I wake at 9.27. For the first time in roughly 2 years, I've slept for eight straight hours. And I had a dream. 'twas a mindless thriller. I was chased by an anti-Inua, a mishmash of Will Smith's Hancock and Mel Gibson's Brave Heart. The dude was vicious, flying through trees, skimming ponds, slicing tadpoles in half, all the time cackling madly and coming at me. All I had was a fountain pain, kept squirting ink at him. Then I woke up.
Rain. Drenchfull and utter. If this was London, wouldn't think twice of going in to it, there're doorways to duck into, shops to feign interest in, free newspapers to make head gear, all the tricks of the trade. Out here, nothing but trees and their canopies aren't water tight. I pull back the curtains and stare across the loch, can't see anything. A thick fog has settled on the island making it a giant stormy snow globe. A grey light crawls into my 'Cube', shifts about a bit, settles down. I flick open my laptop, begin to write.
Work Today I work on 'Sparkle Sharp', a poem, essentially a f*ck you to the stars for not caring enough about us. An alright idea, not one of my best, I'm certainly not the first to have tried it. I'm in danger of making a metaphysical tosh pot of words, so try the one way out, keeping it as grounded as possible, lock it to concrete images. I left with Niall O'Sullivan's 'Ventriloquism for Monkeys' - great book, Page 53 has the love poem 'twilight', so tightly written and clear, it dazzles me. I steal its movement (I'm Nigerian, what?). 'Sparkle Sharp' begins:
Those distant sparkle sharps that pin prick the sky, those ice -eyed eternals, those indifferent twinkle tips, stoic in their stillness
will never know how pebbles wink when watered or how oceans rival space for wonder //
Rain stops at 13.20. It's been a solid four hours of downpour. I dash into the shower, dash out, break fast, back to work. 'Twilight' is set in London, Niall's eyes go from: Brixton to Hampstead to Herne Hill. The stars on the other hand see the whole planet, so I go from: forest to desert to city. In the desert, I describe a cactus plant in danger of being shredded by a sand storm. In the city, typically, a crime scene. The poem closes with me asking to be acknowledged by my lady...
So this night, my love, hold me; the sparkles don’t care for us. As if the world were dark and lips were flint stones, kiss me a never spark, speak of my name //
This is one of my five writing targets, I am roughly happy with it, will keep kicking it till it looks right on page and sounds right on stage. Targets include: Sketching out a 10 Mins Podcast, writing the first few minutes of next theatre project and solidifying ideas for a radio play. Till Tomorrow. x