Freak me. Monday was

On Monday I went to the coffee shop that also serves waffles and ice cream. It has a farrow and ball style duck egg blue façade with outdoor tables and benches made from (very in vogue) decommissioned scaffolding planks and steel connectors. All signs and menus are written on chalk boards in that cheery, rustic manner that hairdressers seem to also like. It is, clearly, an effort towards today’s kind of cool. I have to admit that I wouldn’t know since I don’t engage with ‘that kind of stuff’. But I do like coffee and I do like coffee out and I do like exercise. And, precisely because this covid thing has been as it has I felt the need to get out, interact and support a local business. ‘Live’ conversation in particular has been the thing I have found myself wanting. I have found myself overflowing with verbal diarrhoea at the simple fact of talking to someone face to face. I believe even the postman has been sprinting to my postbox and out again for the opposite reason.

I bought a latte with a fruit flapjack on the side (don’t judge the flapjack! Covid has not been kind my waistline but, on this day, I felt my mental state held more value than how much I had to let my belt out) and suspect I was a little too overenthusiastic about it all. Smile too big. Beatitudes too plentiful. But it was live contact. Sweet, beautiful live contact! I always thought of myself as a loner and happy in my own company but now I realise it is actually about my perception of my own company which is, actually, about control (I’ll admit it, I’m a control freak, what gives?).

Can someone tell me what they did on Tuesday? Please?

@SilverRose @Zelda @disco4robot @Shruti @EdgarSwift @Gallow
(A small collection of names, please include others, dis-include me, see where the mood takes you…)

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Tuesday, Chooseday. The pronunciation varies in this part of town.

It isn’t Monday, thank God. Monday, with its slow chug 2 3 4 chug 2 3 4 chug 2 3 4 effect, big breaths in, big breaths out, just tries to make it past itself; an overloaded train bellying toward the tracks, unwilling, but duty bound to deliver.

It’s Chooseday, not the beginning, not the middle. It stands between. Reminds me of sitting on the fence. Wednesday is a sigh of relief, a quickening step towards the end.

Chooseday, well, it sits, almost poker-faced - a waiting place. So I sat too this Chooseday, Tuesday - pensive, pokerfaced. The engines creak and crack after months of a dead halt. We were playing Simon says but this time, Simon said, ‘stand still’ and we did. And he left us there for months while we stood. I will say it as is it.

I DO NOT like Simon. I never did.

So, on Chooseday, I sat to clean up my friends list and get my life back up and running. Because it was Chooseday, it was a day that wasn’t quite a beginning nor an end, it was o.k. to do clean ups. I don’t feel guilty on Tuesdays. I removed Simon from my friends list. Deleted him. In the evening, I saw him come up as a ‘suggestion’. I scoffed. ‘Ha! I am no suggestee. It is Tuesday Simon,’ I said to my screen, ‘You can go about your business. I am not interested in playing anymore.’
Oh! I drank loads of coffee too. French press. I love the French press.

All of Tuesday I waited for Wednesday to come.
I waited for Simon to send it our way.
Then he did.

But I no longer remember why I wanted it or what it is for. The days have merged into an eternal greyness of an English summer. Watched over by farmers who have furrowed their brows with the worry of their harvest more deeply than they ploughed their land to plant seeds. Sewing into the depths of their faces their feelings and battery from the endless greys and rains that befall them. Characterful or character-beaten?

I want to tell this week’s Wednesday to fuck right off and go and find someone who cares about it to play with. But it just will not leave me alone. In my endless quest to find more time in my world it seems ironic that Wednesday will not shift to Thursday for love nor money.

Harrumph. This is what Tigger would say. But really I feel much more melancholy and Eeyore than Tigger. I’d like to tuck my butt into a badly made house of sticks, somewhere in One Hundred Acre Wood and get snowed in until life is better.

(2 hours later)
But on second thoughts

Wednesday, that imp! Smiling, happy day of promises.
How that double u with razor edges hides between gentle e and n.
Beautiful weekday neither here nor there.
Wedge. Crowbar. Comfort place.
Sitting on fences looking up and down.
Interim. Interval.
Breathe.

I breathe.
You breathe.
He, She, It breathes.
We breathe.
You (again) breathe.
Repetitively.

It all happened on a Wednesday. Harmless day where double u with jagged teeth bites further into you. Precipice. Looking down, looking forward. I can’t jump. I curl back to those sharp edges where impish charm and quiet fun seems alright.

Thursday after all, is a deadbeat. He comes along. Dragging. Continues to drag, like a tired bow across violin strings.

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Once again, Tuesday returned – the most pointless day of a week. What can one really do on Tuesdays? There’s nothing to do, nothing to begin with. I bet no one started a revolution on Tuesday. Romulus and Remus weren’t thrown into the river on Tuesday. Odoacer waited for Tuesday to vanish so he could dethrone Romulus Augustulus. And the poor thing, Romulus Augustulus, for the entire Tuesday he knew something bad will happen. Tuesday protected him, but Tuesday had to go away, eventually.

Nothing important can happen on Tuesday.

I’m grabbing my keys and leaving the building. As I’m going out, I’m checking if there’s a mask in my bag. My mask is dirty – has been for the last couple of weeks. Not sure if it really works. In tram I can’t see peoples’ lips. I find this strange, since I believe – for no apparent reason – that person’s character lives in the way their lips are shaped, in the way they move when they swear, when they kiss, when they spit, when they drink, when they lick.

On this Tuesday no one licks, no one spits, no one kiss. I’m just reading a book and counting stations. I feel as empty as the day.

Thursday came along. Wednesday was a blur. I played hide and seek with the imp that throws obstacles in the way. The days pass by, I feel like I’ve not seen myself for a long time. I’ve been spinning arms spread wide, taking the day as it comes. I lie on the floor looking up. The ceiling spins.
The ground under my back, into which my lower back in pressed because that’s the right thing to do, spins too. Spins, like a dervish in a trance. I wait for it to be over. The breath, caught in one cycle.

Every other day. Thursday after Tuesday. It’s easier that way. 1, 3, 5, 7.

We pick up by Thursday hurtling forward I imagine, like meteors toward a trembling earth. None of them are conscious of the other. I bump into you, you bump into me. That’s the natural order.
Order is unnatural I hear. We should untry it now.

I wondered what lay behind the veil. I asked my friend to let’s try it together.
“We’ll find nothing,” she replied.
“You think so?”
“Yes. Just blissful nothing.”
“So then, what are we waiting for? Why are we caught in the net?” I asked as I picked up a pen and head towards the door?
“Look! There goes Samuel Beckett!” I cried, pointing to empty space in which I imagine someone’s waiting.

There’s nothing to be done.