The other day I was feeling a bit blue. After two courses of antibiotics and some not insignificant physical pain, I was feeling washed out; a tad lonely; a bit sorry for myself.
I do not wear self-pity with comfort, so off I went, in search of some perspective, turning to my old journals to give myself a proper kick up my voluptuous arse.
One of the benefits of being a writer is that we’re allowed to call our diaries ‘journals.’ All mighty fancypants and pretentious, yet despite the name, they’re not daily affairs.
For consistent entries (Oooh Matron!) you’d have to go back to the years 1975-1981, when I spilled onto paper my adolescent pain, each and every night. Looking back at those diaries now, I see a whole lotta heartache and much fiction presented as fact.
Over the decades the ingredients of my journals grew organically: records of each play, book and project I was working on, along with a mosaic of letters and emails depicting my extraordinary life lived on three continents, with all the love and loss you’d expect from a scribbler.
Often the edges between journals and colyooms blurred, and I enjoyed the supreme luxury of being paid to publish my egocentric personal ramblings. It was one of those colyooms that delivered to me the blow that kicked me out of my self-indulgent slump the other day.
From the City Tribune, November, 2001 (check out the dated references to cassettes and videos!)
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For me, there is no point in earning moolar if it comes in the form of compensation. Some can spend lots of money, and it makes them feel better. For me it doesn’t, and it never will.
Happiness to me means having time to live, so in exchange for the fat wad of folding green every Thursday night, I take a walk on the beach. Instead of buying CD’s and videos, I listen to the radio and play old cassettes. Instead of the brimming bank balance, I have all the time in the world.
When I talk to almost anybody else, the stress in their lives is palpable. I see the tired black rings around their eyes, listen to their frantic gabbling about how they are trying to ‘fit it all in’, and in those moments, I remind myself that this relative poverty is worth a fortune.
It ain’t all easy. This is a life as tough as any other, just a lot calmer, even if these colyooms sometimes tell another story!
My life is less about acquisition, more about introspection; less about buying things, more about less things; less about climbing social ladders, more about watching the tide turn.
Sometimes it is a lonely path, especially when I’m home alone, aware that others are out, living life on the pig’s back.
Still, I’m hardly a slave to suffering, and when a particularly smart editor places one of my features, I drive to the city and splurge a wad in an orgy of consumerist conformism, and each shared whiskey and bite of restaurant food tastes better for the utter badness and excitement of it all.
This colyoom is not pre-scented with smugness. I couldn’t look my loved ones in the eye if I suggested that my life is a breeze. I feel inhibited when generous souls drag me out to the pub, knowing that rounds only go one way, but hell, they seem to love me, and who am I to say no?
Well, sometimes we just have to say 'No!’ Sometimes, even when you know your friend or loved-one really wants to help, you just can’t take any more generosity.
And then you get over it and say "Well, a wee whiskey would be lovely, thanks Dave!”
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These days thankfully I have a little more dosh in my account, but the things that make me happy have not changed one iota. Reading that old piece made me feel grateful for all the time I have to do those wonderful things, so I pulled my head out of my hole and moved on.
©Charlie Adley
08.08.2024
