Well, I don’t know what happened, but all the memorably sub-optimal and entirely my ownership horse puckey that’s happened over the last ten years has turned into me being a lucky sod.
I have water power heat netflix and wifi. I’m not living alone, and I’m not living with a bunch of people who all leave the house every day. I have enough food, musical instruments and projects to keep me through this pandemic and the next one too.
I had a bunch of bad luck that forced me into a situation where I hardly ever leave the house, and then everybody else is in it too and I think, well, I really feel sorry for the extroverts, because this is HELL, SHEER HELL M’DEAR
I suppose five sf novels and a hijjus tonne of fanfic and at least thirty tunes, (I mean I wrote all my stargate stuff in the last ten years, and that’s five feckin’ tunes, right there) is nothing to sneeze at for all my previous isolation. I keep forgetting that all the way through no matter which mental health crises I was having, I placidly continued to practice, purchase new instruments and bang into new ways of singing and hearing and forming songs.
If I think of what else I’ve done that’s worthwhile, I can relax, because inevitably I can travel back through the blog and remember that I indeed, erm, did, erm, shit that was worthwhile. Much of the time I’m dreadfully self-serving, but defending my artistic capacity is not a job anyone can do, ’cause ain’t no other mofo got time for that shit, candidly, and I’m the one of the few people motivated, which given my innate slothican tendencies and my immense distractibility creates its own issues with all that ludicrous reality interface stuff that we all just watched dissolve.
So travel, a few family visits, back to Toronto twice, not as many visits as I should, but I have to be in decent shape to travel, and air travel’s gone, and believe me that’s an issue more and more; we must look to local mutual aid, which means
Mentally and physically I have to be there, and it’s harder and harder to put together, because I’m simply not as sharp as I used to be; just as clever, spread out thinner, and blunter, alas, and dead slow, like a shadow dawdling in a cartoon to mime looking at something of interest elsewhere before perforce being dragged back into real time with everyone else. Iceland was my farewell to that and I’m glad I went there and I hope never to trouble its ecosystem again.
I just have this horrible presentiment that someone ran off with my dirt in the night. Isn’t that irrational? I mean my window faces the alley…. I’m dying here, it would have made so much noise. I’m not getting dressed just because I’m a feckin’ worry wart.
Didn’t leave the house again yesterday so I’ll mail Dave’s package today. I’ll mail mOm and pOp’s when I’ve finished policing up the threads. The glue on the stamps is still gluey, but the taste, after how many years, is bad enough to make you temporarily hallucinate that your tongue is doing a backflip away from your face.
