To be frank, it’s so late now (though I suppose not as late as it was last night when I started writing my daily entry when I was on the train) that my brain is starved of ideas, real ideas anyway. I am still pondering if I should do a live show in the morning, a sort of live pre-record that we can add to our library of pre-records for future use, especially as A is working from 8 tomorrow morning, so I’ll be up anyway. There are a million and a half things that I feel that I need to do, to prep for O’s return to the bosom of his family, and for God knows what else. I feel a creative urge that’s somehow not finding fulfilment, although I have two unfinished novels on the go (and here I realise that I haven’t worked on The Mortality Code since the week or so after we got back from Agios Nikolaos – the first week of that blessed holiday is already four months ago; I hate the running quickly and more quickly of time). I also need to go through all the poems I’ve written this year that I haven’t posted on here to see if there are any that are good enough to enter into the National Poetry Competition. And write the couple of new ones that have been spinning around in my head for weeks).
At least I wasn’t unintelligible on the radio this morning, although I do realise the tiredness made me very hyper. Even though I was remarkable sensible for me (going to bed a mere 30 minutes or so after I got in), I didn’t really get that much sleep for a whole variety of reasons, the main one being that my internal young man persists in fighting my internal older man – and I was seriously buzzed last night anyway. I miss the period in my life when I did lots of gigging because I crave that limelight rush from my gut into the rest f my being. There’s a vanity about it as well, of course, being the centre of attention, the lone figure on a stage with everyone’s eyes on you, and the rush of the reactions and the applause. It seems shallow, looked at in the brightness of self-reflection, but it’s not really. It’s just yet another primeval need. Maybe that’s why I can’t give up the radio although it eats so much of my time.
And yet I get so easily distracted. And sometimes things that I want dealt with in seconds take hours instead which I find infuriating and frustrating. I’m taking the positive angle on this – that my impatience and rage are a sign that I’m almost back to being normal after having been so damn ill and exhausted. Perhaps the solution to all this is to make better lists.
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 235