I can never decided whether to correctly punctuate my post titles. I also can never decide what to talk about.
I did put up, and subsequently delete, a real downer of a post about not getting past my past, which has passed. (Couldn't help myself there, snort.)
That post started:
It occurred to me recently that I haven't gotten over the betrayal from my friends at St. George. The question I ask myself is whether I can: someone lied and my "friends" believed the lie. The answer is I think that I have to, otherwise I will always be less than I am.
And pontificated a bit. I took it down after a couple of days, because I just couldn't bear it being out there for the world to see. Then something wonderful happened. (Oh dear, I suddenly sound like an Upworthy post.) I read Doctor Sleep, by Stephen King, almost by accident one night. It is the sequel to the Shining, and was a brilliant confluence of events: money in my iTunes account, bored with movies and finished the Night Circus. I had to put it down and turn off the iPad so many times, because I did have work to do...dammit. I couldn't finish it on my shift, so I was going to get in my car and read it there before I drove home. But a lady wanted my parking spot (right outside the hospital doors at eight am, who could blame her?), so I sucked it up and started driving home. I remembered to change gears (unlike watching I am Legend, after which I drove the whole way home in third - and vaguely wondered why the engine sounded weird).
I don't like giving spoilers, and I will confess to the delightfully creepy fear that one of the antagonists was climbing my leg as I sat at my bench at two in the morning, but I'm not telling you anything else. The wonderful part was not what the book was about (although it was pretty damn good), it was what the book made me remember about how I was when I read the Shining. I read that one when I was about twelve or so, and didn't really like it. Danny is only five after all, and I already knew what horror means to a five year old. I didn't want the reminder of what happens when the grown-ups are the monsters instead of the shields. Or just not shields.
At twelve, though, I was free from that. I still had and would have things to deal with, but the shadows were departing, and I was as bulletproof as you can get when you know you aren't. When you may as well do what you want, because nothing can be worse than what you've seen. I'm giggling madly as I say that, because while it's true, it didn't stop me from being angst-ridden and unsure, but never mind.
So there I am driving home, and a car pulls out in front of me with the fuel cap cover sticking out, open. I pulled up beside and slightly behind him (good timing, red light!), and wondered how I could let him know. Then I thought, "Old me would just get out and shut it." So I did. And the thought process before, during, and after took a lot less time than it's taking to describe it. I was pleased with myself and with the universe in general. Shutting someone's fuel cap cover isn't the stuff of great humanitarianism, but it's a lot better than noticing something wrong and wondering if you should or shouldn't because someone is going to make a big deal about it. ("You only did that to look good.", blah, blah, can't be bothered coming up with/remembering more.)
No, I couldn't finish the book when I got home, my eyes kept slamming shut. Bummers of night shift. But I did finish it that afternoon, and while very glad I did (and still feeling the lingering creepy), I was more excited to remember the girl I was.
Later that week small lad and I were off to the bookshop to get Fortunately the Milk for his nibs and anything I could find for me. Personally I was hoping for a copy of Doctor Sleep (I like turning pages), but instead found Carry a Big Stick, the memoir of Tim Ferguson.
Tim, Paul and Richard, as the Doug Anthony Allstars, were the first group I loved in company. In high school, we'd watch the Big Gig on Tuesday nights and come in raving like loons the next day. One of us re-wrote MacBeth to the accompanying "tunes" of David Williamson's The Club and Anthony Ackroyd's character, Sergeant 'en Smith. But DAAS were our favourites. The first concert I went to (also in the same company) was Kids & Animals, and at sixteen, it was heady, liberating, and somehow, something to aim for. They could sing, as well; always good to have something you like to sing along to (and isn't the latest dull love song). To read about the other side of it, and to hear, finally what all of the "other things" they were doing was great fun. (This was before cable TV or "decent" internet, and our chances of getting hold of overseas shows were non-existent.)
I'm not going to spoil that one, either: please read it, it's a hoot without being a fan of the Allstars. But it was another reminder of what, how and who I was even at sixteen. Still mostly bulletproof (see above), and thinking the world was probably a great place. With corners of absolute and utter shit.
I think this will be a constant battle for me: to remember that I may as well be bulletproof and to recover when bullets come along. I can live with that.
