May 25, 2013

William Beckett chats with Concourse before Slam Dunk Festival, "Touring with Relient K and Hellogoodbye has been incredible."


So I interviewed William Beckett for my student magazine this week ahead of Slam Dunk Fest this weekend (come say hi to me at the Midlands date if you’re going). It was pretty cool. He answered some hard questions, and the easy ones - like about Game of Thrones (jokes, that was pretty hard too). It was my first interview! So that’s pretty sweet, first of many I hope. 

I’m interviewing Handguns on Monday at SD! So stoked.

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repeat from I need to go to my mind palace.

February 28, 2012

More often than not, when I try to remember the little crackle at the bottom of his laugh I can, but it’s the days where it escapes me that bother me the most. The distinct scent of Golden Virginia tobacco takes me back to countless days spent sat on the edge of bed that we used as a couch, his back curved as he hunched towards the small, dusty television in the corner of the room, seven or eight letter words sliding out of his mouth with ease long before the perplexed Countdown contestants could pressed a chewed pen to their lips.

It is the littlest things that mean the most to me. People tend to get the wrong impression on the days that it all comes flooding back – that I break down because I’m broken, when in reality it is because I cannot bear to think of anything else, for fear of losing those moments I get to share with him once more.

One of my favourites is the day that I originally attributed to finally growing up. I let myself into my dad’s house one day after school, aged eleven, to find he wasn’t home. Disappointed, I traipsed upstairs, sprawled myself across his bed and reached out to the bedside table, where he usually kept some Jelly Tots or a Dairy Milk in case I turned up unannounced – most days I did. Instead of the usual treat, my hand landed on the silky smooth cover of a red and black paper back, dog-eared, annotated, it looked not only well-read, but well-loved.

By the time my dad returned that night I’d almost finished; a little confused, a little naïve, and a lot more curious. Dad smiled, I hoped there was a glint of pride in there somewhere and I was right.

“Catcher in the Rye? You should have asked first, we could have found you something a tad more appropriate.” He sat down next to me, smile extending into a grin and I knew he didn’t mean it, trying to be the responsible parent.

“There are some things I don’t understand, I’ll need to read it again,” I frowned. “You might have to help me a bit.”

He patted my knee and sighed. “Alright, but don’t tell your mother.”

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See Post tags #spilled ink #writing #literature #father #personal #creative writing #wrote this a little while back in my creative writing class #don't have a title for it #prose

February 26, 2012

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

Mad Girl’s Love Song - Sylvia Plath

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You looked at me, quite amazed, and I showed you my scars. You looked at me. The same: no pity, no confusion, just acceptance. And I told you my scars. You looked at me, quite amazed, but not surprised. And you listened some more. That was all I needed, and you knew that. Nothing changed, but maybe you hugged me a little tighter, a little more urgently, just to let me know that you would let nothing hurt me that much again. I already knew that nothing could feel that bad once more. I’d had the worst of it, and in that moment I understood that things would start to get better if I let them.

So I let them. I let you in. 

See Post tags #personal

January 9, 2012

All That Remains

You are the spine of every book
I bend and break,
My fingers purse against you gently
Until your being shakes.

You are the smell after rain
Everything feels clean,
When nothing is corrupt
And nothing is obscene.

You are the crunch of every leaf,
Each of my tough foot-steps
Upon the foliage make you cry.
As you slipped, I wept.

Yours is the blood in my veins,
It is all that’s left
Of you in the world
You are no more. The greatest theft.

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See Post tags #poetry #spilled ink #death #grief #mourning #father #loss #love #poem #my poetry

January 1, 2012

I might even let myself fall in love this year. I hope so. Three hundred and sixty five days, one of them I might wake up and just feel it. I sincerely do hope so. I think I might. I think I will.

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See Post tags #personal #love #resolution

December 31, 2011

I’m reminded all the while that in a few short hours I’ll be ringing in yet another year that I have to battle through without my father.

There are milestones I wish to reach in the next twelve months, experiences I hope to receive and achievements I’m going to strive for. Knowing that I have to go through all of these things without my dad to run to for support, for a shoulder to cry on, somebody to make me go for what I want, and someone to congratulate me for every little great thing I do, it makes me feel an unholy amount of insecure. 

The last five have been absolute hell. I don’t know how much strength I have left. I don’t know how much energy I have left. 

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See Post tags #personal #daddy #people: dad #fuck this all #new year

December 12, 2011

What is there to be scared of?

Absolutely everything. 

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December 3, 2011

Your fingers, I want them on the nape of neck, the small of my back, my lips before your lips. Your fingers, crying down my spine, stroking my cheek. Your fingers, digging into my thighs. Your fingers, in between mine. 

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November 27, 2011


So I wrote a villanelle.  


You are my favourite quiet place,
when each and every day grows hard.
Eyes closed, I think of your embrace.

When sour tongues lave sour tastes, 
and every conversation’s marred.
You are my favourite quiet place.

I stumble through each hour with haste,
try to forget how far you are.
Three weeks now, ‘till our next embrace.

Attempt to keep my feelings paced
but kissed-speech races to your heart,
you are my favourite quiet place.

Now night-times falls upon your face;
I still feel you, through miles of dark:
remembering our last embrace.

Though silent dreams I tend to chase,
from this white noise I’ll soon depart.
You are my only quiet place,
not long now ‘till our next embrace. 

Instead of writing just any old thing with one word or line repeated a few times I thought I’d challenge myself completely by doing a villanelle for my ‘refrain’ assignment this time around. This is the first rough draft and I hope it’ll change quite a lot next week in the workshop when we help each-other out with improvement suggestions and such. I do have a few issues with the rhyming of it, a couple of lines feel a bit forced and filler so will be working on that. So yeah, my first villanelle :)

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See Post tags #thumbstroke #accioramen #poetry #english literature #spilled ink #my poetry #villanelle #first draft #i like this one