Weirdest book on your shelf.

So as I’ve previously mentioned, my house has a mold problem (there’s a sexy pick up line if ever I saw one). So I’m frantically moving my books to higher ground. I’ve moved all my nice ones, now I’ve just got my least favorite books to go. They’re on the bottom shelf of my bookcase (does anyone else do that? Put the books you like least on the bottom shelf?). So I was going through them and I found ‘Vinegar – 1001 practical uses’. A hark back to my hippy no-chemicals-for-me days. Now I could probably re-stock a pharmacy from my blood alone. I also have 5 books on medicinal herbs and two books on home remedies. I’m not sure why I still have them to be honest. It’s probably the book-hoarder in me that wants them. That tricksy hobbit.

over 400,000 copies sold!

What is the weirdest book in your collection?

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Wild Saturday night, poetry, and mold.

Ahhh Sunday morning.

I have a new bookcase. It’s chocolate coloured, tall, and begging for books. The walls of my room are freckled with mold that looks to be making a home for itself (the joys of living in an old damp apartment), so I’m frantically moving all my prized books out of its reach. As it is with these things, I couldn’t help but read some of them.

Now it’s late (or early) and I’ve had my nose in some pages by the likes of John Tranter, John Forbes, and August Kleinzahler. So now I’m messing around with words. Here are some I prepared earlier.

Coral lipped, she had her tongue split
down the middle, now she talks strange
She likes to stick it out at small children
declaring that she never saw herself as a
mother

concentrating on the red man, he changes
green and we walk to the movies, she hates
romantic comedies and so do I, so we catch
some Nicolas Cage disaster. We’re not there
for the popcorn.

In the park in the early hours she hands me
a can of Coke, we do the whole look
at the stars and contemplate our lives shit. She feels
Athena is misunderstood – her manager – not the goddess
she tells me, though the goddess has a right to be mad
too, if you ask her, which I didn’t, but to watch her is heaven
and the night’s too cold for me to move.

I think the ending is a bit too weak. But I’m still mulling over what to replace it with. Maybe a detail about the other persona? I don’t know, it’s kind of her show, so… I’ll have to think on it some more.

Wild Saturday night/Sunday morning alone at the keys. I know what you’re thinking, “how does she maintain her extravagant lifestyle?”. Coffee and meds, my friends, coffee and meds.

Why, what are you doing with your Sunday morning?

I, like prayers, say too much.

Been fiddling with a poem for the last two days. I’m not feelin it. Themes get stuck in my head and I gag on the same metaphors over and over. Here’s the middle of it.

Walking by your bedroom
crumpled flowers of clothes
sleepy mouthed coffee cups, slug-like
used condom visible under the bed
you close the door, chin cradling a half smile
you shrug. Your leather couch is
peeling like the sides of a mushroom
the mountains are fresh between
your torn blinds. Your hands travel
my thighs, I am 27, you are not the first to sigh
with me and I, like prayers,
say too much.

annnnd the only lines I like are “Your leather couch is peeling like the sides of a mushroom” and “I, like prayers, say too much”.

Back to the drawing board. At least I’m putting font to Word screen. Right?

 

 

 

Coming Alive

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who come alive.” – Howard Thurman

But what if you lose that? What if you lose what makes you come alive?

No dirty jokes today. I haven’t written for a while, I know. But a little while ago I lost it. I lost the juice, the will to write. The thing that kept me going when nothing else did, left me. It’s been creeping up on me for a while. I don’t want to blame it on medication. I don’t want to go down that road and put off any mentally interesting writers that might have otherwise given medication a go. But I can’t deny that it played a part. A lot of things went down and I saw myself grow cynical and shun the writer’s way of life. Life’s necessities have woken me up to the fact that writing full-time can’t give me the life I want. I’m no writing superstar. I’m no academic. I just love poetry. It’s gotten me through a lot of really hard times and lately I’ve not lent on it as much as I’ve pushed it to the side to focus on paying bills and studying, and honestly? That makes me sad.

What does this mean for this blog?

It means I’m going to have to try harder and like a rough patch in any marriage, work to make it work. I’ll be posting little drafts here and there and maybe some pictures of places I’ve been. Just to try to inspire myself, kick-start my heart a bit.

So it’ll still be Ennui Remedies, just with a different flavor – a little more remedy and a little less innuendo – if I can manage it.

That’s all for now, lovely people.

– Jess