It is (so) cold in this house.

There is so much work.
I am having trouble with poetic forms. I can't get the dumdedumdedum of Iambic pentameter to translate onto a page. There is something foreboding about a blank word document.
A poem I love

How to Disappear


by Amanda Dalton

(from "How to Disappear, Bloodaxe Books, 1999)



First rehearse the easy things.

Lose your words in a high wind,

walk in the dark on an unlit road,

observe how other people mislay keys,

their diaries, new umbrellas.

See what it takes to go unnoticed

in a crowded room. Tell lies:

I love you. I'll be back in half an hour.

I'm fine.



The childish things.

Stand very still behind a tree,

become a cowboy, say you have died,

climb into wardrobes, breathe on a mirror

until there's no one there, and practice magic,

tricks with smoke and fire --

a flick of the wrist and the victim's lost

his watch, his wife, his ten pound note. Perfect it.

Hold your breath a little longer every time.



The hardest things.

Eat less, much less, and take a vow of silence.

Learn the point of vanishing, the moment

embers turn to ash, the sun falls down,

the sudden white-out comes.

And when it comes again - it will -

just walk at it. walk into it, and walk,

until your know
 
 
I remember being about 14, swamped in teen angst and preoccupied with an eating disorder and studiously copying this into a notebook. It has cropped up in a few notebooks I have owned since then and I can never tear myself away from it. I found it on the Creative Writing reading list last week and it made me smile, because I realised I felt I 'owned' it. It is like how for a girl with borwn eyes 'Brown eyed girl' is their song. I once have this notion of photographing myself attempting all the acts noted in this poem and leaving them, with a copy of the poem somewhere public - like a train station. At the time though I felt I would be creating my own melodrama... it is still an idea, now I have thought about it again, I may suggest to my friends who study preformance art.
 
I am sick of my own thoughts though. Often I catch myself thinking in cliches...and wishing I could just shake myself out of it. I think thinking about writing so much and attempting to write is dangerous. I feel self absorbed and petty......turn Borderline by proxy.
 
My housemate is sitting on my bed while I am stooped over my desk and I think we just managed to burn our poor excuse for dinner.
 
I am going to stare at some sonnets before meeting people at the pub later.