Is it the weather? I’ve felt enervated these last few days and it makes me a little cross. Poor love, he gets the brunt. But the crossness is really down to frustration, frustration with self for not….for not what? Being different? For not accepting what is? Who knows? I’ve done all I set out to do but resented some of it, particularly the domestic stuff. He says how important it is. And he is right. I need the order of it and so does he. It’s just I want to be doing other things too. I heard back from them. They never choose the images I would select. So be it. It pays the rent. It’s a job. I will do it the best I can. It isn’t great art. But I like to be paid for what I do. And what I do is create. An ideas person he called me. And they keep coming, though their sights are less, or at least more modest.
I’ve been reading Dickens, his last book. I’m entranced. It took a little time. His language is layered, heavy at times but so rich. I take it in small bites and savour it.
Is that what age promises, small joys, in small pieces but time (or perhaps the predilection) to really enjoy them?