Wednesday, February 26, 2014

What could be more important?

Readers, I do have regular Art versus Life dilemmas. I enjoyed my weekly poetry class, and then it was cancelled due to lack of numbers. I find it very hard to write without a deadline or a metaphorical stick. My father (a writer) used to suggest that I write a novel. Blimey, my massage lady, Wee Paula, tells me to, 'get that book written.' She claims to have clairvoyant powers, but, hey...
What's stopping me? Answer: Being as happy as a pig in mud (to use an un-writer-ly cliché). Being there for the kids feels like the truest calling I ever had. I ask myself, what could be more important? Sure, art is crucially important. It helps better us and elevate us and I love the high of a good song/film/poem/story/novel. I love feeling I have created something that moves others - a poem or a story.
But, let's face it, my main creativity is helping the children grow safely and happily. This should not been seen as lesser. I am enjoying a new volunteer role as a classroom assistant in a local primary school. This too, feels right and it feels important in a way that is often underrated. But it feels important to me, and this is where the sustenance lies. I'd love to get a job like this, one day.
Perhaps I will come back to writing sooner or later. Umm, later or sooner, I want to say, to give me hope it will be sooner.
Still, I love being the big cushion for the weans and the one who will teach them to tie their shoe laces. Such industry allows me to be the one who watches The Simpsons with them, when the  comfortable tiredness of evening comes calling. Peace on earth, man.


Monday, February 24, 2014

That's touring, hen...

I took a trip to Manchester with Francis, when he went to see Laura Cantrell sing. 'You do really cool things,' said a friend. I thought it would be an exciting getaway: say, pre-gig dinner in a cool urban eatery...a sparkling gig, then a funky hotel with snowy towels and sheets?

Yes, kind of. And what about: motorway service stations, Sat Nav insanity, cold, smelly dressing rooms in the student union, four hours sleep with toga-wearing hen parties yelling for their f-ing pizzas at 4am?

'That's touring, hen', said Francis. He's right. I wouldn't last five minutes.

Turn off Sat Nav and drive directly to Comfort Zone. Know your strengths and stay there, she tells herself , next morning, as she notes her wrinkles in the mirror.

Lovely Laura, meanwhile, gave it everything and the crowd lapped it up.

It was great to see the kids again, when we came home.

Wednesday, February 05, 2014

Crying Fowl

I should really brush up on my spelling before tackling local dog owners. The more educated canine might think, okay, so I can't chase any chickens here now, but I can still use the pavement as a toilet.

Yes, I am really angry about the endless dog poo in our area. I phoned a community dog poo lady from the council - although that may not be her official title. She did her best by asking 'community officers' to patrol the area, but she said the legislation was woeful. I'd like to see a new, 'stop and search' campaign. If the dog owners can't produce a plastic bag, then the police should take down their address and give them a verbal warning.
It's vile and disgusting and bacteria therein can lead to kids going blind. Really. It makes most people really angry. How can we pool our collective wrath and close in on the offenders?
More chalk and correct spelling might be a start.