On writing by Rishi Dastidar

ON WRITING

Don't write what you know.

Because you know it. And where’s the fun in regurgitating that? If people bought exam scripts between covers someone would have worked that out by now, and captchas would be a way of life not an annoyance.

Write what you don't know.

Because you’ve got a mostly empty brain. Fill it.

Because you’ve got a definitely inflated ego. Tamp it down.

Because you’ve got a planet-sized dose of vanity. Satisfy it not with punches or speed or good fucking, but with the tingle of knowing that you’ve made something that didn’t exist before, and now it’s made an eyeball twitch, a heart flutter, someone breathe faster.

Words are bio-mechanical FX pedals disguised as language.

Write what you should know but don't.

Like what it feels like to sleep on the surface of the sun.

To free dive into the nearest ocean of bread sauce, and emerge again, alive.

To fall through the atmosphere at a velocity which renders consciousness a mere footnote to your being – before the cord snaps you back into the now, where you will find that you can live again, if you’re humble enough to trust those you love, and tryst with those who might destroy you, because even in the moment of your destruction you will learn something about yourself too.

There are no tips to writing this of course, apart from being brave enough to be alone, outside of yourself and others; strong enough to go through life armed only with your skin; and always using a cheap notebook, because you will be writing lots, and expensive paper is a Veblen good only bought by people who say they are writers but aren’t.

Write what you will never know.

Like how it would have turned out if you did actually have the courage to ask her to kiss you that night.

Or if you’d punched that guy like you should have done when he started racially abusing you outside a club in Amsterdam on a stag you shouldn’t have gone on.

Or if you’d voted and in doing this small act of civic duty, you actually triggered the Butterfly Effect to activate an alternative timeline so that in 2022 World War 3 didn’t break out.

It isn’t wrong to dream. It is wrong to be scared of dreaming.

Write knowing that what you know isn't actually what you know, just the appearance of knowing it.

What does any of this matter? Nothing of course. Life is a terminal condition, someone told me today on social media, and they are right; and while I am minded to tell you to believe it, that is only the pity in me talking, as I have been overlooked for yet another award, another virtual handshake from someone who doesn’t know me, all so I can feel like I’m a *writer* and you know, fuck that because that it is getting everything the wrong fucking way round, like the approbation is more important than the act of putting a disordered world into some sort of frame so someone else, who you’ll never meet in space and time, feels less alone, more likely to live than to give up on the whole fucking chase of this game. A story – I was reading in Berlin once, one of those cool arty venues that you stumble across if you’ve been brave enough to go into a courtyard, and it was November and freezing, and I was the only person in there with trousers that covered my ankles, and I read a 20 minute poem for only the second time ever, and after I’d finished and come off stage to silence, and went to get a drink, the guy behind the bar was crying, and asked for the copy of the poem I’d read from and for me to sign it, because I’d moved him unbearably. I should have quit then as my writing *career* will never get better than that, I wish you that kind of success once, just once.

Write to know.

About the world. About you. About others. About the stuff you give a damn about. About the stuff you don’t.

About justice, time, being good, being bad, how to life a better life, how to leave it well.

About where to find the god of your choice, which generally is on the N98 about 2.48AM on a Friday morning. Don’t ask me why, it just is.

Just write.

Just write. It’ll be wrong, first time, second time, seventeenth time. What does that matter?

You are writing for you. You are writing for the world.

The two sometimes coincide and overlap. And if they do, you get rich.

JOKES. You don’t get rich. But who cares? You’re not a banker.

Just write. Just write. Just write.



Rishi Dastidar’s poetry has been published by Financial Times, New Scientist and the BBC amongst many others. His debut collection Ticker-tape is published in the UK by Nine Arches Press, and a poem from it was included in The Forward Book of Poetry 2018.  A member of Malika’s Poetry Kitchen, he is also chair of the London writer development organization Spread The Word.

Buy Rishi's book

Love and Honour by Izzy Posen

LOVE AND HONOUR

“Mmmm, this is some good meat!” Jasmine remarked as she returned her fork to her plate ready to dig in again as soon as her mouth makes some space.

Her lover, Chris, was sat across the small, round table, his knees enveloping hers. “He was a good man,” he said with a nostalgic look in his eyes, staring at the two flesh-covered ribs lying just in front of him.

“So lovable,” she responded after swallowing a particularly chewy piece of the smoked meal. “I miss him already. I don’t know how I’ll manage to cope once he’s completely gone!”

“Well, let’s not worry about that now. We have good memories and tasty meat. Let’s make the most of him while he’s still with us.”

He grabbed one of the ribs and broke off a chunky piece. Wrapped in lettuce he dipped it into the small bowl of BBQ sauce situated halfway between him and her.

“You know,” he said after several minutes of silent eating, “a friend of mine told me today something really shocking. Apparently in the West they leave their dead to rot in the ground. Eww!”

“God forbid! That’s so depraved!” She pushed away her plate and looked angrily towards Chris. “Did you have to tell me this whilst I’m eating? I lost my appetite now, thank you very much!”

He regretted bringing it up. She was right; that is a fairly revolting thought. All day it had been bothering him and he hasn’t been able to take it off his mind. The picture of placing someone to disintegrate in mud would have disturbed him at any time. But it especially sickened him now, given his own recent loss.

