I have been trying - as ever - to utilise my dysomnia by writing, and to help me along I'm currently reading Stephen Fry's book on the technical aspects of poetry called: 'An Ode Less Travelled.' I recommend this guide to anyone with an interest in prosody, though I would advise that you not do as I did, and try to be a smart-arse, and read it from back to front. Such foolishness will confront you with the following sentence regarding Arnaut's Algorithm:
"The algorithm can therefore be considered as the sequence of displacements from the starting position, namely +1; +2; +1; -2; +3; -5. The last displacement returns the first line end..." and so on, until - if you are anything like myself - you feel incredibly stupid and stuff the damn meteric-manual down the back of the sofa with the discarded chewing gum wrappers, lost change and long-forgotten self-respect. I abhor anything mathematical and detest its duplicitous inclusion in an otherwise appealing text.
I'm reading it quite simply because it advises that I ought not. It begins by stating that it's for people wishing to learn the techniques of meter and rhyme - and that those who write 'verse libre' should not persist with the book. I am a mainly freeverse poet myself and, of course, became far more interested in reading the work once I had been told I shouldn't. It also advised that the book be read in the order in which it had been laid out...which was the point where I recalcitrantly (and ultimately regrettably,) turned to the last section.
Now conceding that I must read this book in a more conventional manner, I find myself asked to abide by Fry's three 'golden rules.' Considering that I resented the simplest instruction to read the book from first page to last, you can imagine that the task of obeying rules does not sit well. I shall persist, however, due to the little reminders that I should not be reading the book at all - which is reason enough to continue I think. If it will help me write remains to be seen. The literary style of Stephen Fry does help engage my mind into the rhythm in which I usually write - as I have a tendency to distract myself if I do not train my little consciousness away from eccentricity and into academia once in a while. I'm also part minor-bird I think. My linguistic skill is heavily influenced by the modes of speech I have contact with. When reading Wilde I become a far more florally effusive writer than when I am reading the blunter, bleaker works of Poe. This is not to say I am ever comparable to such renowned names - far from it - but simply that my mind becomes attuned to the voices in my general environment, and my written accent changes the texture of a page as keenly as my varying oral intonations colour the air.
I am also demonstrably incapable of discussing my love of language with any economy of words. I use that phrase a lot when referencing other writers - for people who can express themselves with restraint always intrigue me. I'm a jumbled over-abundance of simile and metaphor, and I exploit poetic license to its fullest extent. I write because words tumble from me, demanding attention as they fall. Sometimes what I write is the most appalling gibberish, and other times it is the sort of pretentious trash I am aware of spouting now. Either way: I have little control over it, and even less choice in the matter.
Something else I cannot control is my unyielding ardour for shoes. Specifically those ridiculous pairs in impractical fabrics, artistic designs, and with heels that look like they could skewer right through the phone book. Today my obsession discovered a new vein of interest - limo heels. Vertiginous 7inch platforms that one can hardly walk in, but which would finally make me look tall. I have returned to obsessing over my height, you see, now that I am not quite so concerned about being too thin.
Some examples of slightly less towering heels I've got my eye on already this season:
I have had quite a bit of positive feedback regarding those photographs of a 'slightly delicate nature' I mentioned in a previous entry. I'm still unconvinced that I look a healthy enough weight, but I have been surprised by reactions so far, so maybe I'm getting there. (One female friend claimed that the pics turned her "momentarily gay," which is an absurd exaggeration of course, but still the kindest affirmation I am likely to get at the moment!) Hardly the only woman who notices her flaws more acutely than any other feature, neither am I assured that I do not have more to concern myself with than most. I'm still too scrawny looking - but think I will just have to get used to being on the skinnier side of normal.
I'm never going to look like Kelly Brooke or Scarlett Johanson, so should probably stop concerning myself with the failing and damn well get on with it. One friend complained that all women desire the hourglass figure, or the "glass coke bottle shape," as she put it. Being so short, I stand more chance of attaining the shape of one of those little bottles of probiotic drinks - or maybe with heels on I could mimic the stature of a slightly crushed bottle of Panda-Pops, at best. (That stuff was disgusting, by the way. I remember those bottles of what was essentially 'carbonated E-numbers' from summers as a child. They were horrible. Slightly better were the two-litres of Cherryade or Orangeade we'd be allowed occasionally - and the pinnacle of fizzy, tooth-decaying beverage was Ribena mixed with Lemonade.)
While I'm referencing the long, hot holidays of my youth, I would like to impart a very important piece of advice. Never buy a Mr Frosty slushy machine. They were always disappointingly ineffective. This guidance is only useful if they still make Mr Frosty ice-crushing toys, and you were thinking of buying one. Otherwise the communication is as ineffectual as the product.
Mr Frosty (the useless bastard. With hindsight, he looks like the purchase of a wastrel.)
Now to slumber, I hope.
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