Mr King Is Back And Still Confused

 Hello, hello, with a hey nonny-no.

It's been three years, three months and three days since my last post. Three threes. I couldn't have planned it better. The truth is I didn't plan it at all. I procrastinated and resisted writing this, and finally here I am as if I'd never been gone. 

I took a break from writing after the MA, in 2018, as that final dissertation was quite a strain on the old creative muscles and it wore me out. My mental health had also taken (another) dip in 2017, half way through my studies (two years part-time), and I was back under the GP and on medication, so I was overdue a rest. Coincidentally, I had also started working for a mental health charity, having resigned from my post as a funeral arranger in 2016 a few months before I started the MA.

I've been 'struggling' coming to terms with the overall MA mark I was awarded, and a comment received on my dissertation that really got to me. I know, far greater things happening in the world and all that but I'm human and want to get this off my chest and get on with my writing life. And I don't really expect anyone to care much either, to be honest.

I graduated with a Pass, a final mark of 58 percent. Not a bad mark, and I'm happy to have passed. But here's the thing, throughout the MA I was awarded a merit (between 60 and 70 percent) for all my modules (apart from one lovely 71%) and was very happy with that. But unfortunately that final mark completely negates all the previous ones, dragging my overall MA grade down a pass. But it wasn't even that so much as this comment from one of the two markers, dissertations being 'double marked' (allegedly anonymously but easy to work out who they both were, making the whole anonymous submission and marking procedure a farce, like so much of academia is in truth, but anyway): "...but be careful of occasional slippages, which can lead to things unravelling fast - the one thing that curtains should never do in a poem is "billow". "

Note the use of the word 'should' here, an instruction rather than advice. Instead of the marker just saying they personally don't like the use of that word, or that I could perhaps have used a more descriptive or more poetic word and even gone to the lengths of suggesting one, they invent a totally non existent 'rule' of poetry. This came as the last line of a mostly positive comment on my creative piece, a suite of 25 prose poems that I presented as a chapbook, fully edited and ready for publication, and that I was overall very happy with. So why should that last line bother me so much? I really don't know, and what else can I say about it anyway? Not a basis for appeal or grievance, but I was, and remain, aggrieved. 

I printed both reports out, and underneath the one I've mentioned above I wrote "Utter bollocks. Poetry can speak in any way it sees fit for the poem." 

I think I found the comment sloppy and unhelpful, and the fact that the marker was (and still is) not a poet themselves pissed me off, and that they saw fit to confuse personal opinion with fact. And I resent the lower mark that I feel did not, and does not, reflect the research and creative effort I put into those poems, and the critical commentary that supported it. But the reality is all of these marks, grades and comments were and are completely out of my control. And I need to add here that, for both of the markers of my dissertation I have the utmost respect, both as academics in their chosen fields and for the creative work they produce. And I loved their modules and learnt from both of them, as I did from all the tutors whose modules I studied, and those that helped me along the way, and those poets and writers I was introduced to by them, and who I discovered myself through my research.

So here I am back on my blog, on the one hand dismissing academia as a farce and criticising comments that I don't like and found unhelpful, yet on the other acknowledging how much I learnt from it, and from them, and recognising what a privilege it was to be accepted to study for this MA without a first degree, and showing gratitude for those who helped me to get to that point, who encouraged me, wrote a reference, read my work and gave their own feedback. And more.

I have a lovely back catalogue of unpublished work from before and during the MA that I don't know where to begin with it all. Revisiting it for this post has reminded me of it, and in the writing this post I can feel that resentment slipping away. I had stopped posting here anyway as I was trying to get my work published, and posting on a blog counts as self-published which means that publishers won't accept it.  

And of course the world was turned upside down in early 2020 by the pandemic, lockdowns, and working from home. For me personally, whilst I continued attending the lovely Colchester Write Night group I've been a member of for ten years, albeit virtually, I picked up my paint brushes again and have plunged head first into the world of abstract painting, producing several canvases and still going, and have rearranged my creative process and my flat around that. I've also been adopted by a lovely black cat.

