Introducing: Poet Chaotique
The Archive of Ryan Stephen Thornton
I've seen a lot of posts going around the blogosphere offering up an Introduction of sorts, so here's my self-examination under the splintered poetic microscope through the prism of an overarching theme of chaos, labelled Poet Chaotique.
Spot of Word-Heavy Preamble:
So, I started writing and posting on here around 6 weeks ago, and I had this vision of all the things I needed to do with haste! It’s the curse of wanting to write in a new way suddenly, it’s like you have a need to tell every story at once. Fragmenting myself in the name of “content” feels disingenuous and problematic, especially when I’ve spent so much time and energy over the last few years re-aligning the fragments I’d made throughout my life, and amalgamating them into one person. This feat required the help of a therapist who eventually convinced me to say “I’m a poet” out loud. It still doesn’t feel good, but at least it feels true.
My name is Ryan Stephen Thornton, though I’ve had any number of nicknames and even more pen names. I suppose growing up feeling a little out of place and hiding huge chunks of who you are will cause a fracture between your mind and body, body and soul, person and name, so I never really got along well with my name. I’m coming to terms with it though. My body and I are still barely on speaking terms however.
The whole “introduce yourself” thing circled the niche depths of Twitter recently, and now it seems to have migrated over to Substack, so here we go..
Are you sitting differently?
Then we shall begin.
I am hugely influenced by the infinite potentiality of human existence, how being the sum of all my experiences, parts, influences & each thought & feeling conjures an intimate archive of a person. I flit unerringly between multiple categorisations. I first build the archive of me. I see the ultimate possibilities of all people, and want to see everyone around me achieve the best of what I assume they could be. I’m sure this is irritating at times. Pompous. I want to draw out the poet in some, the academic in others, the artist in many, and the ineffable unique beauty of all, however it may be manifest. I’m just projecting. I could be an artist, an academic, a researcher, a historian, a reader, a writer, a poet, a pirate, a revolutionary, a magician, an alchemist, a singer, a musician, a wit, a comedian, a dreamer, a lover, a friend, an educator, a villain, a queer, a philosopher; and as long as I could, I still might. I am infinitely changeable as all and none. I aim to be jack of myself, master of no-one. I discover each day another minute nuance in the intricately embroidered tapestry of me, and the neo-archival algorithm of self adjusts around me to inspire a new myriad of possibilities with each passing moment.
“You should stay away from your potential. I mean, that is something you should leave absolutely alone! You’ll mess it up! It’s potential, leave it! And anyway, it’s like your bank balance, you know – you always have much less than you think. Leave it as the locked door within yourself and then at least, in your mind, the interior will always be palatial. Wonderful gleaming marble floors, brocaded drapes. Mullioned windows, covered in mullions, whatever they are. Flamingos serving drinks. Pianos shooting out canapés into the mouths of elegant men and women who are exchanging witticisms… “Oh yes, this reminds me of the time I was in BudaPESHT with Binky… We were trying to steal a goose from the casino, muahahaha…” But it won’t be like that. You don’t want to find out that the most you could possibly achieve, if you gave it your all, if you harvested every screed of energy within you, and devoted yourself to improving yourself, that all you would get to would be maybe eating less cheesy snacks.”
Dylan Moran, Monster
(Chaotic) Bisexual - Ambisextrous Madman
I often wonder if this constant questioning is derived from the inherent questioning that makes up part of my sexuality? Is bisexuality real? Am I straight enough? Am I gay enough? How do I justify my sexuality to myself and others? What if I’m actually just bisexual because it once seemed simpler than to say I’m gay? What if one day it changes? Questioning is part of who I am now. And it arrives from, within, and towards a place of fluctuating shame. I might even push to describe myself as “chaotic bisexual”, it’s a classic trope within bisexual circles to have an element of chaos, because we believe our entire sexuality is a point of chaos in the system of categorisation in itself, so this bleeds into our personality and self-expression rituals. In theory, this should come with no elaboration. What it means for me in practice is too much sugar in my coffee and maximalist office decor. Am I a slave to perpetuating bisexual coding or do I create it? We may never know.
