un/lucky

There's been an essay growing on the notion of luck.

It's a colony first spawned in the culture dish of that collapse: unlucky to pass out for four minutes, rushed to hospital; so lucky to have fallen in a safe environment (well, save for a corner of Michael's desk) among good people who showed great care.

Someone was sitting on my shoulder throughout.

I hate to think about the places where and circumstances in which that event might otherwise have happened ... but it must be done.

Mountain biking flat out down the side of a gum-filled hillside?
Too soft - that's a self harm scenario only.
Let's get to the guts of it: I've driven my grandmother through crowded streets.
I've driven past schools just before the bell.

I've driven Nixie to school ...

... there it is.



A month or so thinking I had a brain tumour - potentially malignant ... that's an odd one.
I'm coming to think myself lucky for having experienced that - for reasons I need more low tide shuffling to articulate.

Someone has been sitting on my shoulder throughout.
Hopefully they're still there when we hear more news on Wednesday.

... in the meantime I'm going to do those low tide hours and try to call on some training to cull a few pages from the essay, then post a few better crafted pars that look like they will lean to the spiritual.

Suffice to say, through all this, I feel strangely lucky.

Perhaps it's not much different to my cringe in a pharmacy yesterday at the whine of a woman (who looked like she'd been chewed up and spat out by Iggy Pop) at the "shocking" weather - with her water supply at 26 per cent. While we in Red Hill - on tank water - rejoice after a night of rain on the roof.
But then I start to write about perspectives and it starts sounding trite again.

I'll give it more seaweed and abalone shell since, hopefully, there's not the need to rush.