ne ne ner

There's someone I know reading my blog (most people I know don't bother, which probably aint a bad thing), who only reads it to see if they are mentioned. She'll talk to me and say, "Oh you still haven't posted about when we went to so and so..." (see still not mentioning it)"it's going to be too late soon you know." Makes me think about what makes it to blog and what doesn't. There's a whole other me some other place no doubt blogging lists of what I had to eat, and what so and so said to me, and how much the man undercharged me by at the grocers. Good thing about blogs is you can say things you may be thinking but never say to people, because, well, they never ask. I can't tell if people even ask how how people are less often, or if we've all become so programmed into saying 'fine thankyou' we don't notice it even anymore.

Today I'm feeling great, that first day of energy after a cold, were there are lots of things to do, and moreso you want to do them. One thing I've been doing is sorting out what to tell the arts people. If you've been in the position you'll know, no matter how hard you worked or what you produced this is slightly daunting, and gives you a feeling like when you've spent your mam's change from buying the Gazette. I think the reason it feels this way is partly because arts organisations are a world of forms and doing things officially, even if you try being an artists isn't like that, things develop, evolve, spark off and you can never plan exactly what you'll write- or why would you write at all? Also, because arts organisations don't ask to see any work you have produced it feels as if they might not think you actually did any (or at least that's what I worry about.) You are never sure if you got it right.

I've been very lucky that when I've had time writing I am able to to write during the week, and can have weekends to get on with other things that need to be done to keep writing time seperate. I still have poetry flashbacks though, will be doing something very different and will remember a line from one of my poems. Yesterday I thought of a poem I wrote over a year ago, and finally had the idea that there was something wrong with a line, and what to replace the words with (grooming replaced with 'groomed by.' Sounds so simple, why did it take me so long, and why did it come to me then? I was stripping a chair, the most relaxing and practical thing I've done in a longtime. Just the chair and me in the cold garage, scraper in hand and that line replaying in my head. When I knock off at the end of each day I'll be polishing that chair for the rest of the week. Working towards a feeling you don't often get as a writer of something being finished, complete.

So another entry were I didn't mention the lady who keeps looking to see if she was mentioned. I didn't mention her houses, collection of bowls, her vintage dresses or when we went out (except I'm mentioning her by not mentioning her.) In the way I see fit, ne ne ner! (how do you spell that!?)