Syllabubbles

Wednesday, 18 March 2015 18:34
songofcopper: (endless pencil)
Another poetical challenge: gauntlet duly taken up. (Did you know, it's dashed difficult to write with a gauntlet on? I'm afraid I had to take it off again. Sorry about that.)

Anyway - another poem. I suggested these words to my opposite number: curious - Wednesday - pastel - significance. It turns out my opposite number is rather more accomplished than pore ole Yrs Trly in the poetick dept.: Penelope's creation is subtle, simple and elegant. Me, I'm sort of the opposite of that. But at least you can say I work (or footle about) quickly: it was only earlier today that P. suggested I use those very same words in composing my... not riposte (or are we still duelling...?); my... offering? Well, whatever you want to call the thing, I have had a stab at it (zounds! My pen clearly thinks it's a sword).


DSCF3925

It is my personal policy never to edit poems, because they are like mental polaroids. Of what is this a candid snap, you ask? Only the notion that from Wednesday, it's downhill all the way (probably in a good way, but that's up to you). Also, I am usually at work on a Wednesday but today I have the day off: sitting on sofas feeling unnecessary is not my usual Wednesday feeling. The mind perseverates upon trivialities (more so than ever), measuring the minutes' constant creep. ...I suppose fleeting novelties of this sort deserve to be immortalised in verse?

Anyway, it does mean that a day of idleness has not been entirely unproductive. ;-)

The previous poetic effort of your correspondent may be observed in situ here.

Pome

Monday, 2 March 2015 17:29
songofcopper: (Tea is the drink of great detectives! :-)
The other day (in Another Place) I agreed to play a game of poetical tag: submit 3 - 5 prompt words, and receive a poem containing those words. If you wished you could also receive 3 - 5 prompt words in order to return the gesture. Of course I agreed to 'pome', and I received these prompt words: violet, flourish, cloud, unrequited, entwine.

Recently I happened upon the preposterous poetry of Comte Robert de Montesquiou. Honestly, it's... indescribable. Luckily for me, I found a few verses translated into English; if only my French was up to it I'd try reading the original creations. But if you read French with a reasonable fluency, if you like Ludwig II and bats and ridiculousness, if you are willing to bite your tongue/swallow your giggles whilst kneeling reverently at the daintily-shod feet of le Comte, well... it's worth your attention. Anyway, what little I read delighted me severely.

I cannot write like that, not really (despite all, I'm far too sane). But I could not look at those prompt words - violet, flourish, cloud, unrequited, entwine - without feeling the Decadent Lightbulb ping on (...is it a lightbulb? Perhaps not; it may be something more like a moon reflected in the articulated opalescent glass drops which depend, shivering, from a lustre that glows on the mantelpiece, the hanging crystals agitated by the passing sweep of one's cape. ...Yeah, it's probably that, innit?).

Therefore, I have made my poem self-consciously ornate (so, no change there! Any excuse, right?). I think perhaps I'll let the Archduke steal it, he was after all spurned once by a callous harpy who so wounded his heart that he ran away to Helsinki and lived incognito in a fisherman's hut for about two days. (Two. Days.)

Please imagine him lying, trembling, on a rustic cot, glaring through his tears at an Odilon Redon print that is hanging against the rough woodwork of that hut.

Now Read On. :-)

Crepuscular descends the violet hour
Whose tint pollutes the rosy hope of day.
Her note: ‘Cher ami, veuillez patienter’;
Not patient but becalmed, sickly I cow’r.
Rise, Bile; choke, burn my heart; flourish, Decay!
Like Sun’s eye dimmed in cloud, mine eyes now lour:
Devotion unrequited waxes sour,
No more to her vile image will I pray!
Night’s leash is short; I dangle on that chain
Whose tether’s end is Dawn, and must resign
Myself to slavery. Accept this pain,
Thou humble thrall; drink, addict, of this wine
Meted so sparingly by her. In vain
Dost thou deny thy joy with angst entwine.

