The Day Off

This night owl woke just past 7.00 this morning.  I worked a full day yesterday on five hours' sleep and finally it all caught up with me.  This morning, I am enjoying this 7'ish light;  it looks different than it does at 8.30 when I usually get up.  It is tender.  I would cry, but I have cried so much this week it's not a particularly palatable idea first thing this morning.  And anyway, despite its common recurrence, crying has not become my default response.

"Mack, you have no idea what I am up to," is a space that I in the dark I am crawling into and lying on and depending on, like the little angel on the cloud in the Sleepmaker ad.

On my way home from work yesterday afternoon, "These Days" by Powderfinger came on the radio (one of my favourite songs ever).  I got through it, for the first time in many years, without crying.

It feels good having worked so many more extra hours this week.  What a necessary thing it is for us humans to feel productive, to do a full day's work.  I haven't been able to do so many hours so easily up until now, either.

I have got a glimpse recently of how deep my self-hatred has gone in the past few years.  I never really would have thunk it.  I think that I am in the process of casting it off.  Of forgiving myself.  Of accepting that this is who I am, with the largest of gross warts, with mistakes made, and that is that.  And that is okay.

There is something wonderful about the way when, compressed into corners, we become so willing to listen and hear and do whatever it takes to get out into the sunshine again.  To the next bit of my life that's hopefully up amongst the faraway trees.  Wisha wisha wisha.

I am seriously considering the idea of a housemate (I have put on hold for the moment the idea of intentional community.  But who knows what may happen in the future?)  I will always be a solitudinal person.  I need space to practice my wares.  But that is achievable within a house where other people dwell.  And that is a good thing for a solitudinal who happens to be an extrovert.  It just means you must have your own studio space, that's all.  It's an idea that I've planted on the side of my hip, like a baby.  I wouldn't have been able to contemplate this up until now either. 

Today is a simple day of dish washing and clay moulding.  I go a little mad when I'm not making art.  I have an idea for a piece that came to me fully formed upon my bed, the same way as the one before.  It's a delightful experience feeling the deep depths of myself, knowing that I couldn't touch the bottom even if I held my breath and pushed down to see.  That is some sort of cool, and it's some kind of scary too. But oh, the possibilities.