Do you ever catch yourself doing something, and you think ‘I know I must be happy, because I’m doing that thing I always do when I’m happy.’ For me it’s singing. I found myself singing at the top of my lungs to an album that 90’s Vicky was obsessed with, while driving to Mama Jeu’s yesterday. Three weeks ago 2020 threw one last steaming turd at me, and I lost my shit and rather a drastic amount of weight. But if there’s one thing I’m rather adept at, it’s rising from the ashes.
I finished writing a book this week, and have sent it to the publishers for the proof copy. I won’t believe it until it’s a real thing in my hands. It’s the text of ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ and a selection of edited blogs that trace the process, plus a few other bits and pieces and photos from the live performances. I have included all of the brain haiku’s, and a poem that I later cut from the live performance. So I’d already done the writing, I just needed to learn the formatting. I hope it will be the first of many.
It’s been a booky month, as I found out that I’ve been featured in a new one coming out in April. In June 2019, my poet friend Dave Hubble came to see me perform ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ and we had a brief discussion afterwards about spoken word and burlesque for a chapter he was writing. The book is called ‘Spoken Word in the UK’ and is published by Routledge, which makes me feel very scholarly, as most of my theatre textbooks at University were published by them.
I have been allocated some funding to re-work ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ for a digital platform and will be streaming some performances from my living room in the new year. It’s been interesting to experiment with performing to a camera, and I was able to invest in a plug-in microphone. I’m so grateful that the show is still finding new audiences, I had thought it was all over when the pandemic began this year.
Work on ‘Testy Manifesto’ is ongoing, and I found a way to frame the problematic middle section of the show. I’ve even booked a venue for a performance in June, because SURELY Covid will be long gone by then????!!! It’s currently running at 45 minutes, so I’ll do two performances to allow for social distancing. I’ve brought a burlesque element in, I wasn’t going to, but it felt right for a particular section, and Jeu Jeu insisted. She is often right about these things.
I wrote a very dark poem last month, and have shared it at a few online poetry events. I took quite a lot of artistic license with the imagery, really played up the wretchedness - we all need a lockdown poem, right?
I keep surprising myself this year.
Stay safe and cosy,
JJlF xx
In the house of self-undoing
A gradual drip fills a bucket overnight, and with a heavy slosh empties each day
Brown sludge clings to corners
Caterwauling creatures hunt for threads
And vacant spider-webs are hammocks for dust
In the house of self-undoing
A paint blob on the wall turns into a spindly bug, it’s legs rattle
Shower steam turns to green mould
Each day the doom-scrolling diary of a madwoman
Watches as the line on the graph climbs higher
In the house of self-undoing
A door frame shakes the frozen breath, a neighbours smoke unfurls
They are locked into screens
But taking no prisoners
Constipated hours pass, and no one thinks to help
Bags are half packed in the house of self-undoing
An endless drone makes sparks fly, there is blood in the toilet
The sweat is fresh
But I can tell it disgusts you
Deft spiders descend with alarming speed
The house of self-undoing has paper thin walls
Terrifying hallucinations that only arouse her curiosity
Her voice rasps
Her hand won’t write
She thinks of the last meal she had with her mother in Peru, the llama skin tablecloth, the clay pots, the gentle candlelight on sloped ceilings.
Loves washes through in convulsions
Just let me leave
No sound escapes
And passers by admire the flowers outside
I finished writing a book this week, and have sent it to the publishers for the proof copy. I won’t believe it until it’s a real thing in my hands. It’s the text of ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ and a selection of edited blogs that trace the process, plus a few other bits and pieces and photos from the live performances. I have included all of the brain haiku’s, and a poem that I later cut from the live performance. So I’d already done the writing, I just needed to learn the formatting. I hope it will be the first of many.
It’s been a booky month, as I found out that I’ve been featured in a new one coming out in April. In June 2019, my poet friend Dave Hubble came to see me perform ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ and we had a brief discussion afterwards about spoken word and burlesque for a chapter he was writing. The book is called ‘Spoken Word in the UK’ and is published by Routledge, which makes me feel very scholarly, as most of my theatre textbooks at University were published by them.
I have been allocated some funding to re-work ‘Frontal Lobotomy’ for a digital platform and will be streaming some performances from my living room in the new year. It’s been interesting to experiment with performing to a camera, and I was able to invest in a plug-in microphone. I’m so grateful that the show is still finding new audiences, I had thought it was all over when the pandemic began this year.
Work on ‘Testy Manifesto’ is ongoing, and I found a way to frame the problematic middle section of the show. I’ve even booked a venue for a performance in June, because SURELY Covid will be long gone by then????!!! It’s currently running at 45 minutes, so I’ll do two performances to allow for social distancing. I’ve brought a burlesque element in, I wasn’t going to, but it felt right for a particular section, and Jeu Jeu insisted. She is often right about these things.
I wrote a very dark poem last month, and have shared it at a few online poetry events. I took quite a lot of artistic license with the imagery, really played up the wretchedness - we all need a lockdown poem, right?
I keep surprising myself this year.
Stay safe and cosy,
JJlF xx
In the house of self-undoing
A gradual drip fills a bucket overnight, and with a heavy slosh empties each day
Brown sludge clings to corners
Caterwauling creatures hunt for threads
And vacant spider-webs are hammocks for dust
In the house of self-undoing
A paint blob on the wall turns into a spindly bug, it’s legs rattle
Shower steam turns to green mould
Each day the doom-scrolling diary of a madwoman
Watches as the line on the graph climbs higher
In the house of self-undoing
A door frame shakes the frozen breath, a neighbours smoke unfurls
They are locked into screens
But taking no prisoners
Constipated hours pass, and no one thinks to help
Bags are half packed in the house of self-undoing
An endless drone makes sparks fly, there is blood in the toilet
The sweat is fresh
But I can tell it disgusts you
Deft spiders descend with alarming speed
The house of self-undoing has paper thin walls
Terrifying hallucinations that only arouse her curiosity
Her voice rasps
Her hand won’t write
She thinks of the last meal she had with her mother in Peru, the llama skin tablecloth, the clay pots, the gentle candlelight on sloped ceilings.
Loves washes through in convulsions
Just let me leave
No sound escapes
And passers by admire the flowers outside
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