Today marks a year to the day since I meandered onto the Manchester Metropolitan University campus in Crewe, Cheshire. This friendly campus is a small place of green in Crewe with Valley Brook twisting past my office window and a soundscape of rustling trees, sparrowhawk bickering, and blackbird song. It’s the second year of my PhD study on the literary geographies of Rochdale. I still feel like there’s a lot to still be learned, however, I’ve picked up so much in the past year that it’s positively affected my creative practice somewhat; I’m a more confident in academic writing – a whole different beast to making stuff up or writing campaigning journalism – and I’m certainly a lot more confident when talking about my project. From an intensive three days of learning from a place writing workshop to presenting a paper with “Poo” in the title at the University of Idaho, it’s been a veritable whirlwind of a year! This year I’m hoping to learn about cartography and mapping literature (plus a little bit of coding while I’m at it), to being running those creative writing sessions mentioned in March and – all being well in getting prepared for it – get through that transfer process (that’s where you upgrade from MPhil to PhD level).
There’s still a lot of work to do in the next few months. So yes, I’m definitely changing at Crewe!
You may have had one of those days – or possibly weeks, months, or years – where you’re faced with the dreaded Inner Critic. Mine is a wasp – the “Imposter Syndrone” who drones on and on internally, constantly poking your brain with the “you’re not good/clever/attractive/bright enough; you will never succeed” stick. Or worse, bashing your conscience with the “there are more important things in this world than your paltry project” cricket bat. Â Based on the feeling that someone is about to tap you on your shoulder and tell you that you don’t deserve to be where you are – this is common in PhD study (indeed, in anything really not just study; it’s just a relief to know that this is not an unusual thing as I’ve had to deal with this feeling for flipping years pre-PhD).
July has been a month where I’ve been dealing with “Imposter Syndrone” trying to piss its poison into the wildflowers I’m attempting to grow. A few of the seedlings have been failing this month as I’ve chosen to believe “Imposter Syndrone” – after all, it’s obvious that It is more accomplished than me with Its waspish waist, Its successful life of glittering prizes, Its quick witted way of zapping out put downs. Sometimes it’s worth downing tools – albeit briefly – and leave “Imposter Syndrone” chunnering on while popping out for a quick walk, or reading a book in a different room, or chatting to friends, peers and/or colleagues. Then try to begin enjoying the feeling that things are achievable – yeah, they may not change the shape of the universe, however, they are baby steps to being able to function as a human.
“But you can’t draw!”
“Oh, I know that, Imposter Syndrone, but I’m pinning your ass down in pen and I don’t need to be able to draw to do that.”
Took a walk and a deep breath of the July air – albeit autumnal this is always a useful way to clear out those poisonous thoughts. Coming home, I reread this beautiful way of silencing that censor by author Rosie Garland who calls her whinging inner critic “Mavis”, which you can read here: Dealing with the internal critic Or A 12-Step Programme for Coping with Mavis.
I think Mavis and Imposter Syndrone need to get together sometime, possibly with the promise of strong tea and Nice biscuits, and are left emptily gossiping by the drying washing at the back of a 1950’s Manchester terrace with no one around to pay either of them any heed.
Today a translation for NaPoWriMo day 2 (following someone else’s suggestion this morning)! I’ve been learning Spanish over the past couple of years, but started taking it a bit more seriously this year. Here’s a translation of one of Spain’s finest poets – Federico GarcÃa Lorca. (I apologise in advance if it’s a bit surreal, this is all my own translation!)
No sleep for anyone
Dreamless City (Brooklyn Bridge)
No sleep for anyone. Nobody, nobody.
No sleep for anyone.
The moon creatures scent and hover above their shelter.
Iguanas will come, living and biting men who will not dream
and what flees with a broken heart around corners
an incredible crocodile still low has the tender protest of the stars.
No sleep for the world’s nobody. Nobody, nobody.
No sleep for anyone.
Well a dream in the cemetery far away
they mourned for three years
because their knees were dry in the passage
and the boy they buried yesterday they cried so much
it was a necessary call for the dogs were silenced.
Life is not a dream. Alert! Alert! Alert!
We fall off ladders capture the humid earth
or rise and sharpen the snow with a chorus of dead dahlias.
Yet there is no forgetfulness, nor dreaming:
fresh meat. The kiss concerns the mouths
in a morning of recent veins
and what mourning, sympathise with the sympathisers without interruption
and what fear of death leaves their men.
One day
the horses living in the bars
and the furious ants
attack the sweet, yellow heaven of refugees with cow eyes.
Another day
we go and resurrect preserved butterflies
along a passage of grey sponge
we go, our wedding rings sparkle and well the roses on our tongues.
Alert! Alert! Alert!
