I usually know nothing about the people I ask to feature. Here is the usual process of listening to music to getting a feature.
I’m listening to music and goawwing about my day.
A song stops me from whatever I’m I’m doing.
Hit repeat again. And again. Then before looking into the artist’s bio. Before thinking about how I’m going to put źßacross the themes I’d like to touch upon.
READ ABOUT MY CREATIVIESTS I NEED YOU! PROJECT
Mental health and how creativity by having a creative outlet to express ourselves can lead to better mental health.
My approach is instinctive. Before I ask myself how I’m going to achieve this in a feature interview, I realise I’ve hit send asking for a feature.
When people get back to me and say yes.It sends my thoughts spiralling down a tunnel picking up random and conflicting emotions
Yay, someone thinks I can write about them.
Someone thinks I can write about them in a structured way.
Someone will probably think I do this all the time.
(A barrage of emotions).
What do I know about interviewing and communicating?
I know nothing about this person/band.
(Frantic typing on my laptop).
I obsessively research, listen to their music, doubt myself.
Berate myself for doubting myself.
SELF TALK: I love doing this. This is another experience to add to my goal of writing -connecting with people. A chance to be creative. A chance to express myself.
A chance to embrace my own passion for writing. A chance to challenge my writing style and that means communicating with other people not just in the writing form but “live” speaking.
I have to come out of my writing bubble world so I can go back to the fun part of writing and researching.
I struggle a lot with my mental health. The one way that helps me stay on a good path with my mental health is writing and being creative. feel self-worth and self-validation that comes from inside, feeling like I have expressed myself in a way that feels genuine. writing for me keeps me away from my triggers for relapsing with my mental health.
I immediately wanted to run away from an outlet that I get so much positiveness from doing.
it is quite bizarre that my instinct to run away and not do the interview stems from my own thoughts about if I can be creative.
It puts pressure on me to follow through with what I say I want to do and then I am given the chance to do something I am passionate about not a professional music journalist. I am afraid to fail.
I feel like backing out of doing most features if I did that then I would be a hypocrite because the whole point of doing these features is to demonstrate to myself and others that feeling the fear and feeling inadequate prevents me from being happy. It is a challenge to my own self-perception and my belief that creativity does improve mental health.
The way I prove it is by doing it. This is my style and I express myself as the person I am because I want to be well. I want to enjoy discovering new people, having new experiences, learning and feeling a part of something that means something to me.
This was the first piece of fictional writing I ever wrote. It was also graded and then I had to adapt it into a different genre.
‘Miss Sainte!’ the travel consultant’s hands twitch like a bees feelers, ‘let me get your tickets for London.’ and she is off. I’ve always found it amusing how people assume that your life is more exciting than theirs. My life had taken on the acrid taste of bourbon. Hard decisions require liquor. There I was bobbing up and down like a buoy in a sea of bitter. Disconnected from all sources of life. Waves of nausea threatened to bury me, deep, in an unrefined grave. This was my existence until I sobered up.
The hairs on my arms prick up like ears on stalks, straining to confirm what they’ve heard. Shivers rush down my spine. Impulsively my hand goes to feel the smooth outline of the documents in my handbag, confirming that the surgery will go ahead. I look up from the tropical brochure and nearly fall headfirst into a pair of dung coloured eyes. She’s that close. I quickly murmur my thanks and bolt out the door, the wind slamming the door for me
My life tends to go from one oblivious moment to the next. One ginger bastard is all it takes for the state of my jagged ignorance to be shattered. Now all I can see is my former ignorance smirking everywhere. All of a sudden its: Ginger beer, Gingerbread, Ginger cats, Ginger biscuits, Gingernuts, Ginger pubes, Ginger! Ginger! Everywhere! I’ve reasoned that it’s not too avaricious to want more than ‘current-girlfriend’ status. Why would a heathen (his -word) such as myself, all tits hanging loose, wild hair and barefoot, want certainty and commitment? Why indeed?! Every time it’s the same watery twaddle:
‘I’m a married man… A Catholic!’ –with a bellyful of 24-hour bargain booze. It’s all driftwood. I’m Odyssey’s ‘Scylla ‘or ‘Charybdis’. If he wants to treat me as a necessary evil then instinctively I will lure him to my grotto and devour him. Men have this habit of changing anything they see as mystifying into the female form.
