The weather is sunny, and so am I (mostly – with a cheerfully anxious tinge to it).
Shows that I really should live in a warm climate, yes? Ah well.
Tonight, about ten people coming over – party/dinner – so cooking. As always I'm more enthusiastic than competent in the kitchen, so have gotten much advice and am trying to avoid getting too experimental. We'll see...
Since I'm busy of course (too busy to write this, mostly) and cheerful, that suggests that a lot of my depression is from inaction. No surprise, knew that really. However it also suggests, as do other details, that I would be just fine in a rather everyday, bourgeois approach to doing things and working – that, aside from being gay and having AIDS and feeling occasionally rather ill, and being artistic and perpendicular to everyday culture, the truth is I would be just fine in everyday culture. A domesticated gayness, a couple where both took HIV medications, an everyday job that wasn't too onerous... (hmm, John would be pleased, that's just what he wanted).
Which of course suggests, insidiously but probably quite accurately, that I'm not really cut out to write, at least not to write books, or to achieve difficult artistic things. In another era, one where I didn't have a job – say, if I were a non-working aristocrat of Edwardian times – I would probably be pleasantly busy, a diarist and casual essayist, a dabbler... which, to a large extent, I am.
Not a bad life, once you've given up expecting anything bigger....
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