Things do have a habit of working out. They sometimes work themselves out, or others do it, or we do it for ourselves. A problem, a worry always seems worse when it is contained in the head, in the mind unshared. We talked in the sun yesterday afternoon, sitting on a bench in the Vicarage Fields. He always helps me. He doesn’t see things as disastrously as I do. He never does. He is wise, where I wobble. I sit with my legs over his and he strokes my feet as we talk. They are simple pleasures, a simplicity that I crave during this episode of bleakness. I am nervous about today. And yet, I know it will be fine, once I’ve got a handle on the technical stuff of it. I like her work very much, and she comes across so warmly. I am sure that we will get on. And the writing? Will it always scare me? Probably. It’s because you want to do these artists justice, and yourself and the fear of judgement from all sides is ever present. Can you not find some spaces in between the fear to enjoy it a little? Yes, I think so. One day at a time, he says. One day.
900 died yesterday. We will probably have the largest death count of all Europe, he said yesterday. I was shocked. I have this notion of us being forward, up in front with the wherewithal to cure. Clearly this is not so. I am sorry. I am sorry for all of your losses. So far I have not been impacted with such grief. It may come. The odds are high that it will.
And still the sun promises to shine. So much pleasure and so much pain. Can we ever contain it all?