Yesterday his spinal support kicked in and he decides to call me. It went something like this:
‘Babe, things are … complicated. I’m here for you.’ he said.
Then, that familiar feeling, the tightening jerk on my vocal chords, taut like a gymnast’s rope. Panic. The struggle to gulp in air. My throat is blitzed with grainy, arid sand. The beat. The beat in my heart starts clanging cacophonously and belches up into my throat. My instincts are shrill. Screeching: Caution! Do Not Proceed. This is what his voice does to me.
‘Babe, we’ve been through so much?’ Smelly feet. All I can smell is pongy feet; His feet! I’d rather go collecting cacti with my teeth than screw you. Yerr screw: That’s what I should have said.
‘I’m on my way.’ C’mon you don’t wanna be loved? So instead he gets his way and I’m running like an Olympic sprinter to get to my car.
There I am sitting in the car about to gear it up. Panic. With my palms, I start slamming the steering wheel. You stupid bitch. SLAM! Greedy stupid bitch. SLAM! Blasted tears form. I look into the rear-view mirror and with a fingernail, I press down hard, scraping my cheek- only satisfied when I see the offensive, black line of soggy mascara tarnishing it .Ugly Bitch! I pound the rearview mirror-over and over.
I can feel the gamut of my emotions and thoughts losing form. So fragile. One knock. One tiny crack is all it takes. When he opens the door all the innards of my mind start to scramble.
‘Neck this’, he says. He plays his part well. He picks me up like I’m a delicate fawn and gently lowers me onto his sofa. He waves a bag of coke in front of my face. My fucking dopamine receptors are giving you a standing ovation, mate! Trust an ex-army cadet to bring out the Bolivian marching powder. Several hours later, we’re both wading deep in overconsumption. Billie Holliday is playing, her voice becomes the beat in my heart.
‘Love. Love her voice… so raw….so pure…but damaged like… Know what I mean?’
He just sits there, shakes his head mindlessly, not even one cobweb is disturbed. Great bulging eyes leer out at me. I might as well have a pair of fucking rabbit ears and a hat on with electrodes attached to my head. One eye hanging precariously out of its socket. It is torture what he does to me. I want to scream: Why do you look at my pain? Consider it. Consider me! And then decide this bitch needs sterilizing?
He’s suddenly up and real close. His odour arrests my breath, it’s like taking in a whiff of a Parisian fish market at the end of a hot rough day. The hairs stand up on my body betraying my true feelings. Then he demands me to laugh.
‘Laugh. ‘He roars. Followed by frenzied laughter – Shit what’s he gonna do? He’s just laughing. Standing over me and laughing at me. Kick him in the gonads, quick! He stops. Breathe. He moves up close again, our faces touching.
‘Boo! He whispers, slapping his hands together with glee, he grabs my arse –roughly. I’m smiling. My mind severs itself form my body. It too plays its part well. He then begins to undo his jeans.
A bloated smiling face. The receptionist takes my documents. The ballooned smiling face points us in the direction of the waiting area.
‘Whoa! They must have known we were arriving, all the chairs are set up, ready for a blessed sermon. Wanna do the honours?’ What am I saying? I watch his fat turnip- shaped face go red. Blood red. He is simmering away like a stew but someone forgot to put the meat in. Jesus why the hell did I agree to this? The walls expand and shrink like I’m sucking on a plastic bag. Panic. I’m in Plato’s allegorical cave. His shadow torments me, I’m convinced that Mother Nature has given him rights over oxygen.
‘Hope Sainte?’ a nurse’s voice booms. Jumped up like a leapfrog. Crap joke but I got spooked. The nurse looks up at me, she raises her eyebrows which make her glasses slant downwards. He heaves his body upwards. I feel his skulking bristling my nerves. The Nurse ushers me into a cubicle.
‘Change into this then hop on a bed’ she gestures to a bed. I touch the blue gown and put my fingers to my nose. Tainted, I gag. How can I put it? It’s like, I’m inhaling water. Panic has dropped her anchor.
Lying horizontally I turn my head to the left and I look up into a pair of nostrils. It’s the Surgeon. His lips are moving like that singing bass fish that was all the rage in the nineties. I can’t hear jack shit- the porter wheels me into the theatre.
