School-Run

Do you think Shakespeare had to put the cat out, paint scenery, go down the post office?

I was up late last night (I don't sleep well when Debbie is away), woke late (for me) at 07:15, let the dogs out, scrape shit from seventeen different places, hose down the yard, sort out their breakfast, scream again at the kids because they STILL aren't downstairs, get in here sharp to sort out prompts for Boot Camp.

I get the prompts from books of poetry, bills, book titles, phrases from books, even, this morning, from the blurb inside a passport. I mix anad match, often make up lines as I go. But they all begin to "buzz" to go to work on the psyhe, tickle the unconscious.

What I ALSO do, at the last minute is break things up with odd single words, a scattering of bombs. That changes any links I may have unconsciously made.

Then, often but not always, I sort the prompts alphabetically to change the order again. But there's a chance I might already have been affected, "infected" (a good thing). people using my prompts could put random numbers in front of the prompts then sort by number order. Changing connections can do lots.

The unconscious is amazing.

I also sometimes join two days' worth of prompts, shuffle those about. Yesterday's last-minute story came from a set like this. It's not going to get in New Yorker, but it's OK.

That is worth remembering. Don't sweat when a day's work is "just OK". Don't bust a gut and polish polish polish if it never has the legs to be great. Just say OK, it's a 0-0 draw away in Crewe on a wet Wednesday night. They all add up.

Here's what will help me write something today.

Her Brittanic majesty's secretary of State
A country of bright, perfect light
Requests and requires, in the name of her Majesty
A house with lamplight in its windows
All those to whom it may concern
A train arrives, chuffing unhappily
To allow the bearer to pass freely
A wrong note
Without let or hindrance
Aeroplanes crash. aeroplanes crash
And to afford the bearer
Every night I used to se before you, small bowls of light
Such assistance and protection as may be necessary
Everything that comes easily, goes easily and is forgotten
FORK
Four Minute warning
I'm not calling you again
Last night I dreamt in Japanese
MAIL
Passport
Poor man, he had good parents
Roger was divorced, blind as a puppy, lost.
Screaming, laughing staggering
The barbarians are due here today
The B-Specials stopped him one night
The janitor has a secret. Look how he hold his broom.
The old land is fat like a retired grocer
They held a pistol so hard against his head
Trafalgar square, full of pigeons, unknowing.
UP UP UP
Warbling along on powerful tyres
Your childhood, is it anticipated or remembered. Was your father nice?

But there's last night, too.

Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Billy Fucking Bremner
Dai K lives at the end of the valley
Eventually it feels like Ireland
GUN
Everyone hates the English (and so they should)
From Wales, the mostly English sector
SPATULA
He said I had a servant's soul and spat into the grate
He seemed like a hollow oak-trunk, covered in ivy
THREE CARDS
I had a coffee, one coffee, with Marilyn Munro
I live in a spelling error
I thought it made me look more working class
It was your lightness that drew me
TURKEY
My father and mother, my brother, my sister
My six year-old said "bomb". They sent an armoured car.
Old damp soaks through the wallpaper
Sewing machine
She makes a quiet breakfast for herself
GONG
She must be from another country
Some say love's a little boy
Three weeks of bad drugs, badass jazz, bad religion
SEVEN
Two fairies skittered behind the bar
We will know who they are by their absence
ROUNDABOUT
What are we waiting for, assembled in the form?
What manner of dying is this?
Where a gunshot scatters acres of birds
Yes, that is the door and behind it they live

and COMBINED?

If you can't get a story from this lot, take a long look in the mirror

Your childhood, is it anticipated or remembered. Was your father nice?
Yes, that is the door and behind it they live
Without let or hindrance
Where a gunshot scatters acres of birds
What manner of dying is this?
What are we waiting for, assembled in the form?
We will know who they are by their absence
Warbling along on powerful tyres
UP UP UP
Two fairies skittered behind the bar
TURKEY
Trafalgar square, full of pigeons, unknowing.
To allow the bearer to pass freely
Three weeks of bad drugs, badass jazz, bad religion
THREE CARDS
They held a pistol so hard against his head
The old land is fat like a retired grocer
The janitor has a secret. Look how he hold his broom.
The B-Specials stopped him one night
The barbarians are due here today
Such assistance and protection as may be necessary
SPATULA
Some say love's a little boy
She must be from another country
She makes a quiet breakfast for herself
Sewing machine
SEVEN
Screaming, laughing staggering
ROUNDABOUT
Roger was divorced, blind as a puppy, lost.
Requests and requires, in the name of her Majesty
Poor man, he had good parents
Passport
Old damp soaks through the wallpaper
My six year-old said "bomb". They sent an armoured car.
My father and mother, my brother, my sister
MAIL
Last night I dreamt in Japanese
It was your lightness that drew me
I'm not calling you again
I thought it made me look more working class
I live in a spelling error
I had a coffee, one coffee, with Marilyn Munro
Her Brittanic majesty's secretary of State
He seemed like a hollow oak-trunk, covered in ivy
He said I had a servant's soul and spat into the grate
GUN
GONG
From Wales, the mostly English sector
Four Minute warning
FORK
Everything that comes easily, goes easily and is forgotten
Everyone hates the English (and so they should)
Every night I used to se before you, small bowls of light
Eventually it feels like Ireland
Dai K lives at the end of the valley
Billy Fucking Bremner
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
And to afford the bearer
All those to whom it may concern
Aeroplanes crash. aeroplanes crash
A wrong note
A train arrives, chuffing unhappily
A house with lamplight in its windows
A country of bright, perfect light


READ them, sing them, read them again, dwell on phrases, join them together, listen for YOUR music. When a phrase of combinations HIT you, it isn't an accident. That CONNECTS to something deep and primitive, the place where stories live.


And now the fucking school run



Alex