lily, nigel, m.c.

my poem a man's guide to winning a woman's heart is now up at lily - i am thrilled to be part of it! wonderful issue, as usual.

as for writing, nothing much over the last week or so. perhaps something will come this weekend.

i was very pleased to discover that even before me and a few of my friends, someone had a thing about the name nigel: julian barnes. here's an excerpt from his novel talking it over (which i enjoyed reading, made me chuckle and smirk quite a few times):

Stuart's been bleating on about how I changed my name, hasn't he? He's obsessed by things like that, you know. He's got this really boring name – Stuart Hughes, I ask you, there's a career in soft furnishings for you, no qualifications needed except the perfect name, sir, and you've got it – and he's quite complacent about answering to it for the rest of his days. But Oliver used to be called Nigel. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Or rather, not. Or rather, Thanks, Mum. Anyway, you can't go through the whole of your life being called Nigel, can you? You can't even go through a whole book being called Nigel. Some names simply aren't appropriate after a while. Say you were called Robin, for instance. Well that's a perfectly good monicker up to the age of about nine, but pretty soon you'd have to do something about it, wouldn't you? Change your name by deed-poll to Samson, or Goliath, or something. And with some appellations, the contrary applies. Like Walter, for instance. You can't be Walter in a pram. You can't be Walter until you're about seventy-five in my view. So if they're going to christen you Walter they'd better put a couple of names in front of it, one for your psell in the pram plus another for the long haul up to becoming Walter. So they might call you Robin Bartholomew Walter, for example. Pretty duff, in my opinion, but doubtless it somewhere pleases.

So I swapped Nigel for Oliver, which was always my second name. Nigel Oliver Russell – there, i pronounce it without an encrimsoned cheek. I went up for my first term at York called Nigel and I came back as Oliver. What's so surprising? It's no stranger than joining the army and coming home on your first leave with a moustache. A mere rite of passage. But for some reason old Stuart can't get over it.

(Julian Barnes, Talking It Over)

i found out that the painter who should paint me is m c escher, because

Open and raw, you would let your true self show for your portrait. And even if your painting turned out a bit dark, it would be honest.

and who should paint your portrait?


the poem title generator is still operating. liz and sharon have written (more) PTG-triggered poems, carl and lauren are contemplating swapping their titles, which is not really acceptable - they must have missed the small print:

no swapping allowed unless you also swap your personalities, your income, your favourite t-shirt and the cereal you usually eat for breakfast.

oh and - i am addicted to google earth. looking up lots of places i have travelled. uluru looks amazing.

song of the day: stockholm syndrome by muse