Routine Schmootine

I've really gone and done it this time. There is something about being back home, and being a weekday morning that has just made me realise that I really have no regular job. I mean, I know I quit and everything, and I know I have been unemployed for about seven weeks now, but I was lying there on the couch (unable to get back to sleep from about 2am) thinking that normally I'd return from a holiday to that same old routine that was nearly driving me insane. Right about now, I was thinking, I'd be having a shower and feeling sick at the thought of going to my office to do the same old thing, but now... there is no routine. That is so weird. And I have a feeling I might just get into this. Maybe the working week will be like when I was away and I'd wake up smiling with the infinite possibilities the day might bring. It's what I've always wanted. Lack of structure. Hello, my future.

What is also weird is that I have to organise a bunch of interviews with people with tattoos for a feature for a mag. Before the magazine commissioned me to do the story, I was at an outdoor party down the south coast and there was a Buddhist monk who was dancing as though it was causing him inner pain. It was pretty funny. He looked amazing, shaved head, robes etc. He took his shirt off and had the most intricate tattoos on his shoulders and upper arms, and, far too late, I realised he would have been a perfect subject for the story. I didn't really entertain any real thought of tracking him down because the party had been so far away and he could have come from anywhere.

Anyway, I went to a club in the city the other night and I was dancing away, eyes closed, smiling to myself, and when I opened my eyes who should I find standing right next to me doing his Dance Of Inner Angst? Unbelievable. If this story cooperates any more I'll wake up to find that it's written itself.

So now I have a biker/tattooist, a tribal hippie type, a monk, and a bald saxophone player (who I have yet to tell that is is going to be in the story). I have a couple more types to collect, as well as a psychologist, and the story will be underway. I also had a nibble from a weekend paper about travel writing, so I'm going to do something amusing about Turkey. And then there's the humorous arts column. And I'm feeling the need to write fiction again. Lots to do.

I hope I can make this freelance thing work because I never want routine again. Routine makes me cranky. Then again, maybe it's the kind of routine. I'm sitting here in the shop (okay, I lied, I do have a regular part time job working in my shop, three partners splitting the week to suit our needs) and I'm listening to Nathan Fake's Drowning In A Sea Of Love for the third time in a row. It's pretty and sad, shimmering musical melancholy, and for some reason it has reminded me of sitting with this person, working on her magazine. We dropped the usual abusive banter to get this thing done, and it struck me that although I've never understood the concept of collaborative writing, she is the only person I'd like to write something with. Weird huh.

The reality, of course, is that sitting down to write something with her each day is only a cosy routine as long as it stays on the inside of my head; two days in and we'd be thumping the shit out of each other and calling each other a spaz...

Anyway, Nathan Fake's Drowning In A Sea Of Love. It'll take you to strange and beautiful places.