© MMFH 2nd March 2015
songofcopper: (Prince Stash Klossowski de Rola)
"Eyeless in Gaza? Why, I'd rather be Bra-less in Giza."

I'm still hunting for the right place to use that line.

I'm assuming, as I write this, that you understand about Lines. You know me, I love a Phrasey Phrase, though I try not to offend against good taste by using them in actual conversation. Perfectly justified in fiction, though. Ah, well: its time will come.

What are some others...? How about "That's not dating: that's babysitting." (This could refer as much to mental age as lifespan-to-date. Let's face it, there are some people who will always need adult supervision.)

"Justin Scarfe... do you think that's his stripper name?" - well, this one is Real. I was served by a gentleman (I mean in a shop, dear, or it may have been an airport) whose nametag was thusly inscribed. I don't recall what he looked like, which is probably just as well; there are some people you just don't want to imagine naked. (From your point of view, I daresay I'm one of 'em!)

From Paris Eat-a-mole to Winsome Slade )

I have had plenty of time to muse on such matters during the last few days. The thing is, you see, I (foolish, impetuous creature that I am) ordered a new coffee table. (Yes, I know... such extravagance ill befits etc. etc.) There is a certain kind of reckless masochism in willingly entwining one's fate (and that of blameless items of furniture) with that of the Devil's minions on earth, otherwise known as City-Link Couriers. I feel I have completed a small preliminary level of Purgatory: The Video Game in welcoming this new coffee table into my life. Ah me; Sacrifice!!

Hell is staffed by couriers, ask anyone )

Never mind: there have been some consolations, swift and unfussy in their arrival at Your Correspondent's door. My faithful librarian, Mr Fluffy here, displays our current reading matter:

bookes
Mr Fluffy and Literature - ideal companions!

Books: the cure for most frustrations )

What Cosmé Did

Monday, 20 May 2013 19:13
songofcopper: (Prince Stash Klossowski de Rola)
[I have Been Away - bodily, I mean, not in the Jeffrey Bernard sense (oh, no, he tended to be unwell, didn't he, not away... still, you get the idea...) - and before that, there were Entirenet issues to contend with. So I feel sure I need to catch up on commenting &c. I shall go to it with a will, but while it is fresh in my mind, here is an account of my weekendly doings... It is LONG, but let me not make it longer still by apologising for my verbosity.]

I went to London this weekend just gone, to see the Residents in concert at the Barbican. Originally I had intended to be frugal and go by cheap coach - I even bought the tickets - but eventually I realised that nobody deserves to be stuck for four hours in that kind of predicament, and bought train tickets after all. In another Universe, I suppose I endured the coach - and it must have done my soul the power of good, because meanwhile, in this Universe, A Pleasant Time Was Had By All. (Y'know, it's an arresting thought. Can you believe simultaneously in the Many Worlds hypothesis AND the Soul? How does that work? Ladies and Gentlemen, we interrupt this performance and beg to enquire if there is a Jesuit in the house...)

ANYWAY, the foregoing is not Germane To The Matter In Hand, so I'll put it in the Tray Marked Pending. (All brains must have a Tray Marked Pending, and ideally a Circular File, too.) And having done that, let's get on with it, shall we...?

My state of mind before embarking on this venture was much enlivened by having found this picture:

Cosmé is offered gallantry and accepts it )
What Would Cesare Do? Cosmé sez Confess! )
Do Freemasons eat sushi? )
Musical Interlude With Vitiligo Heart )
Stick A Hat On It - and have a bowl of coffee )
Cometh the hour, Cosmé the confused )
What Charlie Mortdecai Would Do With A Befouled Sandwich )
Monastic Ambience Gained )

And that brings us (I can tell you're glad) to those welcome words: The End.
songofcopper: (magritte)
I absolutely love my local library.

Some drivel about the place where all the books live together in happy harmony. ^_^ )

I picked up this book and simply had to borrow it.

The craziest literary form ever?! )

Ok.  Enough from me.  Have a great day everyone! ^__^

songofcopper: (magritte)
I absolutely love my local library.

