poetic justice

I'm taking a class in creative writing this semester. I write a fair bit, on and off, but I've never studied it before. Also, it's a poetry subject. Which I've never written. Ever. Sometimes I write prose which I feel is quite poetic, but it's not poetry. So I'm a little nervous.

I do write songs, though, which is a bit like poetry. And over the past year or so my grandfather has been a little obsessed with figuring out the difference between poetry and lyrics. (And by obsessed, I mean that he's mentioned it to me every time I've seen him, which isn't that often since I live in a different city.) But it sort of got me thinking - what is the difference? The first thing that comes to mind is that it's easy to get away with shit lyrics in a song, because you've got the music to distract the listener. You don't have that luxury in poetry. The words sit starkly on the page. They have to speak for themselves. In a song, you can set the mood with a pretty accompaniment, or link unrelated thoughts together with a catchy riff. You can also repeat words or phrases over and over to go with the music, which can be a good or a bad thing. It can be mediative, or it can be lazy. I suppose you can actually do that with poetry too, but probably not a whole chorus - just a line or a word or something. Also there's no standard length for poetry, not like the 3minute song, so the incentive to repeat things just for the sake of it isn't there.

Anyway, in my first 'workshop' (Creative Writing's answer to the tutorial) last week, we were discussing what makes a poem a poem, instead of just a collection of words on a page. And I had this brainwave of comparing poetry to modern art. Like, what makes a red square on a page art, and not just some shit I could've done myself. (This afternoon I discovered that my 'brainwave' was almost exactly the same as a comment in the required reading for the week, which I failed to do in advance. I'm still claiming it as my own, though.) I didn't really come up with an answer at the time, but I've been thinking about it a lot and I think that what makes the red square on a white canvas 'art', despite the fact that I could've painted it, is the fact that I didn't. I didn't think of painting a red square on a white canvas. No one did. Until someone did. And even though it isn't technically (technique-ly?) very difficult, when it was created it was conceptually new. And that's what makes it art.

Someone else (or maybe the same guy, don't remember) in the reading this week said that 'every time you write something and call it a poem, you answer the question "what is poetry?"'. Which is what I've been doing this afternoon. Trying to write a poem. I'm not sure if it's any good yet. It's definately not finished. But I'm giving it a crack.

op shopping

The other day I went op shopping for the first time in ages. Actually, that's not true - I recently bought a whole lot of furniture from op shops for my bedroom. But this was the first time I've been op shopping for clothes in awhile.

While I was in the Women's Tops - Sleeveless section I overheard a girl complaining to her friends that she could never find anything good at op shops. And I thought of the advice I'd give her if she asked me. But she didn't ask me, so I'm posting it here.

Look for colours you like. Op shops don't display things in attractive ways like regular shops do, so you have to try harder to spend your money. Searching for colours you like to wear is a good way to start.

1. Be creative - don't just view the clothes as they are, think about what you could wear them with, or how you could alter them to make them more attractive.
2. Try stuff on. A lot of clothes in op shops have weird styles, so it's hard to know if they'll look any good til you've tried them on.
3. Be patient, and go often. It's the only way to find the best stuff.

In hindsight, it would have been pretty random if that girl had asked me for advice on op shopping. Nonetheless, I was ready to answer her questions if she chose to direct them to me, as I have demonstrated above.


* As a post script, I should probably add that it's important to note that there are certain things you can't get at op shops (and not just underwear). Nice, plain, simple tops in classic colours are really hard to find because no one ever throws them out, they just wear them til they fall apart. And yep. That's all my advice. In case anyone's interested.

a door to another world

My house has a new front door.
But let me explain.

My parents house got robbed a few months ago. Actually, 'robbed' is a bit too strong a word, cos nothing was taken. Someone got in through the front door, realised my mum was driving down the driveway, and made a speedy exit out the back. So my use of the verb 'to rob' is kind of misleading in this instance. Let's say they got 'broken into'. But I digress.

In response to this 'break in', my parents replaced all the locks. But it turns out that my ancient front door, while having a very sturdy lock, was not very sturdy itself and could easily be busted through. So they had to replace the whole door. When I heard about this on the phone, I was pretty disappointed. The key to our old front door was awesome - a big, gold, old fashioned looking thing. Like a key in a picture from a children's storybook. And I wasn't that pleased about having to give it up.

Despite the forewarning, I got a shock when I came home for the first time after that. It just didn't feel quite the same, entering my house through a different door. And it got me thinking about the symbolic nature of doors. They symbolise security ["behind locked doors"], opportunity ["one door closes, another one opens"], and refuge ["wolves at the door"]. They designate the spaces in our lives, and they allow us to move between them. And they're a good place to hang out during an earthquake, apparently.

I'm getting used to the new front door. I've stopped lifting my foot a little too high when I step over the threshold. The smell of varnish is slowly fading from the wood (I still notice it, though). But I haven't taken the old key off my key ring. To be honest, I'm not sure when I will. Is it "the key to my childhood", perhaps? I think that's taking the symbolism a little too far. Mostly, I just like the way it looks.

secrets

I'm a little bit obsessed with postsecret at the moment. It's a blog where people send in anonymous postcards with a secret written on one side - usually the picture side. They range from the silly and irreverent to the deeply personal and often confronting.

People confess to affairs, petty theft, lies, mistakes they've made, suicide attempts.
They also confess to random acts of kindness, decisions that have changed their lives for the better, fears about their futures.

