The operative word for me over these past few
weeks is “tiresome.” Lately, I’m finding everything tiresome: the dreary cold,
the impending holidays with their attendant mandate that we all “have fun,”
trying to figure out for once and for all what to do with my blasted novel, that
stupid, not-working-out idea I had to write sonnets, my drab wardrobe, incessant
media-driven victimhood narratives, and the drudgery of routine that comprises
adult life. I’m also tired of eggs. I eat an egg every day for breakfast, and I’m
fed up with them. I want better breakfast, but none of the 85,000 restaurants
in my neighborhood are breakfast places. Breakfast diners seem to have fallen
out of favor, lost to our national obsession with kale, jicama and those purple
potatoes you see everywhere now. I suppose I could just make my own damn
breakfast, but I would find that tiresome, too.
The Celtic Women’s Dublin concert was on TV a
few days ago as part of a public access fundraiser, and I felt myself tearing
up with unreasonable nostalgia for Ireland. My solution was to immediately go
and snap up tickets to their Paramount show that’s coming next summer. So I
have that to look forward to. But right now, I’m just drumming my fingers and
gazing into the space-time continuum, wondering if life is always going to feel
this banal and wearisome.
In light of that, and the fact that I spent most
of the day re-writing the opening pages of my novel, possibly to no avail, this
will be a short post this week. Enjoy this beautiful clip of The Celtic Women
performing “Danny Boy.”
--Kristen McHenry
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