Casual Academic - whatever that means
I mark my successes and justify my means by my academic achievements, how well I have jumped through the hoops, while hating the hoops I am frequently promised I won’t have to jump through for much longer “once you get through these, you’ll be free”, and I believe them, and just keep jumping. I’m still jumping. The grass may be greener. I must also find my voice, my freedom to exist, but also hyper aware that I will always have to justify myself. Who am I if I cannot reference it? I am surely not the sum of works cited, but of works sighted. I don’t want to live in a perpetual state of “the grass is always greener”. This, sir, is Yorkshire. It’s green pretty much fucking everywhere. Well, except for the bit where I live, but still.
I’m a casual academic too. Not just a student or a researcher, but a lecturer. Did you know they give you next to no guidance? Nobody knows what they’re doing. They’re all making it up as they go along. It was quite a relief to find that out. I’m not sure what it means to be a “casual” academic. I assume they mean that it’s a casual contract. I took it to mean “wear dungarees” and mention TikTok in your seminars.
Patient as a Virtue
My therapist asked me 6 years ago “how many people can you be?”, I responded “maybe twenty?” thinking it clever to paraphrase F. Scott Fitzgerald when he said “a writer is twenty people trying to be one”, like I would “win” therapy with my responses. I’m getting closer to being that one person acknowledging that I can be the sum of my parts without being twenty separate people. I guess this accounts for much of my dissociation from parts of myself that don’t always fully compute in the moment. I once went for a psychiatric assessment in a building that was screaming at me, and through stained glass no less. I was being assessed for bipolar, the letter that arrived several weeks later stated, I’m paraphrasing, I always paraphrase, I want to find the best way, whether poetically or comedically, to say everything. For maximum impact, and I’m stalling now on the way to paraphrasing, I choose these words carefully to honour the truth, but to expose the lyricism I have applied through a veil of nostalgia in the years that have passed. It said I wasn’t bipolar, and that maybe it was just my personality. It probably (almost definitely) was, well, it was then. Now I’ve grappled with the beasts of depression and anxiety in a non-faux boho way, and I’ve certainly got something running through me like a stick of rock, but I don’t know what I’d call it quite yet. It is in and of itself, anxiety-making.
Photo of the iconic York figure, The Purple Man, painting my purple hair with his purple brush. He calls me “the best dressed man in York” for my array of waistcoats, shirts & boots.
Heart of Class
I might consider myself working class, despite living quasi-comfortably. I tick most of the boxes here, but my education would deny me access fully to this social grouping, even though I acknowledge I’ve always had to work while studying, and that often the few benefits that education has afforded me have often only just about paid my rent. What is class when so many are struggling? It’s only us and them now.
The archive of myself must include reference to my family tree, my surname traces back to the 15th century so far, and only leaves Yorkshire twice. Thorntons have lived in and around Yorkshire for 600 years. One of my relatives is buried in York, but I have no idea why as yet, I am the first that I’m aware of to live here. Maybe that’s why it was important for me to stay here after my family emigrated to Australia. I am the sum of my ancestors, and in me we have finally lived in York.
I have worked in retail and hospitality for as long as I can remember and probably a bit before then. How would I know? I went from paperboy, to shop assistant, to waiter, and then I was off! I spent almost a decade working as a chef, so you’ll find a lot of food themes, particularly desserts, creep into my poetry writing because I associate the viscosity of language with building recipes. It’s just another thread on the creative bow. My problem was that while I loved the wondering, experimenting, and testing phases, I didn’t then want to make it 500 times for paying customers. I earned the nickname Willy Wonka for my experimental curiosities. I’ve been called far, far worse. I once got a job (I was told much later) purely on the basis that the manager thought I looked a bit like Tim Burton. I got one job because the owner’s daughter was a One Direction fan and one of the band members came from the same town I grew up in.
I dreamed of creating what I called the “Apothekitchen”, made up of old recipes and remedies, bottling and preserving unusual fruits & vegetables in their various states, a kitchen-cum-apothecary that revered the seasons and respected the land, air, and sea and all its luscious bounties, using botanicals, herbs, and techniques that have long been forgotten. I also wanted to be a food writer, I clearly have always had a kinship with the unusual and untempered, as I wanted to be called The Wild Epicurean.
Man, ugh, I know.. right?
