I was going to do some travelling in mid-July - a magical mystery tour with ultrabook packed for some quality writing - then the day job swamped me. Three days ago, a moment when I relaxed, that was the moment a fever struck. Been bed ridden ever since. What was to have been my first proper vacation (as it turns out) in years cancelled. In its place, my only company a nasty colony of bugs that have taken up residence in my throat and chest. I could be forgiven for thinking I am cursed when it comes to attempts to travel. It wasn't always this way. For several years before and after my former marriage, I travelled extensively. The low point of my creativity was ironically during those years of partnership. Unquestionably (for me anyway), the happiness coupling delusion was a blocker for the word flow. In contrast, being in the middle of nowhere at edge of the earth places hiking content spurred my brain to shape words that would make their mark. Some of my most inspired moments came after I cleared my head in faraway isolated places. Thoreau was onto something me thinks.
I am restless. The unsettling agitation has come. Because the benefit of physical escape is missing in my life. Obligations that have kept me from flying for some time - the day job, taking care of family, taking care of myself when that stained bloodline wages war inside of me - I feel the chains that bind me tight, weigh me down. If I was thrown into a river, I would sink into the mire. I would readily admit there is a darkness inspired by captivity that can sustain my writing efforts (and has in the past) but even that black coal can only fuel my writing for so long. I have to fly soon or I will act upon the urges in other ways.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about self-destructive inclinations. Granted, a chemically induced trip would certainly involve some measure of flying but I don't need that sort of enhancement to stoke what are already the vivid dreams (and nightmares) where my mind has chosen to take me in the absence of body transportation to somewhere else. Fire raging out of control anyone? Let's not fuck up my brain anymore than my auto-immune degenerative nerve disease is already making a sterling effort to achieve without any further interventions on my part.
I have been distracted by newly available streaming services. Damn you Netflix and Stan! (And others who staked their claim on my procrastination efforts long before now.) Guilty of doubling my ten hour a week viewing limit in recent months, and delving into popcorn action...four seasons of CW's Nikita occupy the last month of Autumn. I confess the short-in-stature body matched with a magnificent French ancestral nose - belonging to the actor playing Birkoff, Aaron Stanford, proves a worthy viewing time waster. Nerds rule! The man can act well, with a truckload of impressive gritty performances, as I discover delving into his back catalogue. Check - first month of Winter unsuitably filled.
I have also written before about how I Spring-clean to dust away the cobwebs and do this in an attempt to dampen a temptation to move house. I have done bucket-loads of cleaning and visits to charity bins and waste transfer stations in the last three years and the second month of this Winter. I didn't believe I was a hoarder but it turns out I had the equivalent of two mini-skip bins to throw away and almost as much again to donate to charity. The house feels tidy now. Still, I cannot stop myself from looking at realestate.com. It's addictive. I've resided in my current residence over a decade. It's the longest I have ever lived anywhere. Itchy feet? Itchy entire body from head to toe. Moving won't necessarily inspire my writing so why do I feel so restless?
My current writing project, working title 'the Peithosian Gift' is now 18 months into the drafting process. I had to organise an extension to my first draft deadline (from this July to December coming) because I have been entirely without focus. I have gone weeks at a time without writing a single word of this novel. Coming up to a month now in my current pause from drafting it. Unlike my other novels, finishing this one has proven very challenging. Normally I have trouble starting but never finishing. Those last few chapters have always taken the least amount of time in the past to write because I am so excited to get the story in my head onto the page. I've been on the home stretch (drafting the last part of this book) since April. My mom passed away in April.
The fever that took residence overnight last Thursday seems to be plateauing. A visit to my GP today should help, if nothing else it will give me some fresh air as I stumble to the clinic. The fellow who looks after me there reminds me of an old university buddy whose sense of humour could cheer up even the most gloomy souls. I might even find a few days towards the end of my break when my head doesn't feel so full of gunk that I can muster the strength to face the home stretch and continue my quest to finish this six book. Bring on the last month of Winter. The last crusade.