Chris’s dad, David, had just passed away a couple of weeks earlier. He and Jasmine found it very difficult to deal with it, but they found solace in the honour that they could give to his body. They tenderly cleaned him and decorated him and lovingly stored him away. Of course they miss his smile, his positivity, his energy. But at least they would still see him daily - at least for the near future. They calculated that he’d last for at least 5 months if they were sparing.

Jasmine was visibly shook by what she had just heard. “That’s disgusting!” she kept on repeating. “Why would anyone do this to a human being, let alone a loved one?”

“I always knew that they were morally depraved in the West. If that’s how they treat their dead, they probably don’t treat their living ones much better.” He had lost his appetite too. But he wouldn’t leave any meat uneaten - not his dad’s meat.

He finished and put the remainder of her portion back in the freezer, next to where the head, arms, one leg and some remaining ribs of the corpse were stored.

They retired to their room for the night.

After exchanging some anecdotes of their respective days at work, they managed to distract themselves from the thoughts that had so disgusted them earlier. She put her arm around him and lovingly kissed him on the lips. With soft, tender strokes his fingers fondled her left nipple, lightly stimulating them as he goes back and forth, up and down, round and round.

“You know what,” he said, groping her breast as he talked. “I am so lucky that we do not live in the West.”

She opened her eyes, as if emerging from a pleasant nap. “What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t be as lucky to have you if we lived there.”

“Why not?”

“They disapprove of romantic father-daughter relationships there.”



Izzy Posen is a student of Physics and Philosophy at the University of Bristol. He likes to think about moral and normative reference frames and the philosophical absurdities that arise from shifting perspective. He sometimes expresses these thought experiments in short pieces of fiction.

Check out Izzy's blog

DEAD HEAD by Tom Bland

DEAD HEAD

One photo immediately drew
my
attention from the plethora
of the forensic collection
on his bedroom wall collated like a collage
but too messy to be artistic in any academic sense.

Suddenly

I realised it was signed by Anton LaVey, who most scholars believed
lied about his SFPD forensic photography job.
Douglas still believed saying, “But look at the way LaVey frames the head highlighting
the essential element of the golf ball wedged into the forehead.”

He had purchased the photo
from the eBay seller,
Dragon Eyes Tooth Lore, which somehow made
me doubt it was a true LaVey original,

but I held my tongue, slightly
chewing on my teeth to stop any sound emerging.

Douglas seemed, in the words
of the man at the bus stop talking into his phone about the plumber
he recently hired to unblock the toilet of his otherwise pristine Italian
restaurant on Monmouth Street/of shit wrapped up in the Sunday
newspapers –

“a nice fella” –

who found the situation unusual enough to be
amusing, pulling out soaking/stained pictures/words/notations
of/on politicians and celebrities: he wasn’t a man of names,
he just plunged
the pipe free of obstruction.

I had to do it

(that quiet intense excitement
gripped my senses, without question, “don’t ask why!” -
I said
to my therapist - “nothing prepares you for these moments!”):

I drew with a felt-tip,
over the surface
where the golf ball
was jammed into his forehead,
making it into a third eye, the
look of horror on his face …

“Did you regress” …  “Did you accept sin” … “Consciousness
makes us too conscious” … “To be overwhelmed” … “Forget the name” … “What age
are you” … “In this moment” … “The name” … “The number” ...

He grabbed hold of my wrist throwing the felt-tip
across the bedroom, marking the other wall behind us with a wobbly line.

In a practical psychoanalytic workshop on the inner child,
one person left at lunch time, telling no one: I
wanted to know
what made her legs walk all by themselves, taking the rest of her to the tube.

“I was mostly silent as a kid,” I said as an opening which was also
a closing. “What can we say about silence?”
“I guess
there’s the feeling.” “Just one? Or multiple?”

I thought of my friend’s
text where he described “feeling empty with nothing,” as if nothing was its own
contradiction slapping you in the face, like the
old buffoon routine
practiced for years on Rue Vieille Du Temple in Paris
before civilisation crept in.

“You have defaced it!” he provoked
glaring at me as if the photograph was erupting as if

I had defaced the man, but in my brain, there was no such thing as a golf ball.

THE PAST WAS DEAD EVEN WHEN IT WAS NOW,

a Zen buddhist made his pupil transcribe the strangely
stale words, which Alan Watts quoted in one of his books entitled
something
like, The Insecurity of Wisdom, and years later,
the saying appeared on a mug photographed in the hand

of a cute 19 year old goth flashing

his prick,

which his ex
placed online
with the single word,

REVENGE,

across
the image.

Photo by Karolina Urbaniak


Tom Bland is the author of The Death of a Clown published by Bad Betty Press.

The Strop by Matthew Caley

THE STROP

          and the strop-razor
against my testicles then
grazing my perineum
as might make an initiate
draw in their very breath but
I see Countess Dolingen
               of Gratz
pining over a corpse in
the Schlosspark Mausoleum

          as The Id pines for pleasure.
And while the razor is blunt
my mind is sharp with thoughts of

          Comptesse Dolingen of Gratz
as the filter-elms turn green,
the people dappled-green on the Alexanderplatz
almost on the verge of love.
             
There is no such word as ‘can’t’



Matthew Caley's sixth collection Trawlerman's Turquoise is forthcoming from Bloodaxe in September, 2019. He describes it as 'the book that will secure my future obscurity'. He's read everywhere from Galway to Novi Sad, from the National Portrait Gallery to Wayne Holloway-Smith's living room.

His work can be found here.