The World You Love

I think this blog has unfortunately become yet another metaphor for my life, at least the writing side of it. I too soon have become obsessed with something else. Well I can still escape to this blog when I feel vaguely creative. I think that makes it slightly postmodern. The postmodern has taken over in my writing lately. I started writing a postmodern love story. It's currently 1800 words but I think it could be rewritten in greater detail. I toyed with turning it into a script, but I definitely don't have the discipline to do that. Well for the moment I will move between this blogging world where I can pretend I am some kind of writer, and the real world where I can be a bit of a mess at times. Could be worse.

Passing Me By

As is fitting for a blog with this name I feel a bit like a rainbow today. Basically I'm happy but sad and I reckon when you smile while you're crying, you create a rainbow. I tried to make myself grasp life a bit more recently, to go 'fuck it' and jump on opportunities. Thinking about what's gonna happen in the future, I'm deciding I might take life routes which are a bit more out there and risky, but in terms of right now, I can't go 'fuck it' just yet. I'm still scared and apparently willing to let opportunity pass me by. Still I feel happy for some reason. It's good.

Getting Away With It (All Messed Up)

For the first time last night I experienced being sober in a nightclub and I must admit it was a spectacular experience. I was also quite hyper so I wasn't exactly sombre. The first thing that struck me was the wonderful pauses between songs, when everyone stops dancing and stands about awkwardly for a few seconds until they can dance again, especially as they strain with a confused face trying to work out what song is starting. But also, no-one pays attention to you in a nightclub. When you're drunk, you're trying to be cool and desirable. You hope all the right people see when you look fit or what-have-you and are turned away when you do something stupid. And as you walk to the toilet you feel every eye on the dancefloor watching you. But last night, sober, I realised that no-one pays attention to you. I was dancing like an idiot, standing still, lunging, walking in-between people in circles and no-one blinked. You can get away with anything, sober in a nightclub. Everyone else is too drunk and too consumed with the music and looking cool, that everyone else becomes irrelevant. But it wasn't just that, it was how disconnected I felt. Everyone else was pulsating and moving as one, and I was darting about watching people, controlling my actions. It really was fantastic.

Something To Talk About

I've been writing as much as usual recently, and had a class today, and still I find feedback hard. Today it was better than usual because it was done anonymously, and generally it seems people are too afraid to offend, they don't want to criticize your work in case you get arsey with them but not today. I got plenty of criticism, mainly telling me that they couldn't understand my poem, which is a brilliant starting point, but not really much advice on what I should do or a direction to take. Maybe I am expecting too much but I like to think the criticism I give is as useful as possible. I've got a few close friends in and out of uni whose opinion I trust and who help me the most with my writing. I contrived a sentence which I think sums up my attitude towards constructive criticism. It might be a little obvious, overly deep and what-have-you but I stand by it: If I can’t show my work to people I trust, whose opinions I value, who won’t lie to me, who will tell me what doesn’t work, who I will believe, then how can I ever achieve brilliance? Maybe my ego is once again getting in the way, maybe I am destined to be another Hemingway, so overly competitive, but for me I don't want to be a writer, I want to be the greatest writer. I am going to take everything, if I can.

Bittersweet Symphony

After a rather pedestrian and bland start to my blog, I've decided to get down to business and might as well start by explaining why I called it 'Sad Man Smiling'. The phrase itself comes from a poem I wrote the other day, but in general I love juxtapositions and oxymorons, especially in terms of bittersweetness. When I write, I generally end up with what alot of people would call bleak, depressing, downbeat, even horrific endings. But I always think there's some level of hope within. Maybe it goes back to, 'One man's treasure is another's gold'. What's sad to some is happy to others. But I think it's more than that. I think sometimes when you cry it makes you feel like smiling, maybe just because you feel alive, or because there's some kind of warmth in the situation too. I don't want to get all deep and philosophical, but maybe just get some way to explaining why I think opposites run hand in hand rather well. I'll shove the poem on the end, maybe you'll like it, maybe not. At least it should you how much I love juxtapositions.

Sad Man Smiling
I watch my beautiful bastard,
this sad man smiling,
and his manically-calm entourage.
I thought they collapsed together
but they say, “we’re waiting to rise.”
Either way they’re deflated and useless;
they’re not willing, they’re not lacking.
They just sit, tears and grins,
staring through me.
So I close the curtains on their sun,
skip their favourite tracks,
and keep them down beneath my foot.
But that sugared-sour fuck
takes me back
to memories I’d hidden,
those ones I’d discarded,
and I smile, I cry,
I join him and his allies
and I feel cleansed, fresh, natural.
“I love it
you sick fuck.”

Where Have You Been?

I was never planning on writing a blog, but then I never planned to join Twitter, Facebook, and MySpace. I should have stuck by my guns with the latter, it is shite, but the other two are reasonably enjoyable. However, I do write the occasional blog on MySpace and I think it's finally stirred something beneath. The problem is, I guess for most, who's gonna read your blogs? I suppose you won't ever know, but it's great if just one person reads them surely?
Anyway, I enjoy writing. I wouldn't say I'm a writer, 'cos it's not my profession, just something I enjoy currently. Maybe I'll post the odd poem or story on here, but who knows? I made a New Year's resolution to enter as many writing competitions as I can and there are thousands out there. I actually won a poetry competition a few weeks back and won £100 which was a good old boost to the ego. Now I've got poems, monologues, stories, chapters hovering about waiting to be typed out and sent off.
It's a fantastically uniform sky outside. it's windy, post-rain, cold, crisp and great. I gotta go somewhere, but when I get back hopefully I'll write a bit. Maybe watch Pan's Labyrinth. Maybe I'll animate. I don't really know where the day is heading, but I don't really care.
p.s. I can be destroyingly pedantic at times, yet I often write words thinking they should exist whether they already do or don't, and argue with practically anyone, so apologies in advance.