So, (another so), that's it for now. I will keep painting and writing, and will post more on here whenever and however the creative mood and muse flows through me. 

Laters. 

On Tea and Writing (and biscuits)

A piece of whimsy (based on factual events) that I wrote and read at Firstsite Gallery, along with others, on Friday 3rd November 2017, as part of a readings evening to raise money for EducAid.

The scene: A day of writing at the family house, whilst I am waiting in for a delivery. There are two things present in the house that I do not have in  my flat; a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and a telly...

Arrive at the house

Get licked all over

By a very

excited Staffie.

Play with her

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make myself a cuppa

With biscuits for dunking

Get my writing stuff out

All over the table.

Write a few words down

Oh, what’s that one I’m looking for?

After a while

Get a bit distracted.

Scroll through the Sky menu.

Watch George Gently,

And American Pickers,

And Hercule Poirot,

And Wheeler Dealers,

(converting a vintage Chevy

a ’54 stepside).

Answer the door

Sign for the parcel

Play with the Staffie

(Who was woken by the delivery)

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make another cuppa

Eat a pack of kit kat snacks

Think about my cholesterol.

Write a few more words down

Is this a poem

Or a piece of flash fiction?

Have a little nap

Because writing is tiring

(that’s my excuse).

Get woken by the Staffie

Let her in the garden

Play ball with her

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make another cuppa

With some biscuits for dunking

Write a few more words down.

Why is it so hard

to say what I want to?

After a while

Get a bit distracted.

Start thinking about swords

That poem about Excalibur

I still haven’t written.

Try to remember

the name of Frodo’s sword

in Lord of the Rings

(that turns blue when Orcs are near).

Go on google

It’s called Sting

And it’s only a dagger,

Then go on you tube

And listen to some Police songs.

Make another cuppa

With some biscuits for dunking

Write a few more words down.

After a while

Get stuck with the story.

Read through what I’ve written

Think about my writing

Wish that I was better.

Have a pity-party

Indulge in some pointless

Self-recrimination.

Realise I’m being stared at

By a playful Staffie.

Give her some attention

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Realise I’m hungry.

Make myself a sandwich

And another cuppa.

I’ve eaten all the biscuits

so no more for dunking.

Make the Staffies dinner

Hope that she’ll stop pestering

While I eat my sarnie

And drink my cuppa

There’s not a hope in hell

Of that happening

She’s a multi-tasker

Where food is concerned.

Where has the time gone?

The day has flown by

I’ve managed to do some writing

Which will need an edit

And then another one

But that’s for another day

It’s bloody never ending

Why did I choose writing?

Pack all my things up

Then do the washing up

Hide the empty biscuit wrapper

In the bottom of the bin.

Hope no one notices.

Try to say goodbye

To the lovely Staffie

Who just wants to play

So we get her ball

I chase her round the room

Then she chases me.

Put the kettle on again

Make another cuppa.

Sit on the sofa

While she curls up on my lap

And starts snoring.

Get my book out

I’ll be here for a while now

Anyway there’s no hurry

Before I know it

I’m snoring too.

Writing days are lovely

With a sleepy Staffie

If I’m very lucky

There’ll be another soon.

And I can do more writing

And drink more tea

With biscuits for dunking.

The Next Performance

As a result of the recent module I studied, as part of my MA Creative Writing at Essex University; titled Writing, Poetry, Performance, created and taught by Dr Holly Pester,  I have decided I will undertake, as my next creative endeavour, the following performance:

As a gesture towards Erica Scourti's Life In AdWords and using the assembly techniques of Kenneth Goldsmith's book Uncreative Writing; through the platform of twitter and linked to this blog, the performance will be called 'Feeding my Twitter feed back to Twitter.'

Each day of May I will compose by 'cut and paste' from the days feed, short, haiku like collages (but not following the 5 7 5 syllable rule), which I will then tweet under the hashtag #twitterfeedcollage and #notmywords. I will also post on YouTube a video of me performing it.

