I'm still alive!
Gods, life's just been running me over, repeatedly. Mostly with work - I somehow scored an editing job which I'm completely unqualified for, but they seem to like my "holistic, intuitive approach" which will do me nicely for the time being. All my other jobs are still going, and there's volunteer work on top of that, so my hobbies include "sleeping occasionally" right now. Well, allright... that's a rotten lie. I've started going to a life-drawing group I've never worked at, to actually draw, incognito if you will: "modellin'?me? neverrrr." And I've been sculpting...
I've discovered my local pub. Passionately, if that makes any sense. I guess there is something in me that resists being known - when things become too stable, I find some new thing that is wholly mine, some place to hide, some people to whom I am a stranger with potential, but no firm attachments. I guess I associate knowledge with control, and like neither being applied to me too firmly - being wholly known means being wholly in someone's power. I'm stupidly, pointlessly resistant. So, yeah, my local is serving me that subterranean, buried life I need to always have a pocket of, and hot toddies, and ciders with as many lime wedges as I want. I'm mainlining novels while I procrastinate over editing work, wait for late drafts, prioritize the wrong things, become late on rent - hey, suddenly, it's all up in the air and I'm feeling alive.
The small details of my life delight me. I take dusty glass jars down from the kitchen shelf, throw dried blackcurrant leaves and small withered blossoms and crumpled green tea leaves into a mug and watch them unfurl, my neighbor's cat insists on sitting on my novel and purring at me, the broken window in the bathroom lets in perfect, golden sunset light and vines creep in through it to paw at the tiles. I smoke on the narrow flight of steps and ogle the moon, several drinks past bedtime, and I feel good.
The wind smells of spring and wanderlust. Not that I need to go far to get as lost as I need, to feel alive. I dread shedding my baggy spacesuit, my invisibility cloak of greatcoats and baggy pants and bulky jackets, dread the light hitting skin, dread being seen - and yet, the warmth, the spring. There is such a keen edge to it, to balance along with a sense of reckless abandon.
I hit the early morning trainride to work with a wicked grin and a hangover. But fuck, I feel alive.
Listening to: Teatr Piesn Kozla
Reading: Emma Jane Unsworth
Drinking: oh, I'm done drinking for the night