It often worries me that there's no way of knowing who sends the postcards. I read one a few weeks ago that said "To the lady at the post office who liked my journal: it's full of suicide notes. You can have it when I'm gone." There's no way of knowing whether that person is still alive or not.

I sometimes feel bad for reading other people's secrets. Especially when they're so confronting. But that's kind of the point. The anonymity of the site means that people can express their deepest darkest secrets without fear of discovery. And there's something deeply theraputic about that. Why else do we keep diaries? Or write things on the back of toilet doors? And reading other people's secrets can be theraputic too. They can help you discover a secret you didn't know you had. Or were too afraid to express. Or just let you know you're not alone.

Anyway, I'm hooked.

tea leaves

I've been drinking a lot of tea lately. I used to be a coffee drinker, but after going to Europe and drinking Italian espressos, nothing else seems to cut it. Plus coffee often makes me feel sick. Also I've been lacking in motivation for study, and tea sometimes helps with that. I have a great one called "refresh" which my friend gave me for my birthday. And a green tea with strawberries in it, which is full of caffiene as well as being delish.



I've also been watching The Mighty Boosh, hence the picture. "Howard and Vince are in danger - it's written in the tea leaves!" Classic Naboo.

Reading tea leaves is a funny thing. So arbitrary, really. But on the other hand, random pseudo-psychic things like that can sometimes be revealing. A friend of mine used to have these little cards with words printed on them, and you were meant to pick 5 out and they would tell you stuff about your life. It was all chance, obviously, but we had some great conversations from it. The words were often just enough to trigger a thought or feeling we'd had but haven't been able to put into words. So it's not really psychic, but it can still tell you something about yourself.

Anyway, back to study.

couch surfing

I've been looking for a place to live. It's pretty fun really. Looking up houses online. Going to inspections. Weighing up the pros and cons. Big bedrooms, tiny kitchen. Close to uni, not enough windows. Cheap rent, no heating.

My future housemates and I have only a few criteria. Bedrooms must be big enough for a double bed, wardrobe, and a desk. Kitchen must have enough bench space so we can create vegetarian feasts. The laundry needs to fit a washing machine and dryer, cos one of my housemates scored a set off her grandparents.

I have one or two criteria of my own. I want the house to have some kind of quirk. We looked at one that had a random little nook built into the wall at about head height. I've no idea what it was designed for, but I liked it. Another one had a hollywood star in the middle of the bathroom floor. I'm also a fan of walk in pantries, of which we've seen a few.

Anyway, I keep thinking of this song by Darren Hanlon. I think it's fitting.

Well I haven't paid rent in a month or more
I'm couch surfing
And I don't have a key cause I don't have a door
I'm couch surfing
I'm not taking calls
I'm between houses

Of my material possessions I've lost track
I didn't need them
Everything I need fits in my backpack
I call it freedom
A pair of jeans some shirts and a guitar lead
A toothbrush, socks and a paperback reader
All the rest is what's hanging off of me
I'm not answering questions
I'm between houses

Outside the night is cold and stormy
And you blew up the air mattress for me
We'll talk all night like an open book
And I'll sleep on every breath you took
Before you leave I'll sneak a look up at you

But there's an old saying that could bare retelling
When you're couch surfing:
'the guest should leave before the fish starts smelling'
When your couch surfing
It's romantically existential
To reduce your life to the bare essentials
All that which is inconsequential guides me

But this whole theory really depends
On whether or not you've got good friends
And all this weightlessness the philosophers preach
Reduces you to societies leach
But tonight I've landed on my feet
I'm still one friend away from the bum on the street
And I've used up all my good will vouchers
On every single friend with couches
It won't be long before they'll ask me to leave
It's time I cut myself some keys
Give me a pen I'll sign a lease and go get me a home

given time

I wrote this song about a year ago and I'd almost forgotten about it until I discovered it in my trusty book of songs. (It's not a particularly long book, and half of it is blank pages I've left in the hope that I'll be overcome with lyrical inspiration sometime in the future and finish what I've started. I ususally don't. But nevertheless.) It's kind of a combination of things I was wondering about for fun, and stuff I was wondering about for my philosophy class.

I seem to blog a fair bit about philosophy. I guess it's the subject that manages to interest me above and beyond whatever piece of assessment I have due. Actually that's not true. My other classes do as well, to an extent, although it's mainly a negative one. I've recently been obsessed with a comment someone made in a Political Economy tute last week implying that AIDs was a good thing because it would counter over-population in Africa; I can't stop talking about what a douche this guy is! But that's not so interesting to write about.

Anyway, in true philosophical style, the questions in the song remain questions; I don't know if I have answers for all of them just yet. But still - they're interesting to think about.


Does it still count as being in love if I thought it at the time but have since changed my mind?
What is love, if not the strongest feeling you can feel for a person at a given time
Even if, given time you change your mind?

What is time if not the gradual changes in the light as night turns into day and day turns into night?
Tiny particles reverberate and penetrate the endless empty spaces between me and the edge of time
Even if, the edge of time is only in my mind

And what's my mind if not the stream of images and thoughts that have crossed it since the beginning of my life?
Imagination, concentration, perceieved reality, and memory, and all the bits and pieces that are mine
Even if, given time I lose my mind

Does it still count as being in love if I thought it at the time but have since changed my mind?
What is love, if not the strongest feeling you can feel for a person at a given time
Even if, given time you change your mind?

Given time . . .