Can I have one single mad night where I write it all, everything that needs to be said? Where everything pours through me fully formed directly from the muses. Of course not. Because I just had to Google muses. But maybe with honesty and, dare I say it, an open heart (barf!), maybe I can channel something worthwhile. Something that’ll render me worthy for one fleeting frame, so I might hold it up and say, “I woz ea 2023”.
The last thing I want this to be is what it already is: a writer writing about writing. Has anything artistic ever actually been achieved through such laboured, self-indulgent retrospection? I wanted my fingers to be swift. They are slow. I didn’t want to edit. I’ve gone back over these paltry, opening lines too much already. I want to be smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. I’m drinking decaf tea and eating Aldi popcorn. I wanted this to cast out the octopus in my gut but it’s growing bigger and ever more handsy.
If the muses were speaking, they aren’t any more. Maybe just a whisper to say, “Fuck you, Ricky-boy, we’re off to Brighton to see Nick Cave”. So what I’m left with is what’s in front of me. And maybe that’s more important than a vague idea or feeling. A hazy grandeur. So, what is in front of me? My empty teacup. The big mug that can take a fucking tea, I’ll give it that. Fill it to the brim and sip it hot from the rim. I have bigger feelings towards this mug than towards most humans. I’m always happy to see it, it just listens to me rant, and did I mention it can take a fucking tea.
What else is there? Ah, yes, my phone of course. Of course it’s there. And that’s not a bad thing. It used to be but I don’t think it is anymore. You know why it’s not bad? Cause that means Dave’s there with his witticisms and life events. And that girl I fancy is on there. And some funny shit on Insta. I really have perfected my Insta feed by the way. Three-parts funny shit and one-part mental health support. I really am rather happy with it. Chef’s kiss!
... maybe I’m just misremembering “excitement”. It's probably never been the demented euphoria I imagine it once was.
I keep thinking What can I say that will be profound? and then I realise that the second I start thinking that it makes me the least likely person in the world to be profound ever. Looking back on the last paragraph I can see myself teetering on something. Some truth. I shot an arrow with that last paragraph. Shot an arrow at some rider whipping just beyond the trees. He rode a white horse and he wore a black cloak but as it bore down upon him I called his name and he ducked the arrow and he lived. Why did I let him live? Was it a mistake or did I need to let him live for now?
So what else is there? Now I’m worried I’m trying to recapture a feeling. Which is probably a bad thing. Unless you recapture the feeling and then it’s probably a brilliant thing. Best thing ever. So what else is there? So there’s my boy. Safe in bed with the portable oil heater taking the chill off the room and his blue huggie all rolled up against his face. He doesn’t snore. I watch his shoulder to see it rise and fall so I know he’s alive. I’m worried he can feel my anxiety. Like there’s a rope tying our stomachs and when I twist it twists his. I hope I can be strong for just as much time as I need to be.
And what else is there. There is a candle. A scented candle no less. Starlight is the name of the fragrance, which is beautifully non-descript. Smells like a PR campaign. Smells like Mother’s Day. Smells like… You know what I need to stop. Dave is always saying I’m getting bitter. I keep moaning about films I sort of like. Yeah, Oppenheimer was good but there was this shitty twenty minutes after the bomb went off. I walked out of Dune because it was just people running about in a dessert. Desert! ROFL. Now I surely would have stayed to watch people run around in dessert! Actually, no, I wouldn’t. That sounds shit too.
But I have got excited about some things. I can’t remember them right now, of course, but I think I have. In fact, I definitely got excited when I met that girl I fancy. Also got a little mind-boner when I got the email inviting me to the job interview. And when I make my colleagues laugh, I get a little rush from that. Got a bit excited when I read the first page of The Satsuma Complex. In fact, I got excited about being excited with that one because I wanted to want to read a fiction book and I was excited to find I wanted to want to read a fiction book. And then I got excited when my son reeled off 2 + 5 and 3 + 5 before bed. Wasn’t expecting that.
But I think on the whole it has been harder to get excited about things recently. An effort. Not quite sure why. Is it an individual thing or a societal thing? A depression thing or a life thing? Or maybe I’m just misremembering “excitement”. It's probably never been the demented euphoria I imagine it once was. It was probably always tinged with sadness, and fleeting, oh so fleeting. But it hits hard. And that’s probably why the bruise is so deep and purply-black.
Anyway I’ve got four minutes to wrap this up. I told Dave I’d send him what I’ve got after half-hour and I had already written the first two paragraphs before I started the timer so I already feel like a fraud. Plus, if it’s too long he’ll just reply "TLDR" and we’ll both crack up because it’s hilarious to send that after someone has poured their heart out.
I think it’s safe to say that I didn’t land on anything profound. And this wasn’t the all-nighter, Jack Kerouac wankathon that I perhaps hoped it might be. But that’s okay. At least I’ll get a decent sleep tonight. And I feel a little lighter. And my friend will read it. And my time’s up.
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