The making of a journalist

Imagine the film

was the making of a journalist:

an untidy profession of that many

honourable

sensibly thinking souls:

where the blacks and whites e-

merge

every day into graze

as eating on the hoof and under

the strange roofs of others

you have never met before and may

never meet again;

and that’s the time and the space and the shapes

of good journalists.

Driving like mad;

flying around;

travelling from one room to another:

in meetings of curious investigation –

never quite got the training of a forensic;

never quite got the hierarchy of police;

never quite got the artistry of literature;

and yet – curiously, amazingly – the truth

is enthralled and captured through the

keyboard of such journalists

in the way only journalists can.

And so imagine that film:

imagine again.

Imagine a writer who wrote like a dream

but couldn’t quite make it

for so many reasons:

some terribly personal,

some terribly historical,

some terribly confusingly entangled and

bemusing, and distressing, and unhelping,

and hindering and cack-handedly:

candidly idiotically stupidly mad.

And they wanted to help him become the man

he could be; with all their clever profiling,

they knew he could be.

And for some equally weird reasons

they took it upon themselves

to set up an environment, a space of radical

learning, where anything and everything

would turn around his self:

from his then fear of driving to his

damn fear of flying to

his ever so strange

fear of thinking about sex:

and all with the aim of making him become

the man he’d never been,

the journalist he could be done.

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