Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 292

The door is fixed, after a fashion. M pointed out that not only was the original handle fixture non-standard, the door’s thickness is, too. We knew we were buying a bit of a mistreated house – the scale of its mistreatment and abuse is only now becoming clear. Let’s hope we’re making it happier by treating it kindly – these buildings have souls, too.


Set backs elsewhere. Stomach from bad to worse, which meant I called the doc to get some sort of advice, that being to stop the antibiotics, to understand that this can be a significant side-effect of covid, especially in someone who for some reason or another has chronic digestive issues anyway, and to roll with it but to get back in touch if things get worse. And to drink consomme. I did, and it was vile.


And all I can think about is the time I’m losing. “Don’t you think it might be better to think about getting yourself better?” my therapist said. Fair point, although I do think I’ve been doing my best to look after myself.


And other stuff. Self-censored sort of stuff. Life becomes too complex through our own making, which no-one explained to us when we were young, nor were we well-read enough nor far-sighted enough all those years ago to realise that living simply will always be the best thing to do.


The question is – are we ever wise enough to learn?

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