Oops

So I took yet ANOTHER tumble yesterday, not a week after I was finally discharged by the doctor after breaking both wrists in the spring. Gee whiz, what a klutz! Last time, I was hurrying and caught the tip of my boot on a step as I was running up to make a child abuse report. This time, I was just plain hurrying back to my office after dealing with a couple of emergencies at school, and I slipped on a piece of apple peel. Whap, I went down hard, cracking my head against a concrete pillar. I hasten (like I did when I fell) to add that I am fine, but it left a big egg on the back of my head, and I had to go for a CT-scan. The biggest damage was to my pride, for I am really embarrassed after having done it before, and so recently to boot. When I went back to work today, everyone knew about it. And everyone had something to say.

It's interesting to observe how one suddenly becomes the center of attention when one is seen to be hurt or in need of sympathy. How people react to such a situation. Some laugh and crack jokes, others express concern, and yet others tell you about similar experiences they have had. And all the while, in my experience (which is growing mightily), the recipient of all the attention is squirming with embarrassment. For me, on one hand, it is kinda nice when people express an interest in me, but on the other, I really don't like to be viewed as in need of anything. That's not how I was raised. I was raised not to draw attention to myself. So I guess I had better watch my footing, huh?

Changes 2

Theresa and Cynthia are right, of course - self-censoring never helped anybody. I shall take your advice, my friends. It's all grist for the mill.

And as for the weight loss - it wasn't deliberate, Theresa, it just happened! Kinda fun, though!

Changes

I've lost about 40 pounds over the last six months. Gained a lover for the last six months. Fallen away from writing over the last few months. I went to my writing conference last month and came to the conclusion that I am not a poet. I changed my assignment at work a couple of months ago. My younger son moved away from home permanently earlier this year. My older son (all of 23) is doing so well in his job back East that he is earning more money than I do. Lots of changes. Much to absorb. Much to assimilate.

The weight loss has everyone talking - "You're so tiny!" "How did you do it?" "Wow, I didn't recognize you!" I'm happy and proud, but embarrassed too. Much attention that is so unwonted - I'm not used to it. But still, I luxuriate in my new body. I feel sexy and young, and alive.

Having my lover makes me smile a lot. "You're glowing," they exclaim. "You seem like a different person," they say. I am, it's true. I am happy and fulfilled, though the anxiety to which I can be prone swims to the surface from time to time. I remind myself that he is a wonderful, sensitive, and caring man. That we are good together. To live in the now and let the future take care of itself. Easier said than done sometimes, and it's a work in progress.

I have been so absorbed by all these changes that writing has taken a back seat in my life. The writing conference (where last year, as it happens, I first met the man who was to become my lover) jump-started some inspiration for a while, but then that, too, faded, and I resorted again to writing about not writing. Which I was determined for this piece not to be. But I guess it is. Again.

A friend who is a writer stayed with me last night, and we fell to talking about writing as a priority. She acknowledged that we have to shift our priorities from time to time. That we can't always put writing first. I have put my love affair first recently. I would like to bring my writing further to the front, though. I think it would be healthy. My lover lives in a different town, some seven hours drive away from here, and there are hefty chunks of time when we are not together. I could use that time to write.

As for not being a poet: my efforts were so very pedestrian that I could not bring myself to share what I wrote in the poetry workshop I attended at the conference. Pedestrian in comparison with what I was hearing from my fellow participants, who were so very talented. I know when to shut up. Maybe I will write poetry again, but probably just for personal consumption. So I want to focus on prose, where I feel safer, more comfortable. But is that what writing is about? Safety and comfort? Oh, gee, I hope not! Maybe it's time I took some risks. Although, to be honest, it seems as if for the last six months I have been taking many risks (like going to the concert on my own). So maybe this work in progress should include risks in the realm of writing. Just posting this rather personal entry is a risk, I guess. But it's time to strip away the dross. Time to allow myself to access what really matters to me, and then maybe the words will start to flow once more onto the screen before me. I can feel something loosening even now.

I have been watching DVD's of "The Sopranos," a series I never saw when it was on TV. It's addictive! But I chose to write this entry instead of watching Episode 1 from Season 3 this evening. It's a start. Maybe those priorities are beginning to re-organize themselves.

Watch this space.

The Dark Side of the Moon

I'm supposed to be studying for a professional exam, but I want to write instead, so I am skiving off, as we Scots say.

When I was a teenager in the '60's and early '70's, I missed so much. I loved the music I heard, but I didn't follow or delve into it as much of it as I wish now I had. I loved Cream and the Beatles, and Simon & Garfunkel, and Jimi Hendrix, but I never went to concerts or bought too many records. And Pink Floyd were a little too "out there" for me, and I never really understood them or their music. So I have a lot of catching up to do. I had a fabulous opportunity on Thursday to do that when I went to the Hollywood Bowl and saw the incredible Roger Waters performing "The Dark Side of the Moon." I went on my own, for I could only get one ticket. I was a little nervous about doing that, but I was determined not to pass up the opportunity, so I steeled myself and am so glad that I did. The moon rode high above the amphitheater as I sat on the cold concrete bench. Across from me, behind the stage, loomed the Hollywood sign that faded as it grew dark, unilluminated in these days of power conservation. I thought of forty years or so ago, when the Beatles played at the Bowl. I thought of last month, when I attended a concert of Russian composers, surrounded by the Los Angeles gentry. Then on Thursday, I looked around at the tie-dyed T-shirts, pony-tailed men, and greying hippies, men and women. Young folk were there too, worshiping at the stage of one of the most influential musicians of his time. Me too, I was worshiping for sure. And Mr. Waters proved worthy of the adulation. At 62, he was still able to play for three solid hours. Play vigorously, persuasively, beautifully, passionately. I was swept up in the moment, uncaring that I was alone. I stood, I danced, I hollered, I applauded. This was my kind of music, my kind of message, my kind of night.

And it was good.