I posted the last piece in haste. It was one of those things that was causing me anxiety by not being out there, out of my head and on the page. Once it was, I just wanted to delete it and hide under a rock.
The personal context of my interest in Eminem and Riahnna I referred to, by linking to this poem I wrote a long time ago:
The trick that writers play on themselves sometimes, is that they tell themselves that by writing something down, the problem will be solved, the pain will go away. It doesn’t work like that.
My writing over the last couple of months has taken me down alleyways I thought I didn’t have to revisit again. I can almost smell the stench of piss, and stale alcohol and someone’s breath in my face, all over again. It has also engaged me in conversations I thought I would never have again in my life, not to the extent I have them in my head, anyway. It has renewed my belief that humans can change their circumstances and free themselves from their self-inflicted purgatory. It’s also made me realise I can be a bit of a prat.
I am not as clever as I like to make out. But if I share my fuck-ups and my fragmented understandings of life, from Eminem to Judith Butler, to Mike and Scott, my boy and me. Then maybe you too will engage in this process and help me out a bit? You all already have. I am very grateful.
Bear with me.
I think there is a chink of light at the end of this grimy urban shithole tunnel. And I can hear music playing. Hold my hand.