I was in that state between falling asleep and sleep, when it registered that I was not in pain. Sometimes, I get an achy leg that I ignore, but I did not at all notice that I was feeling pain-free. It made me think (and abandon sleep for minutes longer) as I realized what a gift this was. I’m recovering from a flu that doesn’t want to shake, though the worst is over. I have skipped dozens of yoga classes, and walks. But that moment, I was pain-free.
My mother just went through dual knee replacement. Brave woman she is, she endured a great deal of pain, even on meds. Now she is recovered, and walking better than she had in years.
I am seeing where I am going with this as I type. I’m not there yet.
Pain is so individual.
I am in a period of waiting to decide what to do about my novel-in-progress. It has been through four complete, radical revisions, with different settings. I feel as if I have written four novels. I am making notes now on this fifth revision, introducing two plot changes. I find fault with all the published fiction I read now, unless the author is dead or the reading is frivolous. I did read Ian McEwan’s Solar which made me laugh out loud on the plane, but which I would like better I’m certain had I read it months from now. Perhaps this is the moment to go back and delete everything I noted about pain.
I’m reading Dorothy Sayer stories now, and will soon be rereading A Room of One’s Own as well as poetry for classes I am teaching.
I just spent some time watching videos of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, until they got too noisy.
I never wanted to be a rock star growing up; I wanted to be a lawyer. I think I really wanted to be a painter, but that got buried somewhere.
Sudhir Kaker says rage emerges from suppressed feelings of powerlessness. Perhaps it comes from suppressed pain. If it can be attributed to an outside force, a spirit, the enraged can rage on without guilt, accepting possession.
I’m making notes for my novel.
I guess I nearly always make notes for my life.