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her bloody eye

I tell people it’s part of an early Hallowe’en costume, but of course it’s not – my left eye is neon red, floating in blood, ghastly, vampirish. It exploded Monday night. I’ve had this before – a broken blood vessel in the eye – but always fairly small and fast to disappear. Not this; it’s getting worse, and there’s nothing to be done. I just have to be grateful I’m not in the middle of a film shoot.

Dr. Google says it has nothing to do with stress, could be caused by a sneeze or laughing – !! But I think it’s stress; when I’m tense my neck and face tighten and get rigid, surely this affects the eyes. Sunday was so insanely busy from morning to night without a moment’s pause, and then – I’m just generally overwhelmed these days, with teaching and editing work, the renovation plans which consume time, energy – and money, family events, my aunt’s estate, and winter coming which is a job in itself. “Lucky you have a lot of energy,” a friend said recently, and I do, but sometimes not so much. Not enough.

We’re all falling apart. Carole at the Y had bronchitis for three weeks. My longterm hairdresser – we go back decades – had a liver attack, went to Emerg and took 3 weeks off; the other day she had little strength, and so somehow cut my hair extremely short. I won’t say it’s TOO short because I adore her, but it’s short. So now, very short hair and a neon eye. Lovely. Luckily I’m 68 and absolutely no one looks at me.

And just to really cheer me up, there’s this:

Author Incomes in Steep Decline

A 27% drop in last three years suggests educational copying is devastating writers’ livelihoods

LOL! Let’s make merry!

An old friend from high school in 1965-66 got in touch on Wednesday – in town from Halifax for a meeting – so he came over for a glass of wine and eventually supper. He was nice 53 years ago, and he’s nice now; it was great to see him. And he didn’t say anything about my eye. Or my hair.

Grateful to my son who made the usual vast mountain of dinner on Sunday and then forgot to take leftovers home in containers, as he usually does – because I’ve been feeding the world with that dinner. Jean-Marc and Richard had the whole meal again with me, then my handyman John, then Jean-Marc alone, then my old friend, and twice, my beloved friend Bruce, who has come from Vancouver to stay for a week. And still there’s more – large vessels of mashed potatoes, gravy, Brussels. That’s the way to host – make one vast meal and eat it for weeks.

I’m reminded again what an exciting city we live in. A section of the Thursday Star tells us what events are recommended for the week ahead, and I read with anticipation the names of some of the bands I could go to see at local clubs: Dying Fetus is one that sounds particularly enticing, but there’s also Genocide Pact, Wage War, Suicideyear, The Dose, Leprous, Gatecreeper, Knuckle Puck, Shotty Horroh, and My Coma. And also, Schumann’s Piano Quintet. Hmmm. I wonder which I, invisible old fart that I am, should choose.

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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