Skip to main content

SO IT TURNS OUT I LIKE WRITING NOW...

 

                   SO IT TURNS OUT I LIKE WRITING NOW...

 Twenty years of oil paints, clays and what-nots

and I'm after finding a load of words now.

But sure, I'll try anything once.

Twice if I like it...

Except bungee jumping, I'll never do that.

And sushi. That's rotten shite.

But my earliest memory of writing something decent, was in high school - Mrs C’s English class. She thought it was so good, she read it to the room -

I nearly collapsed off the chair - I was rubbish at school – couldn’t be bothered, all seemed a bit pointless really.

But I liked Mrs C - the only one I did like.

She never stuck me in detention like the others did – but they knew all too well how often “The dog ate my homework” - wouldn’t let me forget it.

Some reason, I always did homework for her. She never patronised, put down or picked on anyone. But she could shut up the biggest tosser in the class, like that!

Wish I knew how.

I’ve met a lot of tossers.

Now I don’t remember the essay topic - but I do remember it being a bitter, whiny, riddled with my signature sarcasm sort of a piece - about the perils of being a middle child – and my 'baby' sibling receiving the majority of mother’s attention.

Well by Jaysus! The class was in stitches! And I couldn’t quite believe that it was from something I wrote – I’d no intention of being funny.

I thought myself just brilliant!

Dunno if I wrote much after that.

Though sometimes, I think you’re banjaxed once you think you’re brilliant. Never trying nearly as hard because, well, “You’re brilliant”

Up ‘til then, I'd thought good writing was all about fancy words: ramblings about hills and heather and shit. The reader weeping fat tears at the poetic, Shakespearean beauty of it all.

Tried that – doesn’t wear well on me.

However, when one tries too hard to be funny, one does look like a dickhead... But I spose “Dickhead is, as dickhead does” (Didn’t Forest Gump say that once?)

But I’m thinking, I like it better getting someone rolling on the floor in bits, losing their waters...

‘Cause life is full of all of this other bullshit. And you gotta dump it somewhere.. (Didn’t Oprah say that once?)

My majority dumped on Facebook these days. Getting used to not knowing who or what is reading it - whether or not they even give a rat's ass.

But I make myself laugh.

Maybe someone else will too.

Thanks Mrs C

 

 

 

 

 


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

SO I MOVED TO LONDON…

  SO I MOVED TO LONDON… And a year or so in, rented this room - all in, sixty pounds weekly... My habitat - above a smelly aul local pub - within its smelly old, staff quarters... – one kitchen, one bathroom, three bachelors... And the eighties 'vintage' furniture... dahling – sooo bang on trend! My gender, in the house’s minority – I was quite tolerant, taking the odd, pre-caffeinated tumbles – ensconced in my early morning ablutions – into a loo – in it’s convenient, bachelor seat setting... But soon, my desperation dwindled for this dwelling – and my tiny bugs were fertilised and fed – into filthy, great big and fat one’s... And it was only as I sat upon a lightly, spackled jax seat – when a new morning dawned, and I pondered “Why would the boys be leaving behind their lacksey-daisical sprinkles – when they be parking their butts on it too?” And then I stood up – landing my cleanly socked feet – in a bright neon puddle, pooling the perimeter of God's white porcelain tele...

SO MY DAD WAS IN THE AIR FORCE…

   SO MY DAD WAS  IN THE AIR FORCE… The RAF in his twenties – the SAAF in his  thirties settling down in a caravan in Cape Town... An apprentice at 16, after quitting his grammar schooling – couldn’t be arsed sitting still at the study - wanting to use his useful hands, his good logic and his maths - an aircraft mechanic, was to become his craft - And my frustrated nomadic soul, a facsimile of his... – So he was sent away, to some mad made-up-sounding islands, like Christmas and Easter... We, the kids, only busted a gut – at the beginnings of his endless stories, “When I was in Christmas Island...” - then we’d all fall about, faux snoring at the next and the next and the next... and some of them even started off with, “When I was in Singapore...” But we had snored at his exciting times. His growing up - and I’d say some bleedin’ terrifying times. And now I’m telling all of my stories – but they’re nothing compared to his...my modern mind imagining, cleaning bogs and ...

FAUX-RISH

                                          FAUX- RISH                                                         So I landed in Ireland, in the County of Clare, in nineteen ninety seven - and taking on this Faux-rish twang was my necessity - so's the locals'd understand me.  Many did not - And me not even Afrikaans. And what with the place I grew up in being so cut off from everyone, Americans and Ozzies only ever existed on tele – And meeting the foreign accent, an unusual thing – well except for my parents - but I was accustomed to them. And I guess the town I blew into had been fairly cut off from me too - a population, probably less than a thousand – fluctuating dramatically from season to season –  West coast Ireland wintering, uninhab...