Seventeen Days in 2017

One: I wake in the new year on a boat. I sit and I drink coffee and nothing feels different, but everything feels possible. This has nothing to do with the new year of course, or a new me. This is life. Even when nothing is different anything is possible. Especially when nothing is different actually. This boat has the potential to sail anywhere in the world, but for now it is anchored and still. Everything is possible.

Two: I sleep too much and I eat too little. I start to feel unsure and overwhelmed. I don’t drink enough water. Everything is fucked. 

Three: I write a lot of lists and I convince myself that this is how things get done. I know that this is not how things get done, but everything has to start somewhere. In a couple of days I’m flying to Denmark with my girlfriend Jayne. I need lists to operate.

Four: I get my hair cut and for the first time in a long time I don’t hate how it looks. I feel like me and it feels good. Back at my car there is a big yellow parking ticket stuck on the windscreen, waiting.

Five: Denmark is flat in a way that feels right and full of potential.

Six: The most beautiful sunset is happening in the most southern town in Denmark. The icy wind pushes against and then through my exposed skin and seeps deep into my bones. My core is frozen and painful. I thank a god that I don’t believe in for heated seats.

Seven: I wake up closer to 40 than 30 and I feel no different. I wonder who I will be when I reach 40 and I hope that I’m myself, whoever that is. I make pancakes for breakfast and we drive.

Eight: I stand at the edge of the white cliffs and look down at the turquoise sea. I follow the gradient upwards to the dark blue horizon and I can’t get a line out of my head: The ocean is six miles deep.

Nine: I manage to hit the only pothole in Denmark and our tyre blows completely. There is no spare wheel. We sit in the middle of nowhere for five hours and play squares, luckily we have snacks. It’s below freezing outside. I thank a god that I don’t believe in for heated seats. 

Ten: The castles in Denmark look like really big houses, except they have towers and a moat. Anything can be anything.

Eleven: Today we eat lunch at Noma and neither of us are ready. We eat ants and leaves, fermented things and chocolate covered moss, we have mashed potato for dessert. They make me a birthday cake and we fly to Berlin and in between we share a Daim McFlurry. We are still not ready.

Twelve: I buy art supplies and eat at Angry Chicken. They give me 9 pieces of So So Angry Chicken instead of 6. I wonder if this is how it feels to be rich.

Thirteen: Today is bad, but it’s ok.

Fourteen: I watch 20,000 Days on Earth for the 20,000th time. It makes me feel both good and bad, inspired and paralysed, understood and alone. I think I need to drink more water.

Fifteen: Snow day!

Sixteen: I can’t stop thinking about Nick Cave, and the chefs at Noma, and a blur of people who never really come into focus. I wonder if I’m meant to be something more than I am. I worry that I’m having delusions of grandeur. I should spend less time on the internet.

Seventeen: I read the two drafts I’ve written for this newsletter. One is about the year just gone and one is about the year ahead. I delete both and start to write about today. Seventeen days feels like nothing, but the past seventeen have been so full. There are only 20.5 more seventeen day periods between now and 2018. Anything is possible.



lettersLee Crutchley