“Oh, you’re a good bleeder!” She smiled approvingly as she said it.
Yeah, well, maybe – but I was glad I was reclining in one of those comfy chairs at the Red Cross on Friday squeezing a little squooshy ball instead of lying in the back of an ambulance where being a “good bleeder” would put me at a definite disadvantage.
Context is everything.
I’d actually thought the same thing (about context, not ambulances) when I gave blood three months ago as well. It was Friday, October 30. People came to work in costume, as they do in lots of places. No big deal. But even though I’m pretty cool – sanguine, even – (sorry) with vampires, I have to admit that having my blood drawn by Dracula was very unsettling. So, yeah, context is important. Good to remember when writing. Or just about anything.
What pisses me off (okay, one of the things that pisses me off – the other is that the stupid football game went waaaay past 9 PM and by the time it was finally over, I’d missed most of Emma and now I’ll have to watch it on a tiny screen) is that early Sunday morning I woke up thinking about the blood incident and I had this clever, insightful narrative playing in my head. Did I get up and write it down? Of course not, and so more than 24 hours later I’m trying to recall it and can’t, and I’m stuck with what I wrote above instead of that possibly brilliant passage.
But I do have one teeny tiny confession about those brilliant words we think we put together in that early morning dream world. I came up with a poem last week when I woke before dawn and realized that it had finally stopped raining. I remember thinking at the time it was clever and to the point. Unfortunately, I also remembered it verbatim. Please, my friends, promise you’ll think more about my bravery in posting this than the vapidity of the poem itself:
Really – I thought it was clever at the time. So sometimes it’s just as well that I don’t remember what I’m thinking at 5 AM.