This is all a bit new for me, and comes as a result of my studies of the Writing, Poetry, Performance module and the material we studied, and the subsequent assignment I wrote and submitted. This performance is not part of that assignment, or the module, or my MA studies, and it is not being submitted for marking or assessment. It is just me moving forwards with my own artistic endeavours, trying new things, and having a bit of fun in the process.

It's also a bit of a move away from Facebook as my main social media presence. I have been on twitter for a few years and want to make more of it, and I have set up a YouTube account. I am excited about this, which for me is the main ingredient. So not only can you read me, you can see me. How thoughtful I am.

It's an experiment; designed to lighten the mood and as creative play, although of course I am taking it seriously as an artwork, and am committed to it, and will put my time and effort into it.

I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments as I progress. You can leave comments here or on Twitter. At the end of the performance I will review it to see how I feel it has gone, and will assemble the videos together as one piece; hopefully by then I will have learnt how to do it!.

Feel free to follow this on twitter @JonnaKing.

Go on, you know you want to.

Walking and Thinking and Making Connections Between Then and Now

On my way back to my flat after a visit to the Coop, I walk past a little antique shop that opened recently and pause to look in the window. A treasure trove unfolds before my eyes. It used to be a second hand book shop many years ago, before I lived here, and I visited often. I lived a few miles away then.

I particularly remember one occasion, (the first time I was signed off work with depression, in my late twenties) buying a complete set of D H Lawrence short stories, the first one I read being Ticket's Please, and it just blew my mind. I had recently joined a reading group and this was instrumental in opening my heart to the absolute joy and wonder of literature. I also bought the complete Sherlock Holmes short stories and some poetry.

Very recently I bought a silver Parker pen and propelling pencil set, (in a brown plastic case and made in England) from the shop who's window now has me entranced. I bought it because it is very similar to the one that mum and dad gave me as a reward for passing my 11plus. It was either late 1971 or early 1972. 

I remember at the time dad was wearing his red waistcoat. I loved that waistcoat. It was a dark red and it was felt-like to touch. I wonder what happened to it?

I seem to recall he had a silver pocket watch at one point, but can’t be certain of that. I guess he was trying to cultivate a certain look, similar I suppose to the look I cultivate now. It definitely made an impression on me. He always made an impression.  

I also roll up my shirtsleeves like he used to, just one or two turns, and I have a tattoo like he does, of a small swallow on my left forearm.

I had it done while I was still at secondary school and he was in prison, perhaps as a way of holding on to the man I had already lost, that we all had lost, who if truth be told was lost himself, although I was far too young and hurt to realise that then, and have to constantly remind myself of it now.

He has been married now for longer than he was married to my mum, and has never been in prison again. His current wife has the same name as the Pyrenean mountain dog we used to have as children. She is a fine woman as far as I know her, which isn’t very well truth be told. I haven’t seen either of them for, what, thirty or so years now (apart I think from a brief half hour when they were visiting my sister about ten years ago). I stopped seeing him, intentionally, after a particularly painful weekend visit when our children were babies, over half my lifetime ago.

He is an old man now, and I am getting older. I hold no grudge and bear him no malice or ill will. He wasn’t the best father. I’m not sure I was the best son. As an adult I have had no relationship with either of my parents, having lost mum to cancer in 1979. She was 58. I was 18. Her and dad were already divorced and he had moved on. I am 55 now.

I was a child back then, with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’m not certain I’m a man now, I just get on with life. Sometimes the depression rises and sometimes it’s quiet. It’s been a faithful companion, that’s for sure.

I return to the flat with my memories and essential provisions, tea and biscuits, and I sit and write. Me and the words I try to form into meaningful sentences, my relationship with literature deepening, growing. I am still learning.

I pause to sip my tea, an image still vivid. I think I will buy a red waistcoat.

Watching Her Sweeping