Some drivel about the place where all the books live together in happy harmony. ^_^ )

I picked up this book and simply had to borrow it.

The craziest literary form ever?! )

Ok.  Enough from me.  Have a great day everyone! ^__^

songofcopper: (NaNoWriMo)
All hail and herald!  I HAVE GOT PAST 50,000 WORDS!!!



Phew.  That was quite a feat.  I needed to be done by Friday, because I'm away at the weekend, but, with a little bit of elbow grease, I seem to have managed it tonight!!

Well, the actual story is not nearly finished.  I don't know what I've unleashed here: all I know is that I got to a bit that felt like the 'end of Part One' so I gave 'Part One' a title, and moved on to 'Part Two'... who knows where we shall end up with this, if we end up at all!  I want to continue, but I think I might have a bit of a break first (an enforced - and entirely welcome - one, in the shape of the weekend, certainly!).

I've achieved a lot today - not just on the writing front, either, but I'll save that stuff for another entry, another time.

Good Night LiveJournal!  And, heartfelt good luck to anyone who is still hacking hard at the NaNoWriMo coalface - or indeed battling with any sort of tangle of words.  Let's just say that I am living proof that 'just a few more words... ooh, that's a hundred odd... maybe a few more... just whilst I'm waiting for X...' REALLY WORKS. XD

It's been fun.  I'm definitely going to buy me a souvenir t-shirt. ;-D

songofcopper: (NaNoWriMo)
All hail and herald!  I HAVE GOT PAST 50,000 WORDS!!!



Phew.  That was quite a feat.  I needed to be done by Friday, because I'm away at the weekend, but, with a little bit of elbow grease, I seem to have managed it tonight!!

Well, the actual story is not nearly finished.  I don't know what I've unleashed here: all I know is that I got to a bit that felt like the 'end of Part One' so I gave 'Part One' a title, and moved on to 'Part Two'... who knows where we shall end up with this, if we end up at all!  I want to continue, but I think I might have a bit of a break first (an enforced - and entirely welcome - one, in the shape of the weekend, certainly!).

I've achieved a lot today - not just on the writing front, either, but I'll save that stuff for another entry, another time.

Good Night LiveJournal!  And, heartfelt good luck to anyone who is still hacking hard at the NaNoWriMo coalface - or indeed battling with any sort of tangle of words.  Let's just say that I am living proof that 'just a few more words... ooh, that's a hundred odd... maybe a few more... just whilst I'm waiting for X...' REALLY WORKS. XD

It's been fun.  I'm definitely going to buy me a souvenir t-shirt. ;-D

songofcopper: (glance)
Soon, in a few weeks, it will be that time of year again.  November.  National Novel Writing Month.

Time to start churning out utter dross in the name of an arbitrary wordcount goal.  Time to rack your brains to come up with endless, ludicrous plot twists to extricate your poor unfortunate characters from whatever sorry predicament you've managed to shoehorn them into.  Time to write A Bad Novel, just for the sake of it. ;-)

Or, to put it another way, time to stop writing exquisite, perfect paragraphs that go nowhere, and try something on a larger scale for once.  And possibly, to 'revitalise yourself creatively' (which does indeed sound like a euphemism for a certain kind of selfishness - and there's another! - and I apologise for it.  For both!). ;-)

Last year was my first go at this, and it was great fun.  I wrote rubbish, naturally, but afterwards, buoyed by the curious sense of achievement at having written not merely unfinished rubbish - rubbish manqué, if you will - but complete, consummate rubbish, with an actual finale - I wrote some things that I'm actually quite proud of.  (Some of them are squirrelled away on this journal, but I'm very choosy about who I put in the Writing filter.  If you're not in it, and you would like to be, ask me and I'll think about it.  Otherwise, keep mum and I'll spare you the drear dank dullness!!)  I had absolutely no clue what I was going to write until about two days before, when I happened to see some confetti on some stone steps, and immediately had a delightfully morbid notion. ;-)  That notion turned into a rather overly-complex tale about a young widower's adventures across various parallel universes.  (Yes, it was very silly.  No, I'm not going to make you read it. :-P)

This year, I still have no idea what I'm going to write, but I think I might have just thought of a title.  And I have various nebulous thoughts about the atmosphere I want to invoke - the set dressing and wardrobe, I guess.  And the soundtrack!  Of course, superstition dictates that I can't tell you about it right now.  Besides, there are a few weeks to go yet.