What does it mean to be a man? I acknowledge certain privileges of my sex, I also accept that I am often somewhat freer to exist as I do because I’m tallish & broad, maybe I can walk home more safely than others? Maybe I’ve been lucky up until now. I’ve never felt particularly “lucky”, or safe for that matter. Maybe my living outloud (leopard print shirts) will one day supersede my maleness. Sometimes I don’t want to be a man. I don’t know that I want to be a woman or non-binary though. I think I often just don’t want to be. Maybe I don’t want to be perceived at all. I seek ethereality. Ethereality paired with anxiety & depression makes me question my existence, but usually just in a poetic vision of self-imposed ephemerality. Or so I’d have you think. It’s all just smoke and mirrors really. It’s an existential crisis knitted up with a creative angst, and all the potential offshoots are just the loose threads that never quite get woven in properly. I’m a rustic multi-potentialite.
Piscean Male
I’m one of life’s dreamers. I belong to a small club of people who romanticise everything and everyone. I have fallen in love as many times as I have ridden a bus. I have accepted a plethora of influences into my life simply by passing by, by walking, by stopping and sitting. I listen to music that those around me have historically enjoyed, I collect books that those around me have recommended, mentioned or passed me by while holding. I read them sporadically to better understand my environment through the lens of the artists explored within. I marry up each influence into one mind, in the hopes of achieving maximum appeal to others. Classic people-pleasing trait, I know. The greatest love story: “I saw this and thought of you”, it says “I think of you when I come across specific art”, “you to me are a work of art”. I share a birthday with John Steinbeck. I assume this is why my best laid plans gang aft a-fuckin’-gley. It’s all people pleasing at the end of the day. I’m working on it. You know, if that’s what you think I should do? It’s a trap!
INFP
I am the mediator. I am the justifier. I am the passive. I am the diplomat. I am life’s alchemist. I seek beauty & joy in all things, but rarely if ever find it in myself. I hold one view while looking outwards, but rarely hold myself to the same tenets when looking inwards. I make an affable manager in a workplace, but make few friends. I am a sociable person, adept at adapting myself to social situations & constructs, but rarely socialise freely. There is always a construct at play, it is always the elephant in the room, I’m aware of the transactions at play, always. All work and no play makes Ryan a dull boy. Other INFPs include Tolkien, Shakespeare, Björk, & Amélie.
Puppet / Pirate / Poet / Pawn & A King
I’ve often been asked what I am. I play to the scene at hand, and declare myself the thing that people expect to hear. I don’t stand in my workplace and decry myself a great poet. I don’t stand in a theatre studio and tell the empty space about my current occupation. I have only this year declared myself to myself, and distilled myself down to my self-identification as a writer, no, a poet. Accepting in this that “poet” encompasses the majority of my other pursuits, a poet can be a writer of other genres, an artist through and through that can ascribe to many other schools of thought and practice, it suggests a deeper sensibility & sensitivity in all things. And I am no less derided for my poetry-making abilities than I am for my loud shirts, sexuality, and diplomacy.
I discovered the word “solemn” around aged 8, and wrote my first poem in response to a book about victorian workhouses. It was called The Workhouse Blues. I printed the word “blues” in blue ink. I read it aloud in front of an assembly of my peers. I don’t know if the blueness of the word “blue” came across, but it was very heavily implied. I also received a headteacher’s commendation that came with a little round sticker in emerald green & cream, on which was hand-written the reason for my commendation. The cursive handwriting rendered the word poetry as “pootry”. I was naturally mocked at length. Was I destined to be a poot? That’s Life, for Old King Poot.
Pirate / Vampire / Children’s TV Presenter - or as one stranger once put it “like Matt Berry doing Liberace”
My physical representation plays across numerous stereotypes, in that bisexuals are known for their experimentation and fluidity of self. I suppose this derives from their inherent questioning. We always want to be something else and oscillate wildly. I oscillate wildly. While I may go through phases, waxing and waning out of big bright wool shirts & doc marten boots, into animal print & hot pink chelsea boots, and back out into dungarees, a “poet” shirt with balloon sleeves, and the occasional unironic purple beret. I play myself as an instrument of my own categorisations. I read myself and teach others how to read me, or not, as the case may be.
