morning head: Wednesday, 20th May, 2015
This is morning #11. In the last five days. I’ve gotten out of bed so many times, at so many hours of the night I have no fucking idea who I am anymore. Though that might be related to my sudden change in social status from #lazygoodfornothingwriter to #stayathomedad. Get a real job they said…
There are no more mornings off. There is only Morning On. And Afternoon On. And Evening On… Let’s face it, there is only on. Stay at home parents who get anything else done are not real. They’re fairytales, the daydreams of people who can’t tell you the last time they ate breakfast after the sun came up, who only emerge from the house to walk the child to sleep in the stroller, and who no longer remember whether they have carpets or hardwood floors.
When I started this, it began with “This is morning #4.” I have been trying to put more than four words together since Saturday.
I have come to the realisation that the only way to achieve anything anymore is to do it during the hours of darkness, when the rest of the family is asleep. Unfortunately for me, I’m pretty much comatose by the time the sun goes down. The sum-total of my ability to function once whatever scraps I manage to shuffle together for dinner hit the bottom of my stomach, amounts to staring blankly at the television. It typically takes approximately half an hour after the show has finished for me to register that I’m gazing at a dark, silent screen, and trundle off to bed.
The only solution, it would appear, is to get up hours before everyone else, and attempt to smash out a few words before the beasts are set free again.
This is the death of romance. The late-night scribe, slightly drunk and revelrous with his words is no more.
The portrait of the artist is a health and safety poster, a guide to heavy lifting, function over style.