A demon has entered my head. It won’t come out, no matter how much I try and force the issue.
Somewhere across the mists of time, a time in which wars have been won and lost, kingdoms have risen and fallen and territories have been ceded and possessed, someone somewhere has entered by being and possessed me. A song. A song damn it, so dire, so horrendous that it has stuck in my head and won’t budge, I have been zapped by the worst of 1958; that’s 11 years before I was born ladies and gentlemen, zapped by someone who sings with a voice like molten lard, yes lard. Not lava, lard.
I want to know where the hell I heard the song “All in the game” by Tommy Edwards. I want to know where, and who and I want revenge. Of all the songs from that age, that year this one has stalked and found me. I could have had anything by Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran, anything but not this. This is worse than hearing something slide under your bed in the darkest depth of night.
Tommy Edwards, I will now publicly attempt to cast you out. Be gone from my head, never to return. Go!
It could be the title of a book, albeit a not very inspiring one. It could but it’s not, it’s a reflection of someone, somewhere. It’s a reflection of me, looking back at me from the glass with shadow-circled eyes and skin paling in the fresh autumn breeze as the rain falls while the leaves take their time to turn from green to brown and the summer (what summer?) looks around, sighs and departs.
It seems a long time since I wrote anything ‘creative’, and by that I mean fiction, my first writing love. I looked in my diary and saw the last entry almost a month ago; that is terrible! Even laying aside a brief bout of ill-health and outside stresses it’s still a long time – too long. Thi is only alleviated by the fact I’ve managed to post poetry on my writing blog since July. I would sometime use the blog to air some of my morning writing exercises, at least those that could be aired. I’ve always used those hours in the morning when I should be sleeping but can’t, to write. Just lately, for a number of reasons, I just haven’t had that get up and go to, well, get up. There’s a correlation between no longer writing in the morning, my most creative period, and not producing fiction. And I have a theory:
Contrary to my fiction-writing habits, my poetry seems to take a peek behind the curtain later in the day. I feel about as disposed to write poetry in the morning as I feel disposed to go to the office… yeah, enthusiasm eh? Although the latter will change from 1st January but more of that another time. Anyway, my theory is my poetic soul picks up on the sins of the day; the tensions, arguments and darkened thoughts. Instead, the writer in me, the storyteller, likes a new white canvas, the first breath of cold, clean mountain air as he opens the window, thoughts untainted and summed up in five words.