Wordsmithery-related fun on the horizon, though, is most gratifying.  I am looking forward to it!

Good luck to anyone reading this who is also thinking of having a go. :-)

songofcopper: (glance)
Soon, in a few weeks, it will be that time of year again.  November.  National Novel Writing Month.

Time to start churning out utter dross in the name of an arbitrary wordcount goal.  Time to rack your brains to come up with endless, ludicrous plot twists to extricate your poor unfortunate characters from whatever sorry predicament you've managed to shoehorn them into.  Time to write A Bad Novel, just for the sake of it. ;-)

Or, to put it another way, time to stop writing exquisite, perfect paragraphs that go nowhere, and try something on a larger scale for once.  And possibly, to 'revitalise yourself creatively' (which does indeed sound like a euphemism for a certain kind of selfishness - and there's another! - and I apologise for it.  For both!). ;-)

Last year was my first go at this, and it was great fun.  I wrote rubbish, naturally, but afterwards, buoyed by the curious sense of achievement at having written not merely unfinished rubbish - rubbish manqué, if you will - but complete, consummate rubbish, with an actual finale - I wrote some things that I'm actually quite proud of.  (Some of them are squirrelled away on this journal, but I'm very choosy about who I put in the Writing filter.  If you're not in it, and you would like to be, ask me and I'll think about it.  Otherwise, keep mum and I'll spare you the drear dank dullness!!)  I had absolutely no clue what I was going to write until about two days before, when I happened to see some confetti on some stone steps, and immediately had a delightfully morbid notion. ;-)  That notion turned into a rather overly-complex tale about a young widower's adventures across various parallel universes.  (Yes, it was very silly.  No, I'm not going to make you read it. :-P)

This year, I still have no idea what I'm going to write, but I think I might have just thought of a title.  And I have various nebulous thoughts about the atmosphere I want to invoke - the set dressing and wardrobe, I guess.  And the soundtrack!  Of course, superstition dictates that I can't tell you about it right now.  Besides, there are a few weeks to go yet.

Wordsmithery-related fun on the horizon, though, is most gratifying.  I am looking forward to it!

Good luck to anyone reading this who is also thinking of having a go. :-)

songofcopper: (full head & shoulders)
Here’s the second part of an unwieldy, long response to [profile] ember_reed’s question.

This is the bit about what has influenced me stylistically.  (Really, it feels a bit weird to be writing about this – I’m not a published author, or an authority on anything.  But since you have expressed an interest, I’ll try and answer the question!  NB: I am bad at being concise…)

Thinking about thinking... )
songofcopper: (full head & shoulders)
Here’s the second part of an unwieldy, long response to [profile] ember_reed’s question.

This is the bit about what has influenced me stylistically.  (Really, it feels a bit weird to be writing about this – I’m not a published author, or an authority on anything.  But since you have expressed an interest, I’ll try and answer the question!  NB: I am bad at being concise…)

Thinking about thinking... )
songofcopper: (just me)
Today I am re-treading a bit of an old story.  It's about Harry Mackenzie, 'fake-poet', a rather curmudgeonly and reclusive so-and-so who nonetheless somehow ends up being various people's "pet project" over the course of his story.  He's one of my favourite characters - mostly because he's terrible.  He is the sort of person who, no matter what's going on around him, never fails to be smelly and cynical.  He shares his house with mould.  He lives on food from the 'Four Ostriches' takeaway on the corner.  (To this day I'm not entirely sure why it's called that.  But I used to have this annoying habit of giving my fictional food/drink outlets bizarre names.  There was a pub in Hornbeam Parva called 'The Hat and Handbag' which Meredith used to frequent with his childhood playmate Queenie Furlong... ah, memories...!)