I open my eyes. I exhale, the cubicle expands. He enters, drops his head. Doesn’t even bother to look at me. He stands in a corner and folds his arms He just stands in that corner reminding me of a scarecrow. All stiff and glacial. Hours slither by, the silence hissing mercilessly. A hug. I want a hug. The silence is pierced. It’s me. I’m screaming. Little critters are scratching away at my insides. The attack is stabbing and sharp. The pain throbs with intent. Panic.
‘What the hell is happening?’ I look over and he’s fiddling with his fucking phone like he’s re-arranging his balls. Strap on cock-face! He turns around to face me. Did I say that out loud? He looks demonical enough.
‘Erm… well derr!’ He slaps my forehead, ‘you’re giving birth to our baby! Look at the state of ya!’ I follow his eyes. They settle on my well-formed bump.
‘You stupid murdering bitch!’ He then spits in my face and turns to leave.
‘Hey, where you going- we agreed on this?’ Panic. There’s more screaming.
‘Why? Why? Why?’ Each “why” growing in expectation and volume. Sobbing, through my tears, I can just about make out a figure of the porter. Everything starts to slow down. No. Retardation is setting in, slowing me down. Panic. The surgeon appears again. It’s like I’m in a macabre pantomime
‘Now, please, count backward from ten, please.’ he smiles down at me.
‘I can hear you!’ I dribble out. The surgeon smiles and nods his head like one of those Chinese paw-waving cats.
‘Hey! Listen can you hear that?’ they’re playing music! What kind of sick set up is this? Beethoven’s, ‘Moonlight sonata’ is playing in the background. I touch it. The bump. I’m pretty sure this has got to breach my human rights.
A voice punctuates the air. It’s mine.
‘Number one. Gotta look after number one!’ That’s what my Mum always used to say… “If ya can’t put yourself first, you’ll never be able to put ya, child, first. From now on I swear it. I’ll make each moment in my life count! Maybe one day I will be worth being called a mum….sorry.’
My eyes close, a tear rolls down my cheek as I’m wheeled into theatre.
What are your views on Abortion?
I light this vigil/ candles given to me by an individual/ a name I cannot give thee/ heart and mind forgive me.
If I said his name is Slash/ he’s indecisively crass/more renowned as a light brush stroke/ his Latin name leaves a remarkable impression in repressed folk.
It worries me that Axl hasn’t made up his mind/ more guns than roses-sublime/ A promiscuous murmur/ hidden in visual fervour.
confess/ snitch …..
Naming something can either increase/ diminish power/ I’m thinking psycho -you know – the scene in the shower? /If I had to reveal his true name is Virgule/ why does that visually conjure up an image in my mind of a gargoyle?
For the meaning of the word ‘Virgule’ scroll down.
This was so hard to do. I think I may have broken 100 rules and made up my own. Hey ho!
Definitions for virgule
a short oblique stroke (/) between two words indicating that whichever is appropriate may be chosen to complete the sense of the text in which they occur: The defendant and his/her attorney must appear in court.
Citations for virgule
It can be used, of course to indicate the choices, one or more, that may “properly” fill the blank space that follows. But the virgule need not be strictly identified with a particular or exclusive binary. It can be argued that the virgule is the poststructuralist punctuation par excellence (although a strong case can be made for the hyphen), in that is can be deployed to suggest the endlessness of binariness, a serial proliferation of constrastives in horizontally endless adjacencies …
The path was cleared for the substitution of the verbalizable ”or” by the unspeakable ”/” in the legalistic term ”and/or,” which would be hard to say as ”and or or.” Now we are afflicted by the promiscuous use of virgules.
Virgule entered English from French, where it means “comma, little rod.” It ultimately derives from the Latin virgula meaning “rod.”
The virgule, often called the “slant bar” by computer users, has four specific uses in punctuation.
A virgule separates parts of an extended date.
Example: The 1994/95 basketball season.
Washington was born in February 1731/32.
A virgule represents the word per in measurements:
Example: 186,000 mi./sec. (miles per second)
A virgule stands for the word or in the expression and/or. (Though not considered standard, it sometimes stands for the word or in other expressions also.)
A virgule separates lines of poetry that are quoted in run-on fashion in the text. (For readability, avoid this with more than four lines.)
Example: Ann continued,”And up and down the people go,/ Gazing where the lilies blow/ Round an island there below,/ The island of Shalott.”