Woke up this morning with nothing in my head that could possibly interest anybody else. This was sort of startling. Usually I can run on for twenty minutes about this and that, especially after reading the Trenton Times over breakfast.
Another thing I don't want to talk about is my health. Which is perfectly good. Years ago you didn't go to the doctor unless there was something wrong with you. Nowadays, however, people over a certain age who have good insurance (like retired state workers) are expected to go for checkups at regular intervals, sick or well. At these times the doctor will tell you all the things you are probably on the verge of getting, no matter how good you feel right now, and order a battery of uncomfortable and degrading tests. I'm in the middle of that sort of thing right now; I have to go get a Dexascan in half an hour. After the last bloodwork my doctor sent me a report that said, okay, we can't find anything wrong, but unless you change your ways you're going to be in serious trouble soon. This looming shadow of menace. But I don't want to write about it.
Maybe I shouldn't even be trying to write anything. Maybe it's time to do something else. Harold gave me a set of drawing pencils for Christmas; maybe I should go out and sketch things. Or take up the concertina again. I haven't played the concertina since before I was carrying John, and had no lap to rest the instrument. I could play it again, with a bit of practice. There's a whole warm community of Irish musicians waiting to welcome me into their sessions as soon as I get good enough.
© 2015 Kate Gallison