Well, H. Mackenzie, welcome back awhile.  The smell of mothballs and unwashed crockery precedes you!

I'm about to get to the part where Harry's wife Judith leaves him to join a religious order in Zurich.  (Again... why??!  Where that idea came from, I will never know.  Although I suppose, since he should never have got involved with a woman in the first place, she has to be eradicated and almost *exorcised*.)

Maybe I'll post an extract later on... or maybe not.  We'll see. ;-)

Lalalalalalala...
songofcopper: (just me)
Today I am re-treading a bit of an old story.  It's about Harry Mackenzie, 'fake-poet', a rather curmudgeonly and reclusive so-and-so who nonetheless somehow ends up being various people's "pet project" over the course of his story.  He's one of my favourite characters - mostly because he's terrible.  He is the sort of person who, no matter what's going on around him, never fails to be smelly and cynical.  He shares his house with mould.  He lives on food from the 'Four Ostriches' takeaway on the corner.  (To this day I'm not entirely sure why it's called that.  But I used to have this annoying habit of giving my fictional food/drink outlets bizarre names.  There was a pub in Hornbeam Parva called 'The Hat and Handbag' which Meredith used to frequent with his childhood playmate Queenie Furlong... ah, memories...!)

Well, H. Mackenzie, welcome back awhile.  The smell of mothballs and unwashed crockery precedes you!

I'm about to get to the part where Harry's wife Judith leaves him to join a religious order in Zurich.  (Again... why??!  Where that idea came from, I will never know.  Although I suppose, since he should never have got involved with a woman in the first place, she has to be eradicated and almost *exorcised*.)

Maybe I'll post an extract later on... or maybe not.  We'll see. ;-)

Lalalalalalala...
songofcopper: (full head & shoulders)
If you’ve not seen this film, you really must.  The central conceit of it – that somehow a real person’s life is being determined and driven by an author’s words – is such fun.  And some things in it that are charming include: the little animations that pop up now and again to illustrate the workings of a number-driven mind.  Maggie Gyllenhaal’s tattoos.  The bakery, which you can almost smell right off the screen.  And the careful beigeness of Harold’s apartment.  I do have a soft spot also for those actors like Will Ferrell, who are usually found in hyper-muscular comedies, but occasionally pop up in an urban-contemporary fairy tale. :-)

But this is not supposed to be a film review.  Today I want to see if I – me, as myself – can have a dialogue with one of my own characters.  (Ok, so I’m not a chain-smoking, bronchitis-battling, reclusive, vinegar-scowled literature nun, like the writer in the film.  But… I want to play too. ^_^)

My conversation will be posted in a friends-only entry, if only to save my blushes...
songofcopper: (full head & shoulders)
If you’ve not seen this film, you really must.  The central conceit of it – that somehow a real person’s life is being determined and driven by an author’s words – is such fun.  And some things in it that are charming include: the little animations that pop up now and again to illustrate the workings of a number-driven mind.  Maggie Gyllenhaal’s tattoos.  The bakery, which you can almost smell right off the screen.  And the careful beigeness of Harold’s apartment.  I do have a soft spot also for those actors like Will Ferrell, who are usually found in hyper-muscular comedies, but occasionally pop up in an urban-contemporary fairy tale. :-)

But this is not supposed to be a film review.  Today I want to see if I – me, as myself – can have a dialogue with one of my own characters.  (Ok, so I’m not a chain-smoking, bronchitis-battling, reclusive, vinegar-scowled literature nun, like the writer in the film.  But… I want to play too. ^_^)

My conversation will be posted in a friends-only entry, if only to save my blushes...

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This journal is not a private diary, it is more like an occasional, imaginary column. Therefore, much of it is on public display. However, if you want to read my occasional attempts at creative writing, my Caution Elf tells me I should only show that stuff to my friends. You know what to do. :-)

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