I know, I know…thanks for sharing…too much information.,.yeah, yeah.
Well, it hurts.
My groin, my pain, my blog. It’s not like you pay to get in here.
It was my intention to spring out of bed this morning and get busy churning out pages on the typewriter before I saw anything shiny that might distract me. I’m at a really good place in the rewrite I’m working on and I wanted to strike again before the magic faded.
Instead, when I stood up I had to sit back down. I’ve got a problem with one of the joint on the right side of my pelvis. The doctor isn’t sure of the cause of the problem. It could be the result of being overweight most of my life, or it might stem from a motorcycle accident I had in the 1980s. It doesn’t really matter. Some days it hurts a lot, some days it doesn’t. There are people who survive and thrive every single day with a lot worse.
I get some measure of relief from pharmaceuticals. I also get a fair amount of relief by stretching out on my left side with my right leg propped up. It seems to counteract the pressure or something. So instead of springing out of bed I slumped to the floor instead.
The cats thought this was great sport and were convinced that I wanted to play. And so I did, until they got bored and went off to lick themselves. Not being flexible enough to do the same, I browsed the bottom shelf of the bookshelf I was next to. The books down there don’t get gone through and reread often, because, frankly, they’re way down near the floor and the books up on the top shelf, where no bending is required, always seem to be more interesting.
One of the books I came across was ‘The Last Catholic in America’ by John Powers. It’s a fun story about growing up Catholic in the south side of Chicago during the 1960s. My friend Jim Higgins bought me the book at a musty used book store while we were roommates in New York.
It was a treat finding the book, and an even bigger one when I found what was tucked between the pages. Three photographs taken during one of the best days of my life.
There’s a nugget of insecurity buried deep inside me (perhaps part of the reason for my groin pain) that still thinks Valarie Lee Jones married me because she lost a bet, or felt sorry for me. I have no idea what I did to deserve this wonderful woman in my life, but if I ever figure it out I’ll let you know.
In the meantime, my groin still hurts. The purple chair I’m sitting on is better suited for my daughter than me. I should go lay down on the floor and see what other treasures I can unearth.
I finally found my daughter’s computer. It was hidden under a bunch of teenager junk. Kids are such slobs today (suddenly I’m channeling Paul Lynde from ‘Bye Bye Birdie’).
I sure miss my daily dose of blogging, but not having a computer at hand has done wonders for my creative output. Instead of spending obscene amounts of time researching important stuff (and no, I don’t mean naked muscleman pictures) on the WWW I’ve been pounding out an impressive number of pages of the latest book I’m working on. For a couple of weeks I was actually writing with a pencil and paper of all things, but then I remembered that my next door neighbor has one of everything in the world in his garage, so I went over and borrowed a typewriter. Remember those? The kid at OfficeMax thought I was speaking Latin when I asked him where the typewriter ribbons were.
One of the most interesting things about writing on a typewriter is that it holds you accountable for your actions. If you type a word, or even a single letter for that matter, you’d dang well better mean it, because things are going to happen. None of this casual deleting random words or phrases you just want to type for fun. If you do the crime you have to do the time. (The time it takes to Wite-Out and wait for it to dry)
Oh, and it’s a good thing I saved my old dictionary. I’d forgotten that typewriters don’t have autocorrect.
I’ll be back online soon enough, but in the meantime this is a valuable learning experience that I’m certain I’ll learn something from. Oh, yeah, now I remember, don’t bring your laptop in the bathtub with you. No, that’s not it. When I remember I’ll let you know.