I'm still way too obsessed with creating little shapes and colouring them in I'd say.
Oh well, I'll see if I can't introduce some scary shading into this one as it progresses.
This is the stage, the one you see on the left, when I think, jeez this is crap. It's the scrappy paint strokes that do it - nothing like how my mind's eye envisaged it, but still. I know things can only improve with age, right?
A poem fell out this morning, and I hope my French friends aren't going to be offended. It's just that there are a few French culinary delicacies which I find quite disgusting and thought I'd exorcise my obsession in verse. Nothing personal. It's only a poem. And there are probably quite a few things I eat which they would find equally loathesome. Like Marmite. And cheese and marmalade on toast (ideally a good mature cheddar if available). And baked beans. It's surprising how many French find the typical British baked bean in tomato sauce the oddest of concepts. Too sweet, they say. And who am I to argue. Unlike my poem, which isn't sweet at all. Here it is:
Ode to French Cuisine The French eat anything that moves it's said When on a pleasant night out on the town Yet it's the sordid snail that I most dread Like chewing gum soiling the sodding bread And a glass of rouge to gulp the damn thing down Frogs legs leap up to number two methinks In three litres of oil the victims drown Now there they are a-sitting midst the drinks All spindly limbs like some weird kind of jinx And a glass of rouge to gulp the damn things down The awkward oyster ends this list of crime With a consistency to make you frown Let me offer you one mouthful of slime An experience that's far from sublime And a glass of rouge to gulp the damn thing down
I wonder if any of my poems will ever make it to a wider audience. Maybe one day, but maybe I'll have to be dead before that happens, which is a bit of a shame. The collected works of a lesser-known Parisian poet - I can just see the compendium now, sitting dustily on my granddaughter's bookshelves.
And how will I be seen? Bitter? Drole? Irreverent? Crap? Maybe I'll make it into a future collection like the excellent In Search of the World's Worst Writers by Nick Page. I doubt I could ever equal the jaw-dropping delicious awfulness of The Tay Bridge Disaster so I guess I won't even try. I suggest you check it out if you're not familiar with this towering epic.
I'm currently enjoying a brief period of prolifickness (prolificity?) with no idea how long it will last but it's fun while it does. I'm not impressed by the quality but I'm acutely aware that I can no longer write as naturally about some of the things I treated in the past. A certain innocent spontaneity has gone, to be replaced by... I'm not sure what. Some sort of 40-something angst? Maybe. But I'm determined to produce and to record them in a coherent way, hence this internet outpouring. As long as I can see what I've done and feel that it's holding together ok I'm happy. Thanks internet.
There are those who use places like Facebook or their blog to chat about mundane, everyday stuff, and that's just fine. Then there are those who pass stuff on. Funny stuff, inspiring stuff or things they believe in and want to share with others. That's great too. And then there are the creators.
My aim is to be a creator by producing original content, and as much of it as I possibly can. I've recently come to realise that the people who post pictures of their lunch or the latest cake they've baked are, in fact, producing just as valid original content as I am with my pictures of Paris or anything else for that matter. Good for them.
There's a place for everyone, and the great thing is to be sharing in one way or another. And every time someone clicks on a link I've put up it's a compliment and an honour for me. Just thought I'd let you know that. In case you made it this far!