Old Hat

I did something the other night not done in an age; socialised with friends. Then I did something never done before ever: forgot my hat. Once, I didn’t even like hats; though that’s another story, for that it was a hat is neither here nor there; the point being, I’d hitherto never lost or mislaid an item of personal attire. Some thoughts on the grim calamity:

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Legends

A few weeks ago something prompted this to pop into my head and now I can’t remember what. It definitely gave it context, I remember that much. Anyway, the show, as they say, must go on; so to compensate for lack of reasoning an alternative timeline for your contemplation follows the verse.


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Smokin’

Following on from Fern Stone’s last guest post, where misogyny was taken to task, the poem that ‘started’ it all.

On top of the sexism, there was also the by comparison minor failure to recognise someone else’s art as a finished piece and appreciate it as it should be beheld.

In The Medusa Protocol II what constitutes art is central to the conversation at Kirsty/Medusa’s apartment; ‘how alike a painting of a bowl of fruit is to a real bowl of fruit doesn’t reveal the first thing about how good the art is,’ etc. Both there and previously here (Brigitte Bardon’t: Radio Songs; a Review) I’ve quoted Martin Creed:


“My work is about fifty per cent what I make of it and fifty per cent what people make of it. Meanings are made in people’s heads. I can’t control them.”


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