I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD-SLAPS, SPEED-BUMPS and LIGHT-BULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.



Sunday, April 13, 2014

Meeting with a two by six

Like my attic but picture a waist deep archeological dig.
            I fell.
            My daughter and I were in the attic, sorting and cleaning for two events, yard sale and house going on the market, (someday), in order to downsize. My attic is huge; it holds an immense amount of crap. The ceiling is high and slopes to the eaves as most attics do. I can almost stand up at the lowest part but not quite. Bent over and rummaging through boxes at the edge I bumped my head a few times. About two hours into the seemingly impossible job of hoeing out stuff, bent over and back hurting, I stood up fast, to relieve the strain. My head met the down-slope of a two by six, as they say, full speed and head on. I heard a crack, which I assumed was my skull, screamed, jerked, did a 180 and fell into a pile of junk.
            I expected a harder fall.
            My daughter yelled, “are you alright." She raced to my side. "Should I call 911, should I get dad?” Over and over she kept asking me if I was alright, should I get dad. I did not want to speak until I knew I was okay. This of course sent my daughter into a tailspin of concern.
            My head hurt, my back felt weird, my mind raced from body part to body part; what hurts, what’s numb. I felt stupid. Visions of my head filling up with blood and bursting raced in and out of my brain. Am I conscious, yes?
            My daughter stood over me. “I’ll get dad, do you want me to get dad? Do you want me to get dad?” I wanted her stop asking me that question. I needed time. “Do you want me to get dad?”
            “What the fuck is your father going to do?” I snapped at her as I sat up.
            “Well don’t yell at me,” she said, “I thought you were dead.” She went back to culling through a box of dozens of college notebooks.
            She thought I was dead?
            What if I was dead and she ran and got my husband three flights down, found him out in the yard somewhere, told him what happened and they ran back in, back up three flights; he would have expired on the spot - maybe.
            I’m not dead.
            I wanted to tell my concerned daughter that yelling at a dead person for answers to questions which require a cognitive response seemed a bit non-ancillary to me. But I kept my mouth shut.
             I put my head in my hands and fought back tears. The tears were not from pain, but from the shock of the unexpected, and totally stupid, I was at fault, trauma.
            My head hurts.
            Though I have had only a few symptoms I’m sure I have a slight concussion. My body aches from the fall. My pride is as black and blue as my hip.
            I went back to the attic today, bumped slightly once, swore, carried on and did not bump or fall again.
            What does this have to do with writing?
            When I was flat on my back, recalling the sound of the crack, the fall, and hearing my daughter’s panicky voice - while I laid there assessing my body parts and before I yelled at her to not call my husband because he wouldn’t know what the fuck to do, I thought, I should write about this. 
            Isn’t it ridiculous that no matter what we experience, observe or feel, our first inclination is to document and share? 
            I shared.

1 comment:

  1. Glad you are not "dead" and will continue this journey you are on.

    ReplyDelete