Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 130

When I started this, I didn’t realise how difficult it would be to write each day, and to hope it wouldn’t become boring or banal. Maybe it is both already.

The wind and rain come and my back complains. Is it psychosomatic? I can’t recall thinking this morning, oh, it’s raining and windy so my back is going to complain again. I can’t remember anything other than feeling so comfortable in bed at 5:30 that I decided to turn off the alarm which was set for 6, and decide to stay in bed until M’s alarm went at 7. And then came straight out here after my teaspoon of honey and my glass of water and started working. It’s now two and a half hours later, and I need to push on.

Last night, I made a note in one of my journals – always chasing things, always behind. What would it be like to have all day and every day to create? Would it make my stuff any better, any more successful? There is no answer to that, because it’s a hypothetical question unless I win the Lottery that I never play.

It’s not news that we live in a world of untruths. Putin is just the latest in a long line of public liars. My despair is at the pain these liars inflict, and at the fact their lies are believed. What makes us politically aware that are politically aware? I was wondering that the other day, thinking back to the sheltered right-wing upbringing my parents gave me – how did I escape from that and become the left-leaning man I am? Perhaps it goes in cycles, and future generations of my family will swing back the other way. I hope not. I did have a political mentor at university who joked, the last time I saw him about 6 years ago that I was now further to the left than he was. And I had thought him a firebrand when we first met, and thought he’d be one forever. Funny old life.

We plough our ways through the days and try to find something with which we can change the world. We don’t always find that something. But tomorrow is another day.




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