And the word came down today that my surgery will take place next Monday, the 28th. I'll go into the hospital on Sunday morning. Now would be a great time to write the critical surgery/closer to God post. But I respect God too much for that. Myself, too, for that matter. You might think it would be different if I were lying in a critical care unit with cancer or something, but I wouldn't count on it. My faith is pretty strong, or rather my lack of it. I'm sure this will be labeled by some as impiety, but it isn't. It's simply acceptance, which may be the most pious act of all.
Also, I've just come from my friend's restaurant where we sat around before opening, drinking wine and eating "tartina", arguing over how to make the perfect meatball. It's pretty hard to take yourself too seriously after something like that. And in case the significance of this is buzzing over your head like a B-52, nothing in Italy is more serious than food ('cept maybe coffee) and few foods are as serious as meatballs. Spaghetti and meatballs is an aberration developed by Americans. Meatballs (polpetta) are meant to be eaten for their own sake, so they must be firm and flavorful, but not rubbery. What I came away with was not my life as a meatball, but rather that the secret is in the way you squeeze the milk out of the bread before mixing it with the meat. I'll let you dwell on the significance of that for a bit. Laugh if you want, but I'm sure the subject has come up more than once in one of the many confessionals peppered around town.
There is also my bf to consider. That I love him is an understatement. He's handsome, of course, has a lithe, lean body, is gentle and at the same time one of the most masculine men I've ever met and not just because he carries a knife. But he's also amazingly down to earth and that also makes it hard to take yourself too seriously. A French Christmas is a very private, family affair. The idea of friends dropping in for a cup of good cheer is intended for New Years, not Christmas. So we've decided that he doesn't need to come down on Monday. I want him to be with his family and I'll be doped up, so I don't see the point of his coming to a strange city to stay in a half dis-mantled house.
We talked this afternoon. I wondered how he was going to feel about a star-shaped scar as big as my hand in the middle of my chest. My perfect pecs. His reply was to furiously hurl url's for porn sites across the screen (talking on skype, if that makes sense). JP is nothing if not bluntly eloquent. His scars made no difference to me; is he any less in love? Privately, through mutual friends, I know he's told everyone that he's totally stressed about the surgery, but I know he'd never admit it. He's flippant with me in the hope I don't take the matter too seriously. It's not a momentous thing. This is the same reason he didn't want me coming to the hospital after his accident. It was nothing. A scratch. A flesh wound. Though it nearly killed him. Now, we'll make perfect warrior book-ends.
So, yeah, just a walk in the park...
O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!
To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!
To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with
perfect nonchalance!
To indeed be a God!
Walt Whitman/Song of Joys
Image: "Backlight" by muchlikefalling (http://muchlikefalling.deviantart.com/art/Backlight-36016894) I highly recommend this artist's work He has some remarkable images to share.
