With a Bump

An incredible trip to the inaugural Paradiso festival in Mérida, Mexico, is surreal and brilliant. I wrote on my social media and made sure to remind any readers that this kind of career high is invariably gift wrapped in 1000 frustrations, lows, and blasts of self-doubt.

Now I have a stunning example.

There’s no grace period when you’re a parent. Laura heroically steered the family ship for almost a week in my absence, ensuring that not only were the twins catered for, but Walter White, our hound was walked twice daily too. Oh, and she had to work each day too. So, I land, I tell hyper-paced tales of my adventure, I crash and sleep. Then, WHAM! Welocme back, 6am, make breakfast, walk dog, do school run, and into work. It’s fine. It’s what we do.

I’m nodding on the sofa, trying to update this diary through closed eyes when someone rings the doorbell. Up I jump, distant and detached from reality, and open it.

‘Hello, I’ve come to read your gas meter.’ Red rising. My forehead pounds like a horse heart. For context: We just passed the 3 years mark without a working electricity meter. 10 rounds of phone calls to our utility provider, jumping through hoops, filming the meter as we fail to switch it on, sending them various numbers of things, ID details, only to listen as the operator doesn’t know at full volume. It’s deafening and hurts my brain.

Now, unannounced, there’s a man from an independent agency, sent by the utility provider to read the one meter that works fine, of which we’ve sent the reading every month. His eyes tell the story as he tells me “they’re all as bad as each other.”

I’m telling you this because these are the conditions of creativity. They always were. I can’t help but wonder if there was ever a time when a carrier bag full of real life didn’t split and cascade all over the fictional ‘pure’ creativity. I think of classic writers penning timeless tales of love and monsters, in castles and lakeside retreats, but it simply couldn’t have been as toasty and mesmeric as the picture my imagination paints.

Mary Shelley was probably worrying about a patch of dry skin or something.

I know from experience that the Brönte sisters were fucking freezing, despite the rolling moors I’ve walked my dog on countless times during childhood, not to mention the inescapable, savage illnesses of the day lurking at every turn.

I could go on, but for creativity to flow, it has to be cause; unwavering, defiant cause, or insatiable passion that can pull in all of this shit, and thrive regardless.

After we both sigh a lot, and he makes a note on his device, which I have no doubt will result in a ‘failed appointment’ fine to the tune of £66 that will have to be contested as I prepare to draw, or record a podcast monologue. Then he’s in the car.

The rage sloshes like molten lava in my gut, but I breathe, and run a series of things I’ve creatively and personally excited about, or grateful for, and it works. It works because life is short and I won’t have it. Not from those bastards. Not when I have this in my life. This ability to create it out of my system.

Now I’m thinking about a collection. Real-life nonsense of those who appear to be winning. Maybe not.