Timesoup

I have been totally trashing my living room in the name of art. There’s origami and confetti strewn hither and yon, my great big plant is currently sitting randomly by the sofa surrounded by bits of possible costume and Hex’s traveling box. All over the place there are mugs and notepads and props and shiny things and scissors and stickyback plastic. The chances of me tidying it up are next to nonexistent. I’m loving making the creative whirlwind right now, and there’s nobody here but me. Strangely my bedroom is neat and tidy. But maybe it’s because I know how important rest is right now in this time of worldwide rest.

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Time is wobbly. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and turn round and it’s evening. I haven’t been under the sky for long enough that I miss it. I sleep with my blinds up though, so the morning sun wakes me enough that I know it’s morning and kick into breakfast mode. I understand the shape of the day despite now always missing lunch. It’s always been either/or with breakfast and lunch. The only meal I can’t miss is supper. But meals provide structure in the day. Bullet points. Time anchors.

If I’m not paying attention in the afternoon then three hours or more can vanish without any ceremony. Time is working very differently.  We have to pay more attention as it slips through our grasp.

I lost almost a decade in a timesoup of my own devising after mum died. I called it grief. There’s no way I’m letting this time go for nothing when it’s externally imposed. I’ve got shit to do.

It’s helpful that I’m running out of booze, particularly with the prognosis from my friend on Twitter this morning who is roughly my age and shares my proclivities. He wanted to warn me that the little crown fucker can appear to be retreating only to come back in spectacular fashion. He celebrated a perceived recovery with all the wine, only for it to double down on him. I’m going to be wary, and I’m not going to open that Barolo even if I start to feel superb. Not until I have something to celebrate. Like my industry clicking back into gear, or me successfully making something I’m proud of beyond maybe the one or two of these word-pictures a fortnight that somehow find a structure and a point enough to make me smile and nod to myself as I finish them.

Once again I’m running a bath. Candles, smoke, steam and salts. Heat and something to read. Relaxation before bed. Hot water bottle is installed in almost fresh sheets. Sandalwood and Jasmine pillow spray. Pint of water. These are things I’ve done almost every night and they don’t take up space in my memory because of the repetition. They’re good things, but they achieve nothing. Is that okay? Yes, I suspect it is. But most of my dialogue is with myself these days. And the voices in my head.

 

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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