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Gauging the amount of shopping to level of anxiety, this has been a banner month.
My son calls it retail therapy.
Sad commentary on having discretionary funds & the imagination to potentially fill in every possible gap in
every room.
Or just a view of a messy life. One that cannot be controlled:
if something horrendous occurs, it has truly nothing to do with magical
thinking.
I can send out immense waves of shuddering fear. R. has been out for a walk & it's 11:30 where is he? Yet the door squeaks,
footsteps in the foyer & he's home.
Our semi-chorus began in earnest to collect everyone's data in a spreadsheet for the upcoming gig to Hollywood.
I beat down my shyness given the obvious bonds among longtime members who already had the column roommate
filled in.
Internet at my disposal, I can whip up travel plans with as much aplomb as anybody. Choose a hotel that was not even on the suggestion list;
show some independent thought.
With mp3 files my own rehearsing at home is a good old friend, while insanely different than the distant times when I drilled however I
could, usually with a tape recorder, but of such clumsiness in comparison.
Walking around the yard, or reading the news online, or having a sandwich if I happen just to be listening, not actually singing.
Taking note of the trouble spots, toggling back & forth from the score on my squeaky-new tablet, making squiggly indications with a
stylus for a mandatory cheat-sheet.
I look back at the moment when he said well, I have to have an operation. It was going to be so perfectly timed to fit
Outpatient between Last Rehearsal & Trip to the Egyptian Theatre
a week later.
Today the catheter's out & the surgeon's happy; last week, I'd never seen my guy in pain like that, yelling for morphine
when they gave him tylenol, crying for something stronger when the morphine didn't work.
I give him his injections in the belly twice a day & hope it doesn't hurt this time. There's not much talk of food.
Like a puzzle or a game, my phone is telling me how much in how much out & whether I'm over-budget or in-the-zone. If I
can't control events, perhaps I can control my weight; at least it helps pass the time.
I walk up & down the stairs, turn at each landing, staring at the smooth wooden steps, the rhythm Don't Think of Food [rest]
Don't Think of Food [rest] & now I see that the internet didn't save me after all.
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