Sinister: from the lobby

[Stankin' Cooter]

My lovelies:

Normally I’d post because I had something to say, or through a sudden rush 
of affection, but something else is making me write today. I hope it turns 
out to be more than the fear that I’ll be forgotten about. We’ll see.

To the untrained eye, it looks like I’m doing alright. I have the ‘dream’ 
job, a nice place to live, handsome friends, enough food and too much drink. 
The thought strikes me, however, that most of my time is spent working 
towards something that I may or may not have wanted at the time at which I 
set out, for reasons that may well have changed while I’ve been busy paying 
attention to other things. The rest of my time, of course, is spent in 
costly and damaging escapes from my working life.

There was meant to be something else.

I’m sure that I’ll find time for the things that matter to me, that are 
important, that make all of this other stuff worth surviving. There will be 
a Sunday afternoon, a quiet evening in, a time when things ease back a bit.

Where on earth do we pick up the notion that we can trust ourselves?

I have thought a lot about happiness. It seems to me that happiness is the 
ability to look just far enough ahead. To strike a balance between doing 
what will make me feel good right now, and what will make me feel good 
tomorrow about the person I have been today.

If anyone has any ideas on how to actually do this – answers on the back of 
a postcard, please.

I find myself happiest when at the point of beginning to tear open the 
wrapping paper – knowing just the general size and heft of things. 
Anticipation excitingly narrows to an edge, then to a point. Idle wonder has 
been put aside: the thing has substance. It’s nothing yet, though, so it’s 
still potentially everything. There’s not a thought spare for what’s been 
left out; I’m still unencumbered.

I find less within me than I once did. I don’t think that there’s less 
there; I think I spend less time looking.

Sometimes there’s a message, a package, a phonecall, a song, a painting, a 
book. Sometimes a leaf falls from a tree and lands at your feet. Sometimes 
you think of someone, and they think of you.

Sometimes you see between and through things. Sometimes this makes you feel 
warm, at others: cold.

I’m trying to make myself a better person. I’ve given up the fags, cut back 
on the booze, lost some weight. I’m working more, spending less. I’m being 
more honest, feeling more. None of this is working, but I’ll press on for a 
bit yet. I may not be principled, but at least I’m stubborn.

Some good things happened. I went to Melbourne last weekend and had some 
fun. I drank and danced too much (I drink well and dance badly) and talked 
to some people I don’t know. I got some new records, which I really like. I 
played some cards, and won some money. A cocker spaniel decided that it 
really liked me, and wouldn’t let me sleep for three nights, with licking my 
ear and jumping on my face. I didn’t mind. Is this what it’s about? I guess 
I wasn’t promised anything.

I’ve spent some time alone lately: I think perhaps it’s showing. I’m 
normally far cheekier and less contemplative. I won’t make a habit of 
posting when I find myself in this mood. Squeezing you lot into my lunch 
break, alongside an orange juice and a tuna sandwich in the middle of a long 
day at my desk isn’t really an appropriate outlet. Still, you’ve given me a 
lot lately, so I’ll give you something back, even if it’s not what you 
wanted. Take your time with the wrapping paper.

I’ve got a big trip coming up, for which I’m not prepared. It’s 
scary/exciting, and I’m trying to look just far enough ahead.

Well, I think that was worse than my usual post, but at least it was 
shorter.

In any case, take nothing but the very best of care of yourselves, and stay 
lovingly rolled in flour and lightly pan-fried.

Bulk love,
     -David.

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