Better, Even

Today is a better day than yesterday.

Some background: this has been a fuck of a winter. Not the shitshow fuck of a grand emotional disaster winter that last winter was, but enough of a fuck that I have at times thought -maybe I could have a season, one season, unmarred by some kind of loss.

A more grinding -what now- kind of fuck.

Here is the winter's dreary catalogue: the definitive end of an ill-defined thing with the Born Ruffian; [redacted]; filed under expected but still sad: the date for Jennifer's move; a trip to California lovely enough to highlight the sheer impossibility of continuing what CT and I had started; weeks of achy pulling apart; [redacted].

I am so tired of losing things, of stretching through transitions by convincing myself that what is on the other side will be as good as what was there just one minute ago. Better even, maybe. So tired. Sick of. Ignoring how sad.

All this was okay, mostly. I'd been a little leaky here or there about various things, suddenly hoarse-voiced in the middle of a story now and again. Okay though.

Then CT sent an email. It was a long one, a few screens. It was his usual: thoughtful, analytical, warm, unsparingly truthful, full of strength and vulnerability.

That is what I gave up.

I lost it, the Okay.

Took a while to find it again, and there was a lot of noseblowing and hiccoughing as I was searching.

But find it I did, eventually. Things picked up after that, got better even.

At 10 pm, Jennifer and I met up at the pub, where Steve and Cowboy H. overlapped the end of their pints with the start of ours. Then J. and I moved off down the road to see Winter Gloves and we danced danced danced to the synth and the handclaps; I closed my eyes and remembered why it is I see live shows, each chord or kick drum beat a gorgeous electric force from head to feet, immersed.

Moving out of the crowd at the end of their set, we ran into D.Jack and Handsome Jim and Jennifer handed me over, cutting out after 30 seconds of Thunderheist, which I knew she wouldn't like. TH was a disappointment, all of the beats with none of the volume, it floated over me and I couldn't dive in. I'd wanted to so much, been dancing around my living room for a couple of days pretending to be buried in the dark club full of noise, swinging my hips and shaking my hands at the ghosts.

I danced anyway, because why not. It was fun to get sweaty at the back of the crowd. Trade snarky jokes over the not-loud-enough music. To get tipsy and have another beer, fuckit anyway.

Today I'm still feeling a little washed out from finally having felt the sad I'd been cutting off at the knees. Probably that extra beer too, who's kidding who here. A little sleepy from not getting to bed till 2.30 in the am.

It's an okay kind of washed out, now, laid back. Making plans, cleaning up. Appreciating the sun and the subterranean green tone to the air; the riffley grey wind of an early spring afternoon, its smell sticking to you long after you've come inside.