My head is fuzzy and stuffed up. I’m weak. And I don’t want to get out there and do things, such as dancing and chatting. So I sit in the lobby bar with a morning coffee and reflect upon Bruceness. Gosh, I guess it can mean a lot of different things. Skilled and not skilled. Vibrant and almost comatose. Making meaning with other people and staying away from them. It’s all me.
How can I not want to dance? Go to tonight’s evening show? Pump iron at the gym? Well, actually it’s easy. I just want to write blog posts, read Golf In The Kingdom and lie on the beach towards sunset, when it’s cooler. All perfectly fine.
At breakfast, I watched a couple and their two young boys. Mom and dad took turns getting food. Dad made funny faces at the tiny kid in the high chair. Mom cut up his papaya and swished away the flies when they came too close. It was lovely to behold.
Last night, I watched a performance of Grease in the theatre. Sixteen months ago, I was enthralled in the same room, with probably the same songs and singers. This time I was pretty flat about it all, despite an inspiring performance from the two leads. A strange conversation entered my head: “Bruce, you seem to be devolving, not evolving. What’s happened to your spirit?” The answer is simple – I’m sick. I need to allow myself to be so. Sleep most of the day if that seems right. Stick to fruit and other non-greasy things at mealtime. Let go of creamy alcoholic drinks for a bit.
To be present in the moment rather than leaning forward to a “better” future – quite the trick, I’d say. This headache, for instance. “Hello.” Eyes that want to close. “How ya doin’?” Nothing to say to anyone. “Works for me.”
A light brown cat just walked through the bar. Someone made a purring sound. Ahh … maybe that’s it. As slow as I am, I can just watch life passing in front of me, look into some tourist and Cuban faces as they walk by, and watch the palm fronds wave in the breeze.
See you tomorrow.