Wednesday, 12 February 2014

Something to start this day

The sun is shining for the third day in a row. No, wait. That's a lie. The sun is shining for the first day in a row, but I'm sure it was also shining a couple of days before that. I'm sure spring is coming in increments and we'd be churlish to be too stuck on detail. Besides, yesterday I woke to the sound of hail and this bed was full of people, sweat, and giggles. Besides, there are bluetits in the trees. Besides, my own criteria for happiness has always been easily adjusted. Start again: the sun is shining and I am awake. What more do you people want from me?

This morning is for listening to rock & roll. Bo-Pete wants to know if you wanna have some fun, and your answer is: Fuck Yes Take Me. Take me up the rollercoaster and the river, ruffle my feather, ruche my skirt. Keep rubbing my feet. Bring me a soda pop. This morning I'm full of begs. All the things I would like. I'd like to go outside clutching a mug of diner coffee and stand on my own pavement, scattering seed for the birds.

Of course, the great secret is that I'm allowed. After a certain age, no one's going to stop you leaving the house with tablewear. You're allowed. Champagne flutes in the playpark. Forks on the street. A long silver-handled spoon you can walk around licking cream from the crevices. Of all the things we were promised: this one excites me. I can't believe I didn't have a single wicker-basket picnic last year. But then again, there are a lot of things I can't believe about last year. Last year, of all years, set a funny bar to follow.

And somehow February is already halfway through, and somehow holidays are coming, and somehow I said I'd write a whole load of stories this year and most of them aren't even started yet. If I don't finish something that I can hold between my teeth in the next sixteen days, I promised I'd give something up for a month. Give up cheese, give up kisses, give up dreaming of cowgirls. Give up the hours between two and eight, the funny coloured ones. Give up long dreamy inhales & cigarettes. Give up pouting. Give up all the Asian and Arabic spices from my rack. Give up morning rituals and mourning orgies. Give up on scattered seeds.

Not a fucking chance.

Of course, this is why I am dragged out of bed, eyes stiff and swollen. This is why I am making the effort. If I don't finish anything, I will have to give up looking myself in the eye or give up calling myself a writer or give up on believing in 68% of the things I believe in.

Still, all of my re-potted plants are doing excellently. Still, I can't afford a house boy to polish my shelves. All my dishes are clean enough and I am re-evaluating my relationship with pride. I am over it; I am done with stiff backs and solitude. I'm ready and willing to put myself on the line. Let's make a pact: if I stand up first and confess I am besotted by all of you and everything, will you follow me? Will you say it back? Can we all be the Spartacuses of communal crushing? Please?

The sun is shining and it is a Wednesday and I have only just dragged myself from the octopus embrace of the weekend. Unfold my stiff limbs and feel a gentle burn in all the places that have been crooked around necks. Eat the molten butter. Roll in small gratitudes. Tell everyone exactly what I think of them. Enjoy pictures of guinea pigs. Take the prize that was promised. Write my own fairy tales. Sit down at the desk. Do something, anything, to start this day.

No comments:

Post a Comment