What guarded footprints claw and the downpour
those boys that cry and don’t know the invention of the bridge
or those dead where they had a head and a shoe,
the wall has leaves has iguanas and tills hope
where hope is bear teeth
where hope is the mummified hand of a boy
and the camel skin the sea urchin with a violent blue shiver.
No sleep for anyone. Nobody, nobody.
No sleep for anyone.
But whether someone closes their eyes.
Whip! My boys! Whip!
The beech tree is a panorama of open eyes
and bitter wounds alight.
No sleep for the world’s nobody. Nobody, nobody.
No the good say.
No sleep for anyone.
But yes, whether you have a surplus night of temple moss,
open the scuttle see under the moon
the fake cup, the poison and the theatre’s skull.
—-
Ciudad sin sueño (Nocturno Del Brooklyn Bridge) – de Federico García Lorca
No duerme nadie por el cielo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Las criaturas de la luna huelen y rondan sus cabañas.
Vendrán las iguanas vivas a morder a los hombres que no sueñan
y el que huye con el corazón roto encontrará por las esquinas
al increíble cocodrilo quieto bajo la tierna protesta de los astros.
No duerme nadie por el mundo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Hay un muerto en el cementerio más lejano
que se queja tres años
porque tiene un paisaje seco en la rodilla;
y el niño que enterraron esta mañana lloraba tanto
que hubo necesidad de llamar a los perros para que callase.
No es sueño la vida. ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!
Nos caemos por las escaleras para comer la tierra húmeda
o subimos al filo de la nieve con el coro de las dalias muertas.
Pero no hay olvido, ni sueño:
carne viva. Los besos atan las bocas
en una maraña de venas recientes
y al que le duele su dolor le dolerá sin descanso
y al que teme la muerte la llevará sobre sus hombros.
Un día
los caballos vivirán en las tabernas
y las hormigas furiosas
atacarán los cielos amarillos que se refugian en los ojos de las vacas.
Otro día
veremos la resurrección de las mariposas disecadas
y aún andando por un paisaje de esponjas grises y barcos mudos
veremos brillar nuestro anillo y manar rosas de nuestra lengua.
¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!
A los que guardan todavía huellas de zarpa y aguacero,
a aquel muchacho que llora porque no sabe la invención del puente
o a aquel muerto que ya no tiene más que la cabeza y un zapato,
hay que llevarlos al muro donde iguanas y sierpes esperan,
donde espera la dentadura del oso,
donde espera la mano momificada del niño
y la piel del camello se eriza con un violento escalofrío azul.
No duerme nadie por el cielo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Pero si alguien cierra los ojos,
¡azotadlo, hijos míos, azotadlo!
Haya un panorama de ojos abiertos
y amargas llagas encendidas.
No duerme nadie por el mundo. Nadie, nadie.
Ya lo he dicho.
No duerme nadie.
Pero si alguien tiene por la noche exceso de musgo en las sienes,
abrid los escotillones para que vea bajo la luna
las copas falsas, el veneno y la calavera de los teatros.
STATION FLORA AT STOCKPORT TRAIN STATION. TAKEN 1ST SEPT 2014 – THE FIRST DAY OF WORK.
I’ve never been a glass-half-full or glass-half-empty sort of person; I’m the sort that both enjoys the current glass and is excited about the next pint regardless.
Anyway.
Today marks the end of the first 6 months of PhD training. I thought it’d be a good idea to reflect on what I’ve learned, what I’ve done, existential crises, and looking forward to the next few – and remaining 30 – months!
Learned:
That the words “turn” and “framework” mean different things in academia than what I originally thought. (“Turn”, for example, has nothing to do with the Hokey Cokey.)
That thinking about place is actually pretty darned cool. I’ve accumulated some thoughts that I’ve had for years to see that there’s some academic thinking that supports a few of them. Also, urban exploration and direct action geography garners new and interesting ways of engaging in place (sadly, I suffer from vertigo so no climbing roofs for me).
Rochdale is teeming with some intriguing and weird literary texts. I’ve been mining a rich seam of Lancashire and Rochdale dialect poetry. (Bah ‘eck!)
Developed a new admiration for several academics writing on Place. Especially Tim Cresswell and Tim Edensor (the latter Tim’s work in Manchester will inform some of my work on Rochdale).
What I’ve done:
Read over 50 books (really, really, I can’t believe that either) and a good handful of academic papers.
Managed to churn out nearly 5,000 words in a week and a half. Not sure if any of it made sense.
Had two papers accepted for two conferences – exciting but need to write the things now and make them good. Aiming for amazing, will settle for good and/or enjoyable.
Attended All Of The Training and relevant CPD offered at my institution. (I’m very fortunate to have a studentship and am making the most of it!)
