Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 337

Someone has stolen half the hours at least that I’ve been awake for today. I was up at 8 (I needed a lie-in after yesterday) full, of good intentions. And I even compressed breakfast and its necessary pre-amble into 45 minutes instead of an hour, started working on thinning the over 1k tracks I’ played between 01 December 2021 and 30 November 2022 down to about 200 by 11 am. And did my stretches and 30 press-ups. The rest is s blur, like I’ve been knocked out and lost half the day. Yes, I have managed now to get down to 50-odd tracks, have been for a walk that must have covered 3 miles, had lunch, made pizza dough, picked M up from the station. I may have tarried a little over lunch because I ate 2 bread rolls instead of one, and because the novel I’m reading at the moment is really quite entertaining. And I went shopping for pizza toppings, only to discover that nothing was where I exected it to be, and that took some additional time, I suppose.

But all this doesn’t expain where those lost hours are. I didn’t get any writing done. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything at all, and the day has worn its thinness down to transparent.

When I was on my walk, I came across a game of football on Sprowston Rec. Some good players, though why you’d turn out on a freezing cold December afternoon is beyond me nowadays. When I think this is what I did in my youth, I ask myself if perhaps I’m becoming even more of a hermit than I was. But I also remember that all in all the sports I’ve played, I’ve always been the solitary one (the goalkeeper, the opening bat, the wicket keeper, the fencer). Maybe that explains some things.

My brain isn’t working properly today, so it’s probably best just to knock this on the head. I can’t quite explain, not to myself or whoever might be reading this, what has happened with today.

May tomorrow be a slower and clearer day.

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