But the good news is, I'm doing very well. For example, my right knee feels marvelous. My head is fine (fuzzy but fine), my arms are quite good, and all my multiple choice of body parts are just peachy.
I'm repaired. I'm home where the lake is wild and windy. I'm ready for NaNoWriMo -- and only (yeek) five days behind. I'll write more about what a uniformly excellent experience I had at The Cleveland Clinic and how Hammer, MD and I are both very satisfied with how things went. But first a rerun post so I can slam down some words on my lagging novel. Yay!
My Physical Therapist is coming to visit around noon. I think I shall call her Ms. OOF.
Here's an early post about living next to Lake E from the Like Water For Water blog.
On June 17, 2005 everything changed.
Before we moved to the lake, I dreamed of living near big water. An ocean, maybe. I'd savored a hefty handful of beach vacations, jealously guarding every moment of silent staring. Listening to the tattoo of waves breaking on sand. Tracking gulls and pelicans. Just soaking it up. Back then we lived in a nice old house. It had a nice old garden and small space for a new one which was so terrifically terrible for the planting of anything that I froze just considering what might be done with it. So, we engaged a garden designer and as part of the getting acquainted phase of the plan, she asked what I wanted in a garden. "Uh," I offered tentatively. "I always wanted to live near water." A professional, she didn't say, "Well, maybe you should move." She suggested that a fountain on the garage wall, which was, attractively enough, brick would allow the sound of water at least.
It did. She found us a lion-headed fountain which my neighbor named Bert after Bert Lahr in The Wizard of Oz. Bert got the job done. Provided the sound of water. Lulled me for years in that upland patch of pretty flowers. But I never stopped wanting big water. And it was so tantalizingly near, yet so far away behind the barrier of habit and convenience of living thirty years in the same lovely town. But we did it. On June 17, 2005 we moved to the shore of Lake Erie, ten yards from the water's edge, eight-point-eight miles and a hundred light years from our old familiar place. Bert came along, but when the pump died, we didn't replace it. Now we plant him full of flowers. A kind of reverse role from his old garden self.
OOF.
ReplyDeleteI've been told that great writing starts from the place that hurts. From the heart...to the knee.
Hey, so happy to see you're back and kicking... I'm in town today nosing around Berg's baby supplies with W.
Still, working through work and travel, and in Treatment on HBO, I'm still hacking and slamming down words on the NaMoWriMotor machine - words I wouldn't give a dog to read.
heh, heh,heh...
I may leave the novel writing to better hands (and knees).
But my hand is still in the game.
V Henoch -- (on Matt's Mac-- oops, forgot to sign in to comment)
I'm seriously behind. It appears that oxycodone doesn't necessarily make you a crack novelist. Or maybe that's exactly what it makes you. If only F. Scott Fitzgerald had had a little crystal meth I myself could be writing the Great Gatsby. But I'm still going, giving myself permission to write pure stupidity and clean up later. Heh, heh, heh.
ReplyDelete