Skip to main content


what does it mean to sell out? it entails something about authenticity which is a big bag of bones. but being authentic is always a question in motion. like individuality it is under suspicion. and at the very least it is fucking hard work. to be authentic requires constant questing and questioning. i have a marketing job. i wore a white shirt, blue suit, and combed my hair in a nice tame way and took out my earring. did i lose something? "clothes and fashion are superficial. it is the inside that counts." but clothes are signifiers and your signifiers can become you unless you realise it is a play. even then there is danger. wearing a suit in central london and working with the bigshots may, in time, change your personality. a personality may have some stable aspects, and many unstable or free-playing aspects based on context/environment. i want to see my pesonalities as many branches on the one tree, the one tree with a shitload of roots going everywhere and nowhere. i want to sit in the centre of the energy of the world and dig it. i want to get lost in order to lose self-consciousness. i want to light it up. get the words chattering in my head again. after three years of living in foreign countries i didn't hear much in terms of inner dictation. my writing changed. i learned a lot. now it is time to get more playful and listen to all those damn fine voices in my head again. yeah. and really soak it all in.

so no selling out. a day job for less money is better than getting sucked into the corporate world. maybe i can go into the beast later. i can play. let's play. ok better catch the tube to get the bus to get the plane to fly to belfast. back to london in 11 days.

off we go . . .


Popular posts from this blog

poets reading poets

There are on A now: Andrews, Antin, Apollinaire, Ashbery

A project from the Atlanta Poetry Group. Check it:

The Poetry of Tao Lin

Another Ireland by Robert Archambeau

This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)

I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).

Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…