:: Wednesday 25 July 01 ::
The heat broke. Finally. The cool dry air that'd been lurking around northern Manitoba all July finally swept down our way, and this morning I'm sitting at the computer thinking idly about putting some socks on. Because, y'know, my feet are a little chilly. Bliss.
There are a million things I should be doing, now that it's finally cool enough to contemplate action without feeling nauseated, but I've got the mystery headache this morning. Yesterday morning's headache was no mystery, just the now-inevitable sequel to having more than two glasses of wine the night before. Aging strikes again.
Ah, this aging body, which I must begin taking better care of. I had dinner Monday night with S., the ex, whom I hadn't seen in a while, and he told me that he was diagnosed last month with prostate cancer. It was a shock--he's always been one of those people who eats the things he's supposed to and avoids toxins and drinks eights glasses of water a day and meditates and so on. And he's only--what, 53? Rationally, I know my shock is ridiculous; the cleanest-living people can still sicken and die young, the belief that we can control our fate is illusion. But still. S., my old sweetie S., the guy who was always going to be there as my buddy, telling me jokes and playing me music and listening to my neurotic blither? S., with cancer?
It's very early stage, no apparent spread, and very treatable. And he is, as I'd have expected, being very intelligent and assertive about managing his treatment, researching options, seeking multiple opinions. He should be OK, at least this time around. But there'll come the round, for him and for me and for everyone I know and care about, when it won't be OK.
It's an absolutely beautiful morning, sunny and fresh and green, and I've spent it so far sitting indoors, mindlessly playing Bejeweled, waiting for the headache to abate. Soon I'll open up the WIP, and read wincingly over the stuff I wrote yesterday, and then lower myself slowly into the scene I left unfinished last night, finish it, and maybe get the next scene started. I'll vacuum, I'll do dishes, I'll answer some e-mail, nose around on the web, probably play a few more games of Bejeweled, and this lovely day will pass and disappear, just like the 17,510 or so days that have preceded it through my life. Is this how I should be spending my time, filling the limited allotment of days I have left?
I don't know. If I could live every moment of every day with full awareness of my own death--well, then I'd be a buddha, and I'm hilariously far from that. Can barely see there from here. I can't keep that reality in mind for more than a few minutes without going somewhat mental. But at the same time I need every so often to touch base with it. This will all end. We are all going to die. Yes. True fact. No shit.
Nothing I can do about that either, no matter if I turned into HealthNut!Woman and ate nothing but fresh organic fruits and vegetables and exercised three hours a day. But I can, at least, start taking somewhat better care of the body. Because this business of spending a beautiful morning down with a headache is really stupid.
~~~~~~
I've added a few people to the sidebar--my god, I hadn't known Destina had a journal! I am an idiot! And reading it makes me want to hop on a plane and track her down and give her a huge hug and a shake and set her down in front of the computer and tell her to keep writing. Because she's one of the good one, with the chops and the heart to write stuff that makes my world larger.
[quoting Des] "...the truth is, sometimes we write crap, and we must be merciless in the realization of this, and delete it. immediately. Before we succumb to the urge, however slight, to send it on to someone who will run screaming into the night when they read it. And then try to tell you, tactfully, that you have birthed a deformed, three-headed five-legged pig, and it isn't even an interesting pig, and no one wants to look at it because it's ugly, and it's not smart, and it can't feed, and it's not going to live long. "
Heh. And will you believe me, Des, when I tell you I feel that way about damn near every paragraph I spew? Comes with the territory. And even though I am the most avoidant person on the planet and a Slacker Extraordinaire, I have finally gotten it through my head that the only way to deal with it is to just keep going. The only way around this one is through. Head down, clothespin on nose if necessary, and fingers on keyboard. It gets better. (And, yeah, I'm talking to myself as much as Des, or more.)
fandom journals
Anna | Aral | Athena4 | AuKestrel | beth666ann | Brighid | CLFinn | Colleen | Debchan | Destina | Dine | Erica | Fluff on Top | Gemma | grit kitty | Helen | Ins | Jane St. Clair | Kate | LaT | Livia | Maygra | Mia | Miriam | Mona | Nestra | Olwen | Rowan | Sheila | Shrift | Simplelyric | Soo | Pam | Te | Valeria | Viedma | Viridian | WitchQueen | xen | ZorroRojo
other sites
Bad Hair Days | Hissyfit | kottke.org | lileks | memepool | Mighty Big TV | plaintive wail | Tomato Nation
Quote of the day, for me and Des and everyone else:
"What I've learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head. First there's the vinegar-lipped Reader Lady, who says primly, "Well, that's not very interesting, is it?" And there's the emaciated German male who writes these Orwellian memos detailing your thought crimes. And there are your parents, agonizing over your lack of loyalty and discretion; and there's William Burroughs, dozing off or shooting up because he finds you as bold and articulate as a houseplant; and so on. ...
"Close your eyes and go quiet for a minute, until the chatter starts up. Then isolate one of the voices and imagine the person speaking as a mouse. Pick it up by the tail and drop it into a mason jar. Then isolate another voice, pick it up by the tail, drop it in the jar. And so on. Drop in any high-maintenance parental units, drop in any contractors, lawyers, colleagues, children, anyone who is whining in your head. Then put the lid on, and watch all these mouse people clawing at the glass, jabbering away, trying to make you feel like shit because you won't do what they want--won't give them more money, won't be more successful, won't see them more often. Then imagine that there is a volume-control button on the bottle. Turn it all the way up for a minute, and listen to the stream of angry, neglected, guilt-mongering voices. Then turn it all the way down and watch the frantic mice lunge at the glass, trying to get to you. Leave it down, and get back to your shitty first draft."
Anne Lamott, from Bird by Bird
"I'd learned on the highway and in the circus, in the army, and at boxing gyms that even if you have a cutman in your corner to stanch the blood, it doesn't obviate the need for stamina, self-reliance, and keeping oriented to what I think of as the earth's magnetic field. You can have allies, mentors, be married, but still you're going to be alone most of your life, and if you're going to run off the rails, you had better be good company for yourself."
--Edward Hoagland