I’m cooking a curry. What? Well I guess there’s enough to stretch to another mouth. When can you get here? Oh, that’s ages, I’ll keep some back and you can bung it in the michaelwave.
I feel mildly productive today even though the activities have been minor: washing up, cooking, sorting out the recycling from the rubbish and that sort of shiz. I also had a short walk in the sunshine and spent an hour or so sitting outside a town cafe writing my journal.
I keep my journal less frequently than I used to but I’m still dipping into it now and then, thirty-one years on from starting the thing. Today I was trying to join the dots from various strands of the therapy sessions I have been having the last few months. I purposefully chose to write about this stuff in public and in the sunshine as some of the roots of the work we’re doing in our sessions are uncomfortable and turbulent: the balance of being at least near other humans even if I wasn’t interacting with them was helpful.
And after a wrist-aching ten pages of writing I did interact with a human after all. The aromatic smell of salad from the table next to me led me to remark on how hungry it was making me feel which in turn led to an interesting conversation with the woman who was eating the salad. In the course of that conversation she told me she organises a performance workshop event that I might be interested in. Certainly sounded like my kind of thing so I’ve asked her to send me more details. Much as I am enjoying the solitude and self-sufficiency of my current musical endeavours it’s never a bad thing to mingle with other performers now and then, if only to swap ‘war stories’.
Talking with a stranger, doing domestic chores, these are not gigantic strides to some but to me they symbolise my slow return from the darker corners of my own psyche. Now hurry up and pop round or I’ll eat your share of the curry.