Hayfever or cold?
It's a spring and summertime tradition to wonder if that tickle in the throat, that itchy nose, that dry eye etc is hayfever (the least deadly but no less life-hampering of all the fevers) or a just a regular degular cold. Right now I am phlegmy (sorry), my throat feels like a blue fire set by the Night King, and my nose is blocked. I have stuffed tissues into my nostrils as I type, and I am mouth breathing in a way that, if I were on the phone, would result in the cops coming knocking.
I have this bad habit of scratching the soft pink insides of my face via noisy muscle manoeuvers that alarm and irritate companions — I pinch down one nostril and then I inhale and exhale harshly — powerfully — through the other until I find some relief from the blockedness. It's one of the ugliest sounds I am capable of making; even after decades of hearing me do it, it's been known to make my sister flinch. One time, I did it in front of a guy and he asked if that was my death rattle. Blimey. But then the human body is beautiful and terrible. That's why we are all the way we are. Rendered in the likeness of the creator, we are close to divine. The crucial thing is: we didn't quite make it all the way there, did we?
It's been a weird spring – we are three weeks away from official summer but it feels like the thermostat has been faulty for months. It was never quite warm enough, too rainy, oddly windy. April felt like May, which in turn felt like March. It's the perfect weather to play 'hayfever or cold?' in. But it has not been all bad! I started a new job, and was delightfully crushed under the avalanche of good wishes that followed that announcement. My first play, Hoard, is on a London stage right now, despite a truly stunning upset that occurred literally the day before the press night performance (this is our final week of the run). The play has been published by Samuel French (and for non-UK pals, is available on Amazon, *cough*), and I am co-writing a book with my good friend Nichole. I finally bought and assembled a bedroom dresser! I have added a lovely palm to my houseplant collection. This week, my sister helped me hang up some art on my walls. My friends are getting laid getting paid, they're writing stories and making art and being thoughtfully joyous because sometimes that's all you can do when things feel less than stable in the world. I tried to write in my diary this season, because so much was happening, and it felt like lessons were being learned in real time that I would one day want to reflect on, you know?
When I was briefly home in London for press night, I was talking with my friend K, who is the best mix of wise and silly, about personal archival systems. Perhaps no one will ever want to read our (my) collected emails and loopy WhatsApp messages upon our demise, but if my plays and my journalism should go on to survive in public life, would there be any evidence of my processes? Have I properly archived my first drafts and all the hasty, almost illegible notes I made in the margins? Are there first versions of stories and essays lurking in my many notebooks? Am I painting an accurate picture of myself — to myself, to others — using the correct colours? So I'm trying to write in my diary more. I'd like to remember how it felt to my see my play on stage with paying punters, to receive a 4-star review from The Stage (and others!), to collaborate with a cast and director and stage manager and all the very special people the world over who keep the engines of playhouses running. I'd like to remember when the kernel for the next play was revealed, when I began to name characters, how I resolved the inadvertent loopholes of my own making. The pleasure of navel-gazing lies in the fact that when observed from above, your navel looks so different. Essentially, I'd like to remember myself, just in case something happens to make me forget.
Anyway. It's a cold. Fucking colds, man.