A Train Called Time

A Train Called Time

When I first heard the theme for the week, my thoughts immediately turned to Johnny Cash. Folsom Prison Blues is a classic song and the “Man in Black” an icon.

I was once lucky enough to spend a few days in the city of music that is Nashville, happily ensconced in the company of locals. They were an eclectic bunch of characters, all with the vocal chords of a CMA nominee and the storytelling ability of a National Enquirer journalist. We gathered each evening in a honky-tonk bar, a short stroll along a darkened alley from the famous tourist magnet that is Tootsies Orchard Lounge.

One of the gang was the son of a Nashville treasure. Whilst his mother was toast of the town as host of a primetime radio show, he spent his nights staring into the bottom of a whisky glass in an endless search of a way out of her shadow. His chiselled good looks and musical prowess not providing him with enough ammunition.

The evenings had a formula. Everyone, including the waitresses but excluding me, would take it in turn getting up on stage and singing a country classic. We’d buy beers. We’d tell stories.

Johnny Cash featured quite often. To me he was a legend. To the good folk of Nashville, however, he was a laughing stock. Bumbling through performances and forgetting lyrics. Ill health was not excuse enough for the embarrassment he had become.

Time is cruel, and it takes no prisoners.

It’s also the train that keeps rolling.

Something I must keep reminding myself of as I battle to balance the work/life scales.

Today

If I dream of a perfect tomorrow

I can forget the troubles of today

I’ll count the hours, minutes and seconds

 Until I throw it in a bin marked yesterday

After a restless sleep a new day emerges

Though its promises are broken without delay

There’s no sunshine and no fluffy bunnies

 Guess I’ll throw my rose-tinted glasses away

So I trundle through dreaming of tomorrow

And fall into bed with a sigh of dismay

 For my future became a little shorter

Seems I’ve wasted another brand new today

Thank you for reading,

Fiona

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When Time Runs Out

Some of you will be aware of the war diary project which brings thousands of diary entries, reports and orders to the internet. The project is also attempting to tag relevant information so the pages can be searched and cross-referenced, and this is how I ended up losing time...

After a 10 minute tutorial on 'How to Tag' you're ready to get started. I found myself tagging late into the night, fascinated and shocked by words written almost a hundred years ago.

I was meant to be researching for today's blog post, but I haven't actually written what I had originally intended to post. Thus, today's post is sparse but I hope it might encourage you to access a resource which takes you to a world we'd struggle to imagine.

 http://www.operationwardiary.org/

Thank you for reading,
Lara

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Never do with one hand, what you can put off till Thursday.

As humans we can be very interesting things. As sheep and badgers we are just doggers taking part in some very filthy sex stuff. But as humans, being humans we are very interesting.

We have the capacity for great kindness, and devastating cruelty. We can create and build thing to improve the lives of all around us, and build devices to tear asunder all that has been placed before us. We can think of the simplest solutions to the most complex of problems, and we can mess everything up by not think at all.

Never do with one hand, what you can put off till Thursday.

Stop, take a moment. Is using one hand the only solution? Does this need to be solved right now? Will taking a little bit of time be a better job?

When writing the temptation is always there to rush, to 'use one hand' instead of climbing down the ladder, moving it across and climbing up it again to use both hands without you falling off and looking like a twat.

Being able to multitask, work with one hand, spin many plates with the other, doesn't mean you actually have to. One of the biggest things I hear when talking about writing is "I don't have the time" or "I have to write in-between other things."

My point, and I do have one hidden in here somewhere, is that in are busy lives we have more time than we think. If we just sit back a little and stopped stressing about it we can get things done. Not everything has to be decided immediately.

We live in a world where we demand too much, and as a consequence we can not give enough attention to the things that are important to us.

Slow down a very small amount, stop trying to do things with one hand and give it the attention it deserves. Plan ahead and don't let other people push in on that plan.

You can achieve so much more with a deep breath and cup of tea than you ever can leaning across trying to tighten that last screw when off balance.

Writing is a discipline, it requires planning, it deserves time. So don't just go chucking in 5 minuets here and there everyday with no thought, one handed scribbling that you will hate. Plan to give yourself 40 minutes quality two handed writing on a Thursday.

Because your work is worth it.

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Tick Tock

Time is one of those things that is impossible to avoid. It scares me. It makes me feel under pressure. It makes me feel wasteful. It makes me worry. In fact, I can't even have a non-digital clock in the house because that tick tock feels like nails being hammered into my brain. I even refuse to wear any type of wristwatch that has ticking hands because, believe it or not, I can still hear it counting my life away.

Poetry is about time. Ideas require time to mature. And once an idea has been captured on paper, it requires even more time. Editing time. Time to be away from the poet, locked in a drawer and allowed distance. More editing time. 

Poetry isn't easy and effortless. It requires dedication. It requires you to give it a significant amount of your time. It is like a needy child that never grows up.

I'll conclude this post with a little piece of silliness. I sometimes think it is good to just play with language, have fun, and write something that isn't polished (and which you have little intention of polishing). It takes the pressure away (sort of).

                                                                              s

                                                                            d

                                                                                             r

                                                                                          a

7:24 a.m.                                                    w

                   at the entrance – banging & bleeping     p

machines as commuters rush – I send smoke rings    u

before joining

Slipping into black-suit currents that give

the direction I am yet to discover. Swarming d

Posters sing out dream,                                   o

excitement, sun, escape                        w

            Sliding past as the stairs clunk                  n

            taking us further beneath the city.

The new sun, green foliage and yapping Yorkie

is distant now.    LOST

to tunnels, stale urine light and a voice

(neither robot nor human) that warns of gaps

I forget what above ground is like

The scents and sights of High Barnet’s

open platform fizzle into darkness

Down here, rats scuttle

below feet

steal and move at speed.

An artificial breeze as tube arrives

packed – humans as sardines – I wait

for the next

                       

                        Take a seat

at 7:38 a.m.

                 remove a book

read poetry until I reach my destination.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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