Recent events here on dA have put me in limbo again. Is this really just another vanity forum, or is there a warranted undercurrent, a genuine "pursuit of the arts"?

A deviant commented on a piece of mine, and asked me to take a look at hers. I did, and didn't like it, for various reasons other than the purely subjective. There is a lot of work lying waiting to be done in her oeuvre. I could tell she, as all artists, valued her work to a certain personal extent. They're her babies, just like my own poems are mine. So I told her just that. It's not good, and I've more to say but I won't unless you specifically ask me to. Because if there's one certain cause of death for art, then surely it must be that loathed phrase...

"I like it"

...with no further explanation.

Like the false and hollow greeting-question...

"How are you?"

...when deep inside you don't really want to know, and which is answered by the equally false and equally hollow...

"Fine"

...when you know, in your heart of hearts, that you anything but fine.

"Just" words, perhaps. But falsehoods to the core.

Equally, I cannot comment or critque in three words, just as I cannot accept such comments and critiques at face value.

Just as we all need to learn to be criqued, we need to learn to critique in kind. Without reverting to ad hominem attacks or flak for flak's sake, we can damn well open up and speak our minds about each other's babies, and not be resented for it.

But I see so little of that going on here, that I've begun to despair. dA tailors to the faceless, the voiceless, the deaf by choice.

An appeal to you then, readers of this Journal.

Critique. And be critiqued.

But do not ever take "I like it" or "I don't like it" at face value.

Greetz'n'Hugz

Jo (Just)

I just watched Grif Rhys Jones on a BBC program titled "Does Poetry Matter".

Hell yes it does.

And so I'm back. I've been away and back again many times before, and each time I promised I'd attend more regularly in the future (already past now).
I won't make such promises today, but I think my intentions do lean yonder.

So write me. Inspire me. Hack my poetry to tindersticks; butcher and slaw my words, so that I may rise from my own steaming carcass and be made anew.

Hugz to y'all.

Jo (Just)

I forget.
The most trivial of things escape my memory, as if never knew or, worse, simply don't care.
As if I am blind to the reality that's outside my head, things simply vanish from my memory.
It's not like I can "unremember" them, since they are effectively lost to me, until someone points them out.
And the I go "Oh. Right. Sorry, I forgot" and look sheepish.

It's something I've been fighting all my life and every time I think I've got it pinned down, I, well, yes. I forget about it.

And it creeps up on me again.

I'm sick and tired of it. More even than being fed up with forgetting, I'm fed up with the struggle I'm putting up. It's frustrating and serves my self-esteem no good at all.

Today is one of those days where I am resolved to put a stop to it.

How successful this umpteenth attempt will prove to be is something I'll just have to face in the future...

Hugz

Jo (Just)

PS: this journal is largely repeated as comments to a poem of mine titled "forgot to remember". If you read it, you'll know why.

No I damn well don't!
I'm tired and exhausted, sick of moving boxes about and nailing floorboards and and screwing and unscrewing cupboards and wardrobes and dining tables and Ikea desks and whatnot and not knowing where my stuff (it's in the box at the bottom of the stack of course, where else?) and waiting for indiffent notaries to waken up to the fact that real, living breathing people end up losing a shitload of money if they (the notaries, not the real living breathing people) wake up and get their own papers sorted out (paper which, frankly, I see little use for, but then again, I'm only a real, living, barely breathing person after all).

But, ever cloud having that silver lining, WE FINALLY MOVED! Yay! That's one silver lining you'll not hear me mope about. We got a garden! Yay! No matter that it's somewhat overgrown with ivy, it's infinitely larger than our previous garden (which we didn't have). It's quiet! It's peaceful! It's a friggin' HOUSE!

Now to find some time to settle down and write some stuff....

Hugz to y'all, you lot!

Oh and by the by, while I can heartily recommend laying your own parquet, I can even more heartily recommend planning this a bit more in advance than we did. Good grief that was a close call

Well I'm slooooowly picking up the pace again. Backlog has grown to insane proportions and I realize I've been neglecting you lot more than you deserve. Consider my ways mended, inasmuch as ways ever mend at all.

I had half a mudstory going on somewhere but I seem to've mislaid it.

In the meantime: WE BOUGHT A HOUSE! Yay! Booyah! Looking forward to the whole packing/moving/painting-and-redecorating thing, really. Also WHOOHOO A GARDEN!

Be good, my friends. Be well.