August 19, 2005

• The Afternoon After

  Back from the town trip, I’m back to the usual minimal function common
  to such times.  Why is it that Greyfox and Doug seem to anticipate
  these crashes of mine, and I don’t?  Could be euphoric recall, I
  suppose:  my mind’s just not wanting to remember from one time to
  the next what the last time was like.  That’s sorta like how we
  are about remembering the rigors of childbirth.  If women
  accurately recalled all that, we’d have a lot more one-child households.

  Really, euphoric recall isn’t it.  I remember a long series,
  decades long, of these fatigue-reactions.  I suppose it’s optimism
  or positive thinking that allows me to get through the active days
  without thinking ahead to how I’ll feel afterward.  While I’m on
  the go I am going on the assumption that I can keep on going. 
  Remissions have happened in the past.  It’s more pleasant and more
  productive to work on the assumption that the next remission is right
  around the corner.  That helps me maintain my will to live, and
  makes it easier to get up and go for the one or two days each week or
  so that I’m able to go.

  Apparently I’m not totally euphoric when I’m out there.  I kept my
  wits about me sufficiently yesterday to avoid committing myself to
  attending an SCA event this weekend, though I did prepare for it to the
  extent of searching the rehab ranch’s thrift shop for, and finding,
  something Doug could wear for a costume.

  I was eating my Thai chicken at a table in the deli section of the
  supermarket yesterday, when I saw a handsome blond young man watching
  me from across the room.  I wondered if I was throwing off vibes
  or a scent or something.  I’ve been feeling kinda sexy, have randy
  little undercurrent running in my neurochemistry.  Then the guy
  walked over and tentatively called me by the SCA name of an old friend
  of mine, a fellow freckled redhead we all called Scooter in her mundane
  persona.

  My eyes must have registered his mistake, for his next words were, “Are
  you Piasa?”  “No,” I said, “but I know her.  Haven’t seen her
  in years.”

  He gestured toward the chair across from me, I nodded, and he sat down.  He had
  recognized me, it turned out, but had just gotten my name confused with
  Scooter’s.  He can’t be as young as he looks, because I haven’t
  been to an SCA event for over 21 years.  We talked about the
  Trolls, the bunch of stoner fighters with mostly Viking personas that I
  used to hang with in the Society.  I told him a funny story about
  being called on to read some runes left behind by one of the Trolls who
  had done some electrical work in a house here in the valley, and he
  told me of the death of the knight who had many times been a 
  Baron of Eskalya and Prince of Oertha.

  When I was playing SCA, as Lady Faianna ni Kenneth na Dunlioscairn, the
  Matanuska-Susitna valley was the Shire of Selveirgaard.  Now it is
  the Barony of Selveirgaard, and this weekend the first Baronial Tourney
  will be held in Houston, between here and Wasilla.  When I told
  Doug about it, he expressed interest.  I want to go. 
  Something in that thought runs in harmony with that randy undercurrent
  in my blood stream.  The man asked me for contact information so
  he could call me with details.  I gave him my card and said that
  if he tells me when and where, I might show up.  No commitment.

  I already have a vague notion of where.  It’s a public campground
  in Houston.  There will probably be little SCA signs pointing the
  way.  If I rest and nap today, take ibuprofen to help me sleep
  tonight (that’s the strongest drug I take and I use it infrequently),
  maybe I’ll go.  Yesterday I was considering taking the old
  pavilion down this evening, and setting up to stay the whole
  weekend.  Today, I’ve reconsidered.  It would be less costly
  in both energy and site fees to make just a brief appearance tomorrow.

  At last night’s meeting I got further confirmation of the randy vibe
  I’m projecting.  During the meeting, as we passed around a
  birthday medallion one man held my hand unnecessarily long and actively,
  and after the meeting another man, a visitor from the city, thanked me
  for sharing and asked me to repeat my name.  Just when I get to
  thinking I’m too old for all that, something inside comes back to
  life.  Go figure.  I can’t blame it on spring.  I’m
  baffled.
  

  • 5:51 pm
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