Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Writing

Day 211

Our lovely neighbours, to the left as I sit at this desk facing the wall writing, L and K, very kindly asked us across to celebrate their joint birthdays. As we were sitting there, in the garden they’ve spent so much time and energy on (putting our lack of time and energy to shame), relatively socially awkward, as M and I can be, I asked M why it was that I couldn’t just lead a straightforward uncomplicated life. Everything over there seemed (and I say “seemed” advisedly, because we can never see below the surfaces of people’s lives) so wonderfully relaxed, uncomplicated, and lovely, and I realised that I somehow had unlearned that. M said it’s because my life is so driven by the need to write, the need to find more time from somewhere all the time rather than just living it. No argument from me.

And just now, back from the daily walk that I had to go on (the one that made me turn down a beer or several while we were next door, and on which I stopped off at the DIY shop and bought the electric jigsaw M wanted so she can saw some wood and make stuff that my hands would never manage to create, I was rolling a cigarette and pondering exactly how I would describe what I think I’ve lost. Is it pragmatism (the definition for being pragmatic I find in the OED is “dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical considerations”), or is it a sense of fun and adventure? I’m sort of leaning towards pragmatism, although a part of me thinks I never had it.

Take my scheduled visit to the doc on Monday for my foot pain – I’m spending time (and dropping the max dosage of ibuprofen) trying to make it better so I don’t need to go to the doc, because my brain is saying “more time wasted,” as well as telling me he’ll tell me I need to go have an x-ray (which again will be “more time wasted”). When, in fact, mt brain should just be telling me to try and get it sorted, and stuff whatever amount of time it takes. I do know that some people, again, will tell me I’m overthinking all this, spending time thinking about thinking, but I need to work things out in my head (and writing this daily is actually part of my self care, a kind of therapy), because I am articulating my thoughts rather than just letting them swirl round my head in ever-decreasing circles.

The sounds of happiness and boisterousness from the party next door wafting into our garden along with a wonderful smell of food are making me happy, happy for L and K, and happy, just because (we could have stayed, but, you know, that time thing and the fact that we are historically hermits, probably the main reason we found and married each other.

Mysteries persist.




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