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Je ne regrette rien
Je ne regrette rien
Except that of course, I do.
Not big things by and large - more of a why did I eat that second cheeseburger/drunkenly declare my love to that friend/snatch that baby* kind of affair - and certainly nothing that keeps me awake at nite wondering how my life could be different.
But one of my big regrets is that there are some things that I simply don't - and never will - 'get'.
One of these is poetry. I am, without wanting to sound arrogant, quite an intelligent and literary guy - I can talk with authority on the novels of Fitzgerald or Hemingway, for example, and can hold my own when dinner party conversation turns to Kafka or Camus.
But poetry eludes me somehow, and not for lack of trying - every year somebody buys me a collection of poetry from Sylvia Plath, or Ted Hughes, or whoever else they remember from English class I just don't get it.
A year or two ago, I found a large collection of poetry I wrote when I was about 15/16. All of it was ridiculous adolescent gibberish, talking about how 'nobody understood me' and how the 'world was against me.' So I threw it all out.
But the lingering feeling I'm getting at the moment is that were I to read back over what I'm writing now in five or six years time, I'd be equally amused. I'm not sure I actually have a point I'm trying to make, but I suppose it's worth thinking about.
In other news, I watched five minutes of Big Brother last nite that featured solely a woman making moaning noises. A few minutes in it struck me that I had the TV on pretty loud, and the neighbours probably thought I was watching porn.
So I switched it off and put on Big Titted Nurses Vol.2
You might as well give the public what they want.
* Relax dear reader, I have never snatched a baby.
So you can put that hotline to The Daily Mail's letters page down.
8/12/2006 5:46 am
Just off the top of my head, maybe you can get a sultry beauty to try explaining poetry to you... Perhaps the added motivation will be what you need?|