I would like to be good at writing poetry but iambic pentameter and the rhyming of words are not my forte, there are rules you are meant to follow, and they are followed so well to the latter that the rigid formulation and thoughts of “am I doing this right?” steals away any creativity I have. I hold a vivid memory of a poem written about a generic Surrey park and my mismanagement of adjectives leading to notes of condensation in my teachers voice.
I have a imagination which is not often fed by human contact, by others, but then once in a while, on a day like any other, it becomes nourished by an alarmingly interesting exchange and I feel a strange flood of petrol and am contented for a while, but then it begins to drain, a routine followed three days in a row or a conversation with someone who dislikes me or a Saturday afternoon without contact, without even the cat means I have put diesel in by mistake and its short circuited and the garage tells me he has to gut the entire thing and I do not have the money to pay for my mistakes. Intellectual stimulation is a rarity, it’s a luxury and a simplicity. I will never forget the glug glug glug of my car on diesel.