Rest and comics

Today was always going to be a day of rest before going into showtime for the rest of the week. I’m about to lose my evenings. It’s not such a long piece of theatre, but it has an interval. I reckon if I go straight home I can be here by eleven. If.

My daytimes are going to have to count this month. The daily rate for this show is a drop off from what I might be able to command doing workshops about energy, but it’s the thing I angled my existence towards so I’ll always take the hit. But I want to try to activate the days in order to finally make sense of this flat. I’ve buried myself in junk. My bedroom is still reasonably pleasant and relatively clear but the rest of the place is a swamp. I have a plan and I’m hoping I’ll be able to stick to it. Home after the show and in bed by midnight, then up in that thing called the morning, and motivating myself to work for myself for a change. I might ration my own money and pay myself as I always seem to motivate better when there’s money involved. I’m a mercenary but I keep working for other people. The next three weeks are hopefully going to be a slow motion 1980’s transformation montage. If I work a miracle I can get it on Airbnb for the Chelsea Flower Show. Right now that seems like an impossible dream.

Going to sleep after the show might be the problem. If I can learn the skill of a swift booze free wind down post show, then I’ve learnt a useful skill that hasn’t been an easy part of me repertoire of skills thus far. It’s too easy and tempting when I’m doing a show to drown the adrenaline afterwards, but then I won’t get the morning as I’ll want to sleep long enough to be back on top form at 7.30pm peak time.

Today I haven’t worked in the flat, other than to write a few prompts to think about bringing into various beats of the show. I have remained staunchly in my pajamas from morning to night. I ventured as far as the sofa, and one giddy moment in the afternoon saw me going downstairs to check my mail. There’s a letter I’m hoping I don’t get from a mobile speed trap I wasn’t caught in. It has another week to not come.

Now I’m about to make a huge mug of chamomile and drift off to sleep reading silly comics. I’m back into the 2000AD anthology that I ordered online without realising it would run to something like 150 volumes. Today’s story is a classic. Cowboys and Dinosaurs. I’ll either have to sell this lot or put it in the attic as it takes up way too much space. Fun for now, I guess. Thoughts like that are for the tomorrow version of me.

FLESH… 1977. Mass farming dinosaurs to feed starving future people. Bleak.

Absolutely absurd, and yet if time travel did exist and there were no laws preventing it you can bet that there would almost immediately be industrial farming of dinosaur meat and all sorts of other crap… Although would it cause a paradox and prevent itself from happening? Who knows. It’s escapism. So long as I try not to think about overfishing it’ll hopefully help me sleep. It’s not the best written piece of literature I’ve encountered this month. But I like to keep it varied.

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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