Apropos of nothing

Jo Zebedee

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Hi Jo, what do you mean? That I should be the flippant joker I am on instagram, or that I should maintain a more professional air? Obviously I'm obviously much more comfortable being irreverent and relaxed but wonder if I need to be a bit more restrained. My Twitter presence is @Phyrebrat for more personal and polictical stuff, and @beanwriting for author-y and writing things.

Would you say you've had to tone down your Jo-ness or ...?
Thanks

C
I like your insta feed a lot - one of the few that makes me smile and makes me feel closer to you, as a mate who has never actually met you. That engages me more than your Twitter. I like to feel feeds are authentic for me to engage with the person - so I think wherever you feel most yourself works best - but only if you’re happy with people knowing you. That’s the hard Part.

i am careful what I say where, I edit a lot. That is partly because of my surname and being so easily searched and because my writing name is the same as my actual name, and that I have a fairly conservative day job. I am vocal about my politics and where my natural bent is - but very very careful about anything to do with Northern Ireland, especially running a shop in an area linked to one religion (as all things NI are)- But i think I still am Jo whereever I am - I just had to come to terms with that visibility and that took a while, when I realised I was becoming more visible.
i think it’s about getting to that comfort point.

edit - I still Angst when people dislike me because of whatever they perceive me as without knowing me.
 

Phyrebrat

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Thanks Jo. It’s weird isn’t it. To be a fully fledged human and then all of a sudden starting to worry about your own censure etc.

I’m happy for anyone to know about my race/racism stuff even if it leads to fights. But on the other hand, if someone thought I was ‘silly’ because of a daft humorous or Star Wars post, I’d struggle not to feel upset and embarrassed.

But that’s about me as an individual, personally. As far as writing goes, if ‘people’ started slagging my work off online, I suspect I’d be unaffected, because I write for myself. That means I have to get published first, but then that would be validation in itself for me, so I wouldn’t care. It’s just the personal l stuff I worry about.
 

Toby Frost

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"Apropos of Nothing" sounds like the antihero of a Michael Moorcock fantasy novel. "Apropos of Nothing, rebel master of the time-streams, wielder of the Axe of Entropy, must form a prog band with his six reincarnations to defeat his vast enemy, Epic Pooh..."

I think people have been a little surprised that (a) I've written serious stuff and (b) I'm not more like Space Captain Smith.
 

Phyrebrat

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I've recently had some terrible news about my sis, which resulted in me writing this today on the way to work.

My Four Posts

One day I met a woman walking.

I’d taken the route behind the old Boating Industry house in Oatlands. Its not-quite Gothic, not-quite Arabian jelly-mould dome glowed dully in the sharp Winter sun as I passed on. Its shadow engulfed me in a prescient Winter chill who promised all I loved would disperse.

One day I met a woman, walking.

On the forest path, from underfoot came the crack and squish of twigs and mulch, as if I stepped on perished ribs. They undulated and rolled as I trod onwards.

A hardy crow sat; on the precipice where flight and confidence meet, eyeing me from a low branch. It struck me odd a perch for a crow; on a bough instead of the side of the M6 to Sister’s End, or otherwise awkwardly waltzing on the ridges of a fallow field.

‘Where do minutes go when we’ve used them?’ he asked me in my brother’s voice.
I pretended not to hear, for I had no answer, and felt foolish at my ignorance.

One day I met a woman — walking.

On the mountain track, I saw a brainy knot of earthworms spilled from within an angler’s bait box.
Tapered head-tails separated themselves from the vellicating mass and asked in hidden tongues, ‘Tell us your biggest fear,’ and a woman’s face appeared in my mind; wan, symmetrical, demanding love.
I ran from the mass, the path giving way now to a sundered alley of sun-bleached cans, transparent crisp bags, and other human refuse.

‘Can you breathe me like air?’
I turned and saw a fox; beatific rapture fixed upon its face of luxuriant fur.
‘No, but I can drink a smell,’ I replied cleverly, thinking of the redolent wonder of gardenias in full bloom. How their stink when inhaled would tumble through me like scented, ice water.

One day in 1977, I met a woman as she started her walking. She pointed to me with sadness and said, ‘Brother dead, in his four-poster bed.’

And only today do I understand.
 

Phyrebrat

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This is the most important building in my life.

Although this picture was taken in 1950, and I'd not be born for 22 years, it's important because in March 1978 I went to this cinema to see a film that has defined my life as much as dance, Ghana, and fish. I can't help but think of R2-D2, Obi-Wan and Luke in the Jundland Wastes when I see the entry marquee.

America has Mann's Chinese Theatre, Surrey had The Walton-on-Thames Odeon... When I found this pic online it seemed somehow profound and existential. I'm trying to find a one from the 70s and 80s before it closed. My brother and I used to go to the Saturday Morning Pictures here.

walton-hi-st-1950.jpg
 

Danny McG

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Yesterday morning, my wife looked out the kitchen window and said, "It's so quiet. There's no one about
If I'm watching a horror film and somebody says that then it's automatic "pay close attention, it's slasher time"
 

Phyrebrat

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Oddly enough, the building opposite with the conical cap reminds me of the Picturedrome, Bognor Regis, where I was denied entry to watch The Empire Strikes Back.
That's the library - or it was. We left in 1985 but I'm pretty sure I've seen it.

Why were you forbidden entry? Were you asymptomatic? Coughing? I thought the only PCR tests they had back in 1978 was for Bazooka Joes or white dog poo
 
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HareBrain

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Too bad you missed that one. It was good.
I've seen it since, of course, but never on the full-size screen it deserved. Curse you, Picturedrome attendant!

Why were you forbidden entry?
You know, I can't remember. I think the justification given was to do with me and my younger brother being unaccompanied, but I'm pretty sure the film's certification didn't require that, and I'd been to that cinema on my own loads of times.

It might be that my brother was below the age threshold at which you could go without an adult. So yes, let's blame Steve.
 

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