Countdown to ConChord

My Toastmaster gig at ConChord is now a mere three weeks away. And now that I have reasonably solid timings on QV and Wheelin', I can actually plan out my set list -- as long as I don't write anything new in the mean time. The probability of getting QV on a single is getting lower, but it's still non-zero.

Wednesday was fun. Colleen's friend Bev had to leave early, just after Joyce and Jordan arrived, but we managed to squeeze in her verse of QV, which she hadn't heard. Got the hoped-for reaction: shocked recognition, surprise, and laughter, in that order. Made of win.

Paper Wings [mp3] and Wheelin' [mp3] are coming together pretty well; the latter is especially not bad for having been written just this Monday. We also tried out Quiet Victories with all the extra verses (to date) and some audience participation on the ending. I'm still pretty much winging it there -- that and the intro need work -- but it is going to be flat flaming fantastic.

( aside to cflute and tibicina )

If I'm going to record Wednesdays on a regular basis for more than just scratch tracks, I'm probably going to need separate mics for the performers to get a reasonable mix with the drum.

This is your brain on ???

Fascinating visit this afternoon to TechShop, basically a co-op machine shop. Very cool! Unfortunately something there set off an allergy, big time. After a little while at work with a headache and slight dizziness that three aspirin did nothing to help, I came home to a couple of sudafed, a claritin, and a glass of gin. Still not in particularly good shape. Grrr.

Wheelin': Lookin' fierce and proud

When I wrote "With her lover right behind her lookin' fierce and proud" in the last verse of Wheelin', I wasn't just trying to fit the rhyme and meter, and I wasn't just trying to describe cflute, either. Not only does the world look different from a wheelchair, it looks rather different from behind a wheelchair, too. It was a little surprising.

I'd expected to be feeling a fair amount of resentment at spending my time pushing Colleen's chair, just as I occasionally feel a twinge of resentment at doing an extra chore at home when Colleen isn't up to it. It will probably happen occasionally, but so far the dominