I’m not much one for gut-spilling, and don’t imagine that that’s what’s going to happen here. But if I were the kind of person who stuck icons in posts, my mood today would be blue/sadface. Depression has a bad rap these days, so let me use a good nineteenth century word: melancholy. I feel terribly Keatsian at the moment. Perhaps I should use the Keatsian solution — writing impossibly lovely poetry about feeling blue —
— nope, been done.
What it is is post-completion blues. I’ve just finished three major projects. My play’s in production, the script’s been (self)published, and I’ve just delivered a collection of essays to a local distributor and am working out the business end of having it made available in stores near you.
And I’m seeing the end of the tunnel with the Lily poems too.
And I’m on vacation. Double whammy.
I should know better. Long ago, in university, I discovered that although being over-busy frustrates me and makes me nuts, it also makes me happy. When I don’t have too much to do I get depressed. And by “too much” I mean stuff that requires thinking. I am an addict, and a selective one at that. If I’m not doing something creative, I get depressed.
So here’s the thing. I’m between projects. And I’m blue. So, although there’s no nightingale around here, only a cold-front greybreeze and an over-sensitive car alarm that goes off at two-minute intervals, here’s how I feel today:
… for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight upon no pain …
The rest is silence.