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a sonnet a day?

A sonnet a week, perhaps?
Where did I read the idea that someone who stops painting at 14 paints like a 14-year-old when they try to pick it up again in adulthood?  I haven't written in this form for over a decade; I last wrote a sonnet for my 'theories of versification' class at university, and my abilities (such as they are) have all but stagnated in the intervening years...  And so I have set myself the challenge of writing a sonnet a day - bad, uninspired sonnets which can be written in little more than a lunch-break - with the idea that familiarity with form will improve my fluency and discipline in writing, and make experimentation just that little bit more interesting.  And so:


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Inspired in part by the infinitely superior 'Dull Sonnet' by Henry Reed: http://www.solearabiantree.net/namingofparts/pdf/reed/reedcollectedpoems1991.txt
totoro

Selling Baby

All I have left is a capo I never used to use lying forlornly in my handbag.  I don't think there are even any photographs - she was such a part of my life that I never thought to capture her.  She sold so quickly that I didn't get a chance.

She came alive under his fingers.  He tried one tune, then another, tentatively - then, all of a sudden, broke out into music.  That was the moment she ceased to be mine.  I didn't have to ask if he wanted to buy her; we both knew he would.

He insisted I should say goodbye, so, for a sweet half hour, we jammed.  That easy, musical communication - the flow of it, the buzz.  It's been a long time since I played with someone else.  "But you have other guitars to play," he ascertained, concerned.  "You're not just giving up.  Are you?"
 
As I left, I checked myself, sure I'd forgotten something.  "Feels strange to be walking out without her," he said, knowingly, and hugged me, elated - "I've got a Taylor!"  
 
I caught the tube back home, alone; no longer the girl with the great guitar; just another girl on the tube, listening to music she can't play, now.
I *have* to get another.
  • Current Mood
    sad bereft
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discord

A story I always loved: the golden apple, thrown by Eris.  Discord is for those who take themselves too seriously - sometimes (often) that means me.

discordia.org.uk/index.html

Throw a golden apple.  Pose a problem.  Live wherever you want to live.  Ask yourself what it's all adding up to - really, ask yourself; spend all your free time searching for new and different jobs and worrying about what they'd mean if you even managed to get them.  Then step outside, look up at the sky, smile (no second glance for the people who stop what they're doing to look at you smiling for a moment).  What it adds up to is you, and everything else.

What if, instead of deliberating over which is the fairest & to whom you should pay court, you simply get them dancing?  It is a party, after all.  Isn't it?

I've got so many things to write, but sometimes discipline is overrated.  It's fear that stops me writing; fear that writing feeds the demons, every dark thing you've ever felt that's drawn out in the exploration of it.  Cut off your hands to stop yourself exploring.  Or just explore; maybe come back scarred from the experience, but come back anyway.  

Easy enough to say.
 
  • Current Music
    Amour Fou