Textling #19

When I am out, doing something I love, I grin as if there’s no tomorrow, and really there isn’t. The breach between now and then is absolute.

I spent my happiest in-the-world-time at a gallery this year, where I joined a group of artists to give an exhibition talk. For a rare instant wanting and being aligned. I cannot remember much (fatigue drags memory under), just know I spoke, with zeal and a kind of burning internal ecstasy.

Any outing takes its toll. Not of the pick-and-choose variety, mind, but with a wagonload of rot and muck. Extreme, frenzied, obliterating fatigue swamps mind and body, as does acute pain: flaring up, shooting about my form, lingering in places – as if head in a clamp or pierced by knitting needles; as if brain pushing against shrinking skull; as if punched in the face, hands as if trodden on, limbs as if bruised from falling; brief rushes in teeth, ears, soles of feet, kidneys, clavicles, ribcage, abdomen, shoulder blades. Days and days of this, then slow and incremental relief. The aftermath is no killjoy though. I was there!

In June. Tonight our work will reappear, changed, the same, in a new environment. If only I could spy, with a sleepy eye. Instead I lie at home, submerged under the swell of tiredness, like an old rusty submarine at the bottom of the sea. Occasionally I raise a rickety periscope, try and catch a glimpse of what I miss. Inconsolably so.

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