Random tidbits gleaned from the Internet

I've self-diagnosed the wrist pain I've been suffering from since November, following a curious incident in which I managed to misjudge the edge of a curb and splatter dramatically into the middle of a road, backpack going one way, laptop another, willowy young arts student to the rescue (and I'm so mature now that I didn't even exaggerate my plight to get her to stay at my side for longer). I think I have a small tear of my triangular fibrocartilage complex. This may or may not resolve by itself. If I re-injure it by dropping my corpulent bulk on it from a great height while attempted to X-country ski, then I may be finishing my book by dictation.

Second, we've been looking for a venue for my fiftieth birthday party, and I've just discovered that my new age will render me eligible for a whole slew of new privileges, including access to the party rooms at a senior's centre, which even throws in the coffee maker. I can also join a carpet bowling or mall walking club. This is so cool.... My first thought was that I should show up for a meeting sometime to scare the crap out of the regular clientele. And then I thought.....what....if.....I....fit.....right.....in........?

Eek.

De-stressing

A comment from an old friend and faithful reader, Robin, reminded me last night of how much fun it used to be to write this blog sometimes. Since sometime last summer when my new book blog rose from the mire, I resolved to devote all of my online energies to that site. I really enjoy the challenges of trying to find ways to connect what's going on in the world with what's going to be in my book, and I'm often amazed by how easy it is to find those connections--just meaning I suppose that I'm properly obsessed with my subject. At the same time, I miss the freedom and leisure of being able to say just whatever the hell I want without worrying about whether it is going to help bring attention to the book.

That's what this space was always for.

I won't make any promises about how often I'll post here--I know some of you still check in to peek every once in a while, though most of the hits to this site (I can't help keeping track--I don't think it is vanity so much as curiosity but it might be a little of both) come from people looking for more information about agism (about which I'm learning more with every passing decade) and what happened to Darryl Hannah's fingers (which I found out about purely by accident while writing once about her eco-videos).

I also won't try to bring you up to date on my life other than to say that I look back longingly on the year spent in Nova Scotia in 2006 and I now marvel about the fact that while on sabbatical I made the firm decision to rapidly unencumber myself from busy professional life and yet somehow something backfired and now I'm busier than I have ever been.

I'm mostly happy, though I still think back wistfully on all I had while living in Lahave and I still have deep pools of sadness in recognizing that no matter what happens from here, that's a life I won't be able to go back to for at least a decade, more likely two.

I've got a landmark birthday coming up in January. I'm not afraid yet, though I imagine that there will be some anxious nights over the next year once I launch a new decade. I mostly tell myself that I'm now perched in a place where I have the only two things I've ever really wanted out of life (a big, thriving, happy family and a writing career--if a bit fledgling and a bit later than hoped for). At the same time as I work hard at convincing myself that I've somehow arrived at where I'd always hoped I would be, there is still that little calculator inside my head that reminds me that I'm well past the halfway point and that if I came down with some dreadful disease in the next 5-10 years it wouldn't be the least bit surprising. I'm getting beyond the time when my death would be a tragedy and into the years when it would just be somewhat premature. That's a weird, sad thought.

Here's a strange, somewhat ghoulish thought to end on today. I was out the other day with my kids, looking at a very beautiful display of Christmas lights. My son and I were standing before a glass-fronted display when I lost my footing and fell forward a bit. For a few seconds I had this very John Irving image of myself falling forward, putting head through glass, severing a carotid artery, and expiring in the snow. I foresaw the aftermath - a curious little article on the back page of a newspaper somewhere -- an article that some people, in a kind of Coen brothers way, might even find funny. Honestly, I would find it funny, too. And then I imagined my grieving family, my poor wife left with all those kids, my brothers and sisters coming to town and at the same time as they mourned losing me, there'd be that barely suppressed little giggle in the back of their throats as they imagined me lying face down in the snow, lifeless eyes agog at the image of one of Santa's elves busily sawing up pieces of pretend wood inside a Christmas display, the whittling of the pretend saw not even slowed by the blood pooling on the collection of little pretend toys. Exactly what the hell kind of cerebrum did my mother and father give me, anyway?

The best part of this strangely black fantasy was the feeling of relief that after a few days of tears, giggles and wonderment, the ripples in the great pond would be smooth, and life would go on and on for those left behind.