Day 225: Quotidian imperfection

Absolutely demolished again. Decimated. Destroyed. Christmas is not a good time to work in a bar. Not when you want to be writing but you have to earn money to be able to write and you spend so many days working to earn the money that you have no energy left when you come home with which to write.

Pttch. Rubbish.

Spent my evening checked all the way out, watching Always Sunny, nodding in and out of consciousness. Kept meaning to either wake myself up enough to do something worthwhile with my night, or at least get to bed and nap properly before winging off this blog, but instead I just sat there, head lolling, as three, four episodes swam by.

There’s something quietly tragic about adult life at times, isn’t there? The solitary moments aware of how much more you could be, all the ways in which you don’t live up to your potential, all the ways in which you have settled for … whatever this is.

A glass of red when you’ve already made your way through two bottles this week. Another Deliveroo meal because cooking = sadness. The tupperware in the bin; slick with oil, it’s too much, too much, to run soapy water and wash the stained tubs and take them down to the recycling in the dark. Realising it’s a Saturday night and that means nothing to you, the distant cries of cavorting crowds only intrude upon another rerun of Friends on Netflix. The One Where You Were Alone. Rain lashing outside. The room dark, the wind attacking the windows, a chill creeping down your spine. Cold all through your body, right down to the marrow, as you sit and think on how there’s nothing more than this.

Nothing more than this. Yes. Quotidian imperfection. Brain running on fumes. Bumbling along, making the best of things, not at this moment defeating life or imposing yourself onto it, but simply living it. And that is all right. The yammering TV set, the storm raging outside, you meandering through another night.

The humblest, least impressive moments are the ones most in need of your love. It’s easy to love the exciting times. They make you love. It’s here, in this dim streaked light of now, that you have to do the work of loving. The work of living.

Breath in and out. Be good to yourself. All is well.

...... 

Musique? Sycamore Trees, performed by Chrysta Bell. Yes. This is what my soul needed. The return to Twin Peaks was my favourite thing about television in 2017, terrifying and unsettling and enigmatic and often times awful. But often times transcendent. And always fascinating. Here David Lynch's sometime muse Chrysta Bell sinuously slinks and wails through a version of the song originally performed for the show by Jimmy Scott. Utterly delicious.