Wrote some poetry in a graveyard in November to a soundscape of long tailed tits, robins and a bitter blackcurrant wind wrapped itself around our fingers. All in the name of research and aesthetics!
Volunteered to help with the next PGR Conference and act as a course rep (hey, I’m one of those chirpy volunteers-for-everything-in-the-first-year types).
Existential crises:
Early October’s thinking of “I know NOTHING” after looking up a dictionary definition of ‘geography’.
Somehow managed to fall over a lot, spill an entire pint of milk on myself without realising until I got home (apologies to the person on the train sitting next to Lactose Woman), stab myself in the face with a pen during a supervision.
“To be honest, I don’t know why I’m reading Husserl either; I think I just don’t want to be getting things wrong.”
Last night’s insomnia driven: “Why am I doing this? What does it mean? It’s not going to change the shape of the universe. What’s the point of it all? Arrgharrghaaaargh.”
***With the latest panic I’ve been reassured that this is “Normal and Part of the Process of PhD Training”.***
The next few months:
Write and present two papers in summer.
Run some creative writing sessions for young people before the end of term.
Complete a large chunk of thesis and begin planning the transfer part of things.
At some point I will write something coherent about what I’ve learned and pop it up on here. I’ve read some amazing thinking on landscape and place on other blogs and websites and would love to share them with you. (Whoever you are!)
For those who can’t make the session, or the conference, I thought I’d share the workbook I’ve created for it : wild writes workshop handout (.pdf version).
Feel free to download and use/adapt the materials for your own creative writing or for running workshops! If you could acknowledge where you got it from that’d be appreciated.
If you want to know more about creative evaluation, or have any questions about session planning, please drop me an email – jennie[at]wildwrites.org.uk
‘He thought of jewelled hilts / for daggers in plaid socks’ Wilfred Owen
On patrol, a legacy mine.
We liked to look smart –
we are soldiers after all –
for us, war is a fine art.
Our radios went down,
gunshot stutters in the night.
The blast beneath my feet,
thrown into the spotlight.
My uniform is styled around me
now I model an ebony cane
to prop up my golden leg.
I pretend to feel the same –
one limb shorter than the other.
The limp will always be there.
Now I’m clothed by Savile Row,
it’s been a funny old year.
It’s been a funny old year;
now I’m clothed by Savile Row.
The limp will always be there –
one limb shorter than the other.
I pretend to feel the same.
To prop up my golden leg
now I model an ebony cane.
My uniform is styled around me.
Thrown into the spotlight –
the blast beneath my feet.
Gunshot stutters in the night
our radios went down.
For us war is a fine art,
we are soldiers after all.
We liked to look smart
on patrol.
***
Note:
This poem is made up of sentences from an article about “Style for Soldiers” in the Sunday Times magazine found on a train in late 2012. At the time I was running writing workshops for homeless and vulnerable adults and collaging was one of the writing exercises I used. Collaging involves composing a poem using words or phrases cut out from an article, or a few articles, to make textual art. (And get covered in PVA glue!) I find quite a lot of magazines abandoned on trains which are very useful for this activity. I love the idea of recycling words and then recycling the remains of the magazine.
If you’d like to learn more about the Style for Soldiers charitable incentive from luxury textiles designer Emma Willis you can click on this link: here.
After a busy August of storytelling, bread baking, craft making, reading and generally chilling out I’m about to start a new chapter in life. I’m about to begin a PhD studentship in the Interdisciplinary Studies Department at Manchester Metropolitan University’s Cheshire campus. I’m very excited, which if you follow me on Twitter you’ll have gathered this.
I’ll be chronicling and blogging research, and thoughts, elsewhere – if you like literary weirdness, psychogeography, and geeking about education theory then that will be the place for you! I’ll post the link once I’m up and running.
Over the next three years, performing and workshops may be a little more sporadic and bespoke but we’ll see how we go!
In the meantime, get outdoors and stay wild!
Glaisdale near Whitby. Minutes earlier a male hen harrier flew over.
Being sad is strange. I find it tidal. It ebbs and flows.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the sea and about poetry. Not in a cheesy, clichéd, picture-postcard-perfect rendition. But in considering the ocean of the future. The ocean after ice melt.
And it’s big, and it’s scary.
Reading about the science, visiting the Scott Polar Museum in Cambridge. Going to a conference and hearing voices from the Inuit communities who are already directly affected by climate change. I find it hard to wrap my head around it all. Being safe and dry in a rented house in Stockport, feeling powerless to affect change or do anything to help.
Feeling unable to do anything about climate change, about current local and global injustice. Feeling tired and trapped.
Trying to complete a book review, trying to write without feeling mentally paralysed, trying to fight fear of failure or even success.