Writer / Reader / Collector
I am my TBR (to be read) pile. I am, to some extent, the sum of everything I read, everything I write, and everything I collect. I collect word & lyric in all forms. I draw out the delicate language that plays through my mind when listening to Debussy’s Prelude to The Afternoon of a Faun. I speak aloud the opening lines of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and riff. I translate the jarring fricatives of train travel into words I’ve found & borrowed, albeit never shamelessly. My love of comedy comes from this obsessive collecting of words & phrases. I collect their rhythms. Though I dislike the rhythm of the word prosody. Defenestration is the best word.
Crowns
I am currently blessed with 5 crowns. I have a double crown on my head, which causes me all sorts of problems with my hair. The resulting quiff in a shorter haircut has led me to impersonating Elvis in the past. Ryan means “little king”, that’s a third crown. Stephen means “crown”, that's four. And I have added the fifth myself, in a tattoo of Bob Dylan’s symbol, the eye of the artist, which is an egyptian hieroglyph-esque eye with heavily mascara-ed lashes, and an ornate crown, that’s five. I shan’t make any crude allusions here by including that part of my surname means “encircled by thorns”.
I seek meaning, history, etymology, and ancestry in all things. If I hear a song, I want to know what influenced it, where it comes from, each riff & run, the word choices, the origin of the title. I don’t care so much for the way we are taught to “read” poetry at school. She isn’t wearing a white dress to symbolise her innocence. She’s just wearing a white dress. Writing is rarely so pure & simple. Though it is worth noting that a process of understanding these referential devices is a huge part of the creative process, it is rarely so obvious. I wish to live semio-textually.
The Archive of Me
All these miniature auto-archivals share some ideas on the inspiration behind my creative process, and also share some stories carefully cultivated from the archive of me to best decorate these pages. My entire identity is so mired in shame-addled crises & references, that I can’t tell if I’ve had a breakthrough or a breakdown. Am I an artist now? Or has something finally clicked, or snapped inside my mind? How will I ever know the difference? I’ve slipped through a crack, but cannot ever know in which direction. In the interim, here’s a little ditty.
Being as Failure
Baby blue with the three-curled crowns
ringing about his ears,
Draping wrists
over jagged punch, captivated by aromatic
& ancient wisdom,
That uncanny smell that haunts and dances
across every library nook,
Like old leather, vanilla, and something
you would never quite put your finger on.
What half-crazed empath, custom built
with self-defence mechanismo,
Caught between hiding & losing, buried
in that semi-survival disguise,
The weight of which still worries my shoulders, and
hangs beneath my eyes, circled stains
of anx/gstious anticipation, fear & self-loathing,
Around my neck, I carry that shame. Still.
Parts made up of myself cherry-picked
from the self-expression of others,
Safety & comfort in living vicariously
through another’s hair colour
Always playing with dress-up, so
that the little boy is never alone,
My existence, a well-crafted joke, protection
behind confusion, just some fun
The little creature arrested
by his exposed camouflage,
perched on the tips of his toes,
Reaching for a better time to be alone,
from a place of love, silent & frozen still,
The monster grown, forcing
a misshapen cloven hoof into size 13
stretched leather,
That smell strikes again, but now
it instils yet more fear,
And with that artificial height, finds comfort,
finds peace, finds himself.
Still not enough, and where is my vanilla?
Why “Poet Chaotique”?
This name was born out of the crossover between the phrases/genres of Chaotic Bisexual & Chaotic Academia. I wanted a name that very much said what it did on the tin, and encompassed this thread of chaos in my life, work, and research. I adore all things maximalist and extravagant in and beyond the world of poetry, and this permeates through all the writing I share.
I am the Late & (soon-to-be Great)* Queer Piscean Pirate King Poot, R.S.Thornton, known to you as Poet Chaotique. That’s context enough, for now. *(brackets here indicate an anxious oscillation between arrogance & insignificance in the editing process)
You may endeavour to sit far more comfortably from here, whatever that means for you. But be aware, there’s only more nonsense of this kind to come.
I’ve exposed myself quite intensely here, and it takes much caffeine with which to lick clean the wounds & battle scars of sharing shreds of my most intimate self. To rectify this situation, there is a link below that dispenses caffeine on a drip intravenously. It’s like a hipster bare-brick café club remake of A Clockwork Orange with flat whites & a band you’ve never heard of playing inordinately loudly from behind the seating banquette. It’s a flashmob where not only the milk is freshly whipped for your pleasure.