It’s the first full week of winter but dry leaves still pile on the pavements. We’re in the transition from one season to the next, and I’ve become the sort of person who believes that the change of season is significant, that it changes you. That it makes you feel a little out of sorts because, you know, no one likes change.

And so I wasn’t surprised when I spent a long time today just staring into a cup of coffee. Since I quit milk, coffee takes me much longer to drink and the oily film on the surface looks like a galaxy if you stare for long enough. Or like the bath bombs I couldn’t get enough of as a teenager – glittering through the water.

I’ve felt a little dazed for days. Something about post-show blues, or winter blues, or one of the other shades that is kind of a bummer. You know those dreams where you’re trying to run away from something but it’s like you’re moving through treacle? Like I can hear my alarm going off but it’s just that little bit out of reach, in another universe.

If you can ignore the alarm for long enough it’s actually sort of a nice feeling, this daze I’m in. Sort of like a very gentle hangover. Cosy, like an old jumper. Like autumn leaves piled high. Like fluffy salmon clouds at sunset. Like the smell of bonfire smoke. Like the promise of a sofa and a blanket as you put your key in the front door.

*

*

A version of this post was sent by email on the 10th June 2018 as part of Internet Care Package.

ICP is a weekly memoir project in the form of a newsletter. It also includes links and occasional updates on my theatremaking. This blog is a select archive of those emails. Subscribe to get them right in your inbox.

Like this? Share to Facebook | Tweet | Email link

Want to help me make more things? Follow me on Instagram | Buy me a coffee | Buy my play