“I’m a very spiritual person”- Read this as; “ I know that religion is a crock of shit but I still can’t summon the nerve to give God the blow off.”
Sorry about that, had a busy day yesterday.
Started it with a seminar in “ Becoming self employed.” I arrived promptly at the big building in Blackfriars.
“One of our entrepreneurs, eh”, asked the first security guard.
“ No, I’m a …writer” I replied, lacking the balls to give him the full truth.
“ Oh, wow, what do you write”?
“ Oh, I’ve written some literature and jazz reviews, I’ve also released a book of…poetry.”
“ Jazz, eh?” It was the second security guard, a tubby middle-aged fellow. “ I’m a big fan of jazz! What did you review?”
“ Erm, I reviewed the new Coltrane and Monk at Carnegie Hall.”
“ Coltrane, oh I was never really into Coltrane, or Charlie Parker, or any of that lot, now if you’re talking about…”
I’ll spare you the rest of his impassioned monologue about Stan Getz and the mainly white Jazzmen that played it dull and straight. I had two theories as to what was going on with him.
Either a) he knew the bit about writing a jazz article was a complete lie
Or b) he was a middle aged security guard, therefore he was going to be an amateur, specialist in something and obviously the fucker was into Jazz. He’d probably written hundreds of Jazz reviews and they all got rejected. Then he sees this thirty-year-old whippersnapper who’s claiming to be a published Jazz journalist, to the degree of being able to make a living at it. He probably went home to his long-suffering, menopausal wife who had to listen to him exclaiming “ Jazz journalist! JAZZ JOURNALIST! And he’d never even heard of the Benny Shipton quintet!”
It was an awkward situation, and I started wishing I was a suicide bomber.
I made one of those hum sounds followed by an awkward silence with no eye contact that always works in ending conversations.
The seminar was in a boardroom where sixteen of us sat around a long table. We did the usual introduction routine, the one where you say your name, followed by what you do. Among the interior and graphic designers, IT consultants, where some interesting gems, one being Henry, a part time council worker who was teaching excluded kids how to be DJs. He was a cool guy, kicking up a minor protest about there being no biscuits to go with the other refreshments, and guess what, we got biscuits! We got biscuits off THE MAN!
When it came around to my turn, I held my chin up and declared, “Niall O’Sullivan. Poet.”
There was an awkward silence, like Grandma just farted at Christmas dinner.
Then, a hippyish looking woman announced that she was a spiritual life coach. Yep reader, spiritual. When she entered the room earlier, she spoke about how she had a lot of grief from the security guard. Those boys, they could spot one quicker than I could, I’ll give them that.
She drank this green looking infusion out of a clear sports cap bottle. She scattered her card about the room, had to be the centre of attention during the seminar. Now, I always thought the first step on the path to enlightenment was knowing how to shut up.
She offered everyone her services, hooking onto the gullible, the weak, the impressionable. She seemed to be intent on avoiding The Poet though, probably had me down as one of those pseudo-Nietzchean misanthropes, which wouldn’t have been far wrong. Still, who needs more spiritual support than an old cynic such as my good self? Nah, she didn’t hook onto me because poet=no money.
I’ve got her card with me right now. It says:

The River knoweth where She floweth,
Your job is to keep on paddling!

Did you see what she did there? Spelling river and she with capital letters! Writing knoweth and floweth instead of knows and flows! Spi-ri-tual!

~

The rest of my day consisted of collecting 1000 flyers for The Cellar, having a quick beer and burger by the fireside at The Commercial (don’t tell the duchess!) and hosting Poetry Unplugged at The Poetry Café in the evening.
It was the usual affair, slightly chaotic, a mixed bag of readers. Maricel got up and read for the first time in over a year, mainly her older work about lots of sexual stuff that I wont reprint here for the sake of our mutual modesty. I remember feeling a little awkward about seeing my girl read out all her raunchy stuff in front of some sexually malnourished male poets, but you know what? She was brilliant. She’s reading at The Island Queen in Islington on Friday with Francesca Beard, Clare Pollard and many others. That’s ma’ girl!