I am quite aware – if you share anything within the internet clouds, it stays in those invisible clouds – forever.
But, I want to share a rather humiliating experience from yesterday, as it was equally humorous – it just depends on your perspective.
I’ll explain further, but first, keep in mind, my first published novel was Bobby’s Socks – it taught me a lot about me.
And it taught me about what ‘freedom of speech’ really means.
The pasted photo was of Norman Rockwell, as he was creating the actual painting, Freedom of Speech.
It’s a wonderful thought-provoking work-of-art, as you examine the painting, you realize the fictional man was saying something to the fictional crowd, as you note the fictional characters expressions nearby him.
Ever wonder what the fictional man was saying, or what was he about to say?
Have you ever stood up tall, erect, with your arms open, and said what you thought?
I think Mr. Rockwell’s paintings do all his talking, even today.
From time to time, I have gotten asked, “what’s Bobby’s Socks about?”
I’d explain it was a novel about child sex abuse, and the epi genetic link to suicide.
I think the operative sound, after I tell them the underlying themes, ‘crickets’, or, just a dead silence.
In fact, I had a movie producer out in Hollywood tell me, point-blank, he thought the story could never be made into a movie. I just grinned back at him.
The good news, I think Bobby’s Socks forever inoculated me from my fear to share my thoughts, and experiences.
I tend to be an introverted contrarian, so perhaps it took a bigger nudge from God than it might have for others.
Because, I don’t like to be noticed, but as I’ve aged, I’ve learned to manage myself, and push myself into uncomfortable situations. I’ve never enjoyed self-promotion.
Maybe I should bleach my hair yellowish, get an orange spray tan, and peddle real estate? You never know where that might take me, and my books? Naw, that would be sad, very sad.
At present, I’m attempting to get my novel, 5th&Hope published.
And, now that the editing phase has ended, after some encouragement, I’ve decided, on a regular basis to write out my thoughts, and share my life experiences using my website as the platform.
To my shock and surprise, my art, my joy, for the most part, I’ve received a lot of positive feedback.
I am honored, actually, I am humbled – that so many people wait for a quiet moment, and they’ll tell me, or write to me about their story.
I would like to think my books, my poems, my thoughts, helped them live a better life.
For that reason, I rarely use expletives – I try to use simple, easy to understand words about serious problems.
Many times I get a response along the lines, “thank you, I thought the same thing.”
I cannot imagine any better comment than, “you wrote how I felt, thank you.”
As to my humiliating experience…
Now, I have read with interest from social media posts, or listened to someone sitting next to me an airplane, or during a packed subway ride, or nearby at a restaurant – about their aches, pains and to paraphrase the Irish, their troubles.
I think happiness, joy, comes from how you view your life. Read me out…
Yesterday, I had a humiliating experience, yet, to me, it was an oddly humorous experience.
Since I am constantly typing, over the decades I’ve developed tendinitis in my wrists. Thankfully, it’s not Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, I’m lucky – but I still “feel the pain”, as Clubber Lang, might have said.
I would describe the feeling as like having my pinky fingers go numb, after an invisible troll stabbed my wrists with a hot knife blade. Sometimes, it hurts enough to cause me to cry.
In fact, I guess all my joints are now tiny intersection points for more pain or less pain, depending on the weather, as they lose their lubrication from the aging process.
The Aging Process, aren’t those soft words that read like governmental non-sense?
What they really mean, is – I’m getting older. That’s a good thing. I’m fortunate.
My skin has started to have noticeable wrinkles, and I sprout gray hairs in my nose and ears.
It drives me crazy to look in the mirror and not be able to wrangle those snaggly hairs. I have examined them, they are not like normal hair, they have a wickedness about them.
But I dutifully kill them off like an infestation from dandelion seed heads, but I know as I’m sleeping, they’ll return, next time in bigger armies to blanket my inner landscape. That’s life.
These days, I walk along the St. Petersburg city streets going, all snap, crackle, and the ever popular sound, pop.
And my body feels like, depending on its mood, an unseen anaconda that tightens or loosens its snuggle around my neck and shoulders. I guess it depends on how well its hydrated.
I’ll self-edit out the gastrointestinal delights, nobody wants to read about – them. But they are a fierce collection of gaseous creatures, and not to be underestimated.
As we drove back from south Florida, a friend recommended I get a massage therapist to work out my issues.
I thought that was a great idea, and I have a brand new facility within easy walking distance.
I checked them out, and appeared for my appointment.
First off, it was a really clean, with warm colors, calming sounds, all-in-all, a modern facility.
Anyhow, a sturdy young lady with several noticeable tattoos, wearing pale blue work scrubs showed me to the therapy room, we chatted a bit about my issues, and my hand pressure preferences.
She left the dark room that smelled of eucalyptus, backlit with low light with nature sounds for running water, or a rain with modest thunder.
I took off my clothes, got under the warm, velvety soft sheets. I snuggled my head onto the massage table face rest, closed my eyes, and then it happened.
It happened without any warning, as if I just snapped my fingers and bam!
I know I’m not the only person that gets these attacks.
I had what’s known as a – panic attack.
I broke out into a cold sweat, like I had run a mile in the summer heat.
I was disoriented, and well, you can imagine the rest.
Most of my life I have tried to manage my claustrophobia, my insomnia, and the like. It’s never been easy, I typically never sleep through the night – and yes, I can be really distant.
Mercifully, my massage therapist returned, and she talked me back down into the known universe.
She gave me a glass of water, and sat next to me as I worked through my own personal dilemma.
She simply asked me how I felt. In time, I calmed down. But, I was drenched in sweat.
She sat me down on a cushioned chair, and told me that I was not the first to flip-out on her.
For the next hour she attacked my aches and pains. And we talked about life.
My hands and shoulders felt better. I thanked her.
Now, that might not read like a moment with any humor, but as I sat there in my boxers, not briefs, wishing I was not so pasty-white, I smiled.
I thought, what if someone opened the therapy room door, what would they see, and what would they think?
I guess it all depends upon your unique perspective.