…?
I think of the language games young children so delight in when learning to read and write. The type we find cute for a time, before we decide to talk such nonsense out of them, so they learn to do it right. Pity. It is precisely this type of play that is characteristic of one of my favourite writers. She makes up. And I, now adult – head full of jargon I’m constantly questioning – listen, admire and learn:
i want to live without words
call him pink torpedo
he imagined himself & he was lady dagger lizard lobster apple-headed melon baster x-rated cannon supreme
& he loved the gutted hamster
& he wore the velvet glove
i want to live where everyone is alive
i want to live where there are so many people, where night trembles, where busy streets fall away as we move closer
I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE
i want to live where we lose it, off our faces in some garden, climbing to a place where none are more silent than us
i want dumb flesh to speak louder
i want that cunny-catcher bending light over the twisted sheets
i want you muffled and incoherent beside me
i want to live where nothing dies
DON’T TALK TO ME
I DON’T CARE
i imagined you & you were lady dagger lizard lobster apple-headed melon baster x-rated
bed in my room
& you shed old skin
& you wished new lies
& you kissed hot tears
& i do i do
i kiss the moving closer
where bad days bleed on the sheets
where bad dreams bleed from these my arms, these my fingers, these my eyes
where good days cling damp to the skin
where good dreams spread on the mattress
where good days cling damp to the skin under soft & ridiculous lips
& i feed my eyes
& i wish vodka morning
& i kiss the colour of laughter
I DON’T CARE WHERE YOU ARE
& i don’t care why you are, i just want to go too far. i just want to get in your head & show you what goes unsaid
(from Ornamental Vagina, by Penny Goring)
Speaks to the child in me. The scientist in me. The artist in me. The woman in me. The me in the tree. It looks good from up here. I do and I do and I don’t care either. Cos sometimes we think so hard we think ourselves into the wrong places. Let go. Fly.
This woman kinds of scares the shit out of me. For all the right reasons. Penny Goring. Rouge allure palpitante. Like it or love it. Actually, I don’t even feel up to summing her up. I’ll let her get on with it:
ART IS A SOLID ERECTION
Every word is an object I can see clearly, I could draw them ALL… the things it can say when its on its back… some are purely from the sound if you pinch it or what it does when you spin it in circles (it throws shadows, i can see them) (oops, now it’s throwing up) or take it out for a visit somewhere special and it turns purple & smells posh
TO SAY WHAT YOU MEAN IS THE GIFT-CURSE
It would take guts to hand over the power one can have, as a woman. You can be any sex you like when you write. Or none at all. You can be a tree
I WANT TO HURT YOU THEN MAKE IT WORSER
I’m facing a brick wall built by men, by tradition, and I find my own ways to dissolve the grout (…) Wall built by dullards. My only tool is the slippery part of me that is very me. Very me speaks my words, not theirs. Very me speaks their words in my own way. Their words – used by me – can become my words.
vag bone connected to the heart bone
heart bone connected to the hate bone
hate bone connected to the love bone
love bone connected to the death bone
death bone connected to the birth bone
birth bone connected to the lonely bone
lonely bone connected to the fuck bone
i love the skyy i fuck with
i fuck death with my love bone
i fuck love with my lost bone
i have never been unfaithful to the skyy
“Love this so much. The last line, “i have never been unfaithful to the skyy” left me with my mouth wide open. Awesome sauce.” (Frausto)
Get back to her blog if you know what’s good for you.