Towards the year’s close

Zoom. Did you notice, the sound of the year rushing past, speedier than ever as you sit watching the television from the safety of a lockdown sofa?

We are, apparently, still at war with the Corona virus. An enemy that we can’t see, and that many seem to assume as an inconvenience not to be taken seriously. It gets in the way of the drinking and *being crowded together* that is so much more important than spending a month not moving anywhere.

In the spirit of success, I have spent the morning extracting wood filler from the aforementioned doors, as the residual holes look better than discoloured filler.

Perhaps this is just like life. Be yourself and embrace everything, rather than looking artificial with an attempt to fit in.

Of perception, of failure

I have spent the day filling holes in doors, with wood filler that dries to the colour and texture of old toothpaste. The doors – even the bathroom door, when I eventually get that far – are not covered in toothpaste. Thus, the fine finish that had been prepared – in mind’s eye, at least, since the reality is different – is marked by practical and emotional contrast.

Part of the ground is now covered with expletives, and there is DIY regret sprinkled liberally around the house.

Over in that place, I still have a house that I bought a long time ago when I still thought I was immortal. More recently it was planned as my eventual retirement solution, but repairs followed by a collapse in the pound* means it will be on the market come December. Treat yourself, for Christmas.

*The amount of pounds in my wallet have collapsed because of various repairs, taking with them my patience to continue.

We walked, yesterday, in the forest. Collected pine cones, and embraced nature until it scratched our faces with needles. The Christmas decorations will again be green and red.

This, then.

Another start after all of the delays. Looking into the mirror is no longer enough to quell the need to publicly narciss. I know, I know, but how do you think words ever get created?

From this to this

Its been some considerable time since I’ve written any commentary about the day to day. After all, the poetry is my documentary, and for the periods when the pen is silent, I am probably dead.

But, that aside, some changes have occurred. One that can be published here is that I no longer live in the original city of this place, having moved, last year, across the road* to a new place. This place. Of course.

*In this instance, the road is indicative of a geological boundary, as well as a means of transport.

The old place – or That Place, as it is now known – is a past whose memories can be kept alive as only the happiness of guilt and regret can muster.