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.”