Monk Quixote

As I write these words, I am meant to be busy typ­ing and click­ing in another win­dow, in another lan­guage, with another hat on. Yet I am self-evidently not. Instead, I am tying myself in knots. Self-evidently.

In the past few weeks the lit­tle engine that keeps my head spin­ning, and the sky from cav­ing in (it’s ok — it’s a very per­sonal piece of sky, there’s no need to be alarmed or look up, or invest in U-SAVE-ME Head Pro­tec­tors) has moved from WWII-destroyer-cannae-take-any-more-cap’n, through to Model-T-any-thought-you-like-as-long-as-its-black to itty-bitty-kitty-lying-in-the-sun-purring to Norwegian-blue-cold. Mon head-engine est mort. Deceased. Moved on. Past it’s sell-by date. Past it’s use-by date.

Paid work and fic­tion dead­lines have streamed past, like mete­ors. The hull of the moth­er­ship has main­tained integrity, while lit­tle else of me has. The temp­ta­tion to do a dying swan in a matt-black ship into a white-hot sun is ever present — but for­tu­nately I lack both the energy and well, the energy, to do any­thing exces­sively maudlin.

I do not seek pity, or con­dem­na­tion. I write these words to myself — a minor pub­lic fla­gel­la­tion. I oper­ate at my best under pres­sure, but my duende and assorted inter­net grem­lins are always seek­ing to release the pres­sure. Dis­tract me. Dis­in­flate. Dis­func­tion. As Philip K Dick wrote, every­thing tends towards kibble.

My head, my words, my actions. All kibble-bound. It’s at times like this that I am reminded that no mat­ter how priv­i­leged, or happy, or healthy, one may feel, there is always a need for a sense of injus­tice, of strug­gle, of need required, to achieve any­thing worth­while. And because I lack such focus, I sim­ply trip myself up — like mil­lions of oth­ers. Just to see if I can get back up again.

Any­way. Six weeks or so I haven’t touched the novel. I’ve barely done any­thing beyond run and exist. And yet still there is not an aching unhap­pi­ness. Just a gen­eral sad­ness. I used to won­der if I ever really felt any­thing — if I was sim­ply too con­trolled, too pas­sive, to suc­ceed as an artist (or as any­thing much). This, and other non­sense, is the out­come of the lux­ury of spare time,  a navel, and half a brain.

I’m nearly 40 years old. I feel about 12. I sup­pose it’s about time to get back on the horse of time and try and catch up with the grown-ups. While I still have clients, sto­ries in my head, and nerves in my fin­gers. Push the button.

Func­tion.