hang

Many Monday nights I would proclaim ‘Monday is the new Friday’ and, delighted to have survived the day, the alcohol would begin to flow. We’d flood into the Spanish streets and sip vast quantities of things as we tasted tapas and tried scruffy little bars in dark alleys. Thinking of those nights tonight I ask myself ‘who is this person?’ as I walk downstairs to our gym and start to jog on the treadmill after having pasta and vegetables for dinner with water. Last week was spent in sickness and it feels so good to be healthy again that I feel inspired. And yet it feels strange to write such light and healthy words, for I am often one with the dark… a lover of literature scribbled by the drunken pen… and music that flows from the bottom of the barrel. My Spanish doctor once proclaimed, ‘I know your life is good but please stop celebrating so much.’ One year later my American doctor told me that I was a high risk and that my lifestyle had to change.
And, so, I raise my glass and toast to a week of parties in Madrid, Miami, Boston, London and New Hampshire. It’s been a week of existential crises. Memories, longings, and then… desires fulfilled by passionate visitors but, sadly, without emotion. Black me out. Burning back into the blazing day and the pressure mounts and the pressures mount. Not blazing heat but blazing pace. Everything is urgent in our instant gratification world. Never the less, there is beauty in many things, too. Hang in there.