Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.
Busy nothings seems an elegant way of summing up my recent past. I realised that I’ve been battling a severe case of the dreaded Melbourne festivalitis but had little knowledge of its impact until I discovered* that it’s been over three months since I last posted.
This dreaded lergy stealthily creeps up and strikes when Melburnians least expect it. While some studies have shown festivalitis to be at its most virulent when latching on to hosts carrying the scent of chai lattes, salted caramel macarons and tofu tacos, festivalitis will (and can) hit at any time.
Festivalitis symptoms will manifest in many ways. Some Melburnians escape the constant festival onslaught unscathed while others disappear for days or even months on end, lost between cross-town venues or crushed by the weight of Things To See And Do.
I thought I was hanging in there but on reflection, my case has resulted in the baddest blogging blues, compounded by a deadly dose of not-writing, and no-time-for-reading books. I have now traced my Melbourne festivalitis to:
- a festival of birthdays
- a festival of winter sport
- a festival of international films
- a festival of worldy writers
- a festival of fine food
- a festival of poisonous politics
- a festival of fringe.
The path back from festivalitis has been painfully slow but the reading list has been reorganised, the laptop upgraded and new choc top flavours identified. It’s time to get myself back on the writerly track and overcome those busy nothings, by starting with this post.
*aka was prompted, thanks for dropping by my dear Reader.