Found this on my desktop.
happy to point at http://dura-dundee.org.uk/imagined-sons/, both for review and for book under review.
The internet says that’s an Einstein quote but I am too familiar with what Thoreau called “misattribution on the internet” to be sure. What’s also on the internet is the Grant Shapps stuff, whether he was engaging in his fabulous business of spinning and scraping existing web text for SEO millions while also being an MP. I had remembered that not being in doubt, so finding the collision of denial, refutation and euphemistic admission – ‘an overly firm denial’, I heard, while I was overly firmly denying in bed. Tim Ireland remembers Michael Green, pseudonymous creature existing to prevent confusion with the MP, claiming explicitly that he was an MP (and a MILLIONAIRE and a PILOT and a MANSION-DWELLER), as I do. I remembered this being common enough knowledge that a rival could refer to it in his interest-poaching copy – that site’s gone now, but the wayback machine remembers. Also Plashing Vole, who is clear about his own pseudonym being just that.
Now I have been a content jockey in an SEO firm, and much as I didn’t like that method of writing – a lot of setting up signposts then building roads to reach them – I liked the spinning software less. Imaginary author creating unreadable copy for automated spiders, cruft and grot to help thrust your unwanted ads ahead of the things I’m looking for. This is wealth creation, as far as Jeremy Hunt’s response goes, and if it is, it’s about tapping money from one of the greatest communication devices invented by exploiting its weaknesses. (I’m sure there’s an analogy in that.)
And feeling that so strongly, I’m a little disturbed at realising the found-text stuff I’ve been doing has at least a little in common with it – you may not end up with thousands of versions, but I do draw on my sources to quote and combine and corrupt. And yes, mister rimshot, it’s unreadable. Obviously it’s not done for the money, and I do care about the connections that are uncovered when you crack these things together. I shall have my own pseudonym ask me if that’s enough and think about answers.
Poetry is the mind-killer. Poetry is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my poetry. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the poetry has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
Which started as a twitter joke but has grown in my head since saying so. In case this isn’t familiar:
So I’m reading the introduction to Dylan Thomas’ notebooks, where Ralph Maud says DT finished only five new poems in the years between volumes, which is pleasant to hear while feeling fallow.
So that film’s coming out. Here’s me spending my time better:
- heydays of stiff Reg
- shags fortify fey Ed
- shy giraffe fed toys
- rosy-shafted effigy
- yay, feeds off girths
- shifty geyser of fad
- fey fogeys fist hard
- hedge of iffy satyrs
- safety of shy fridge
- geyser of daffy shit
- seedy fifths of Yarg
two geysers but I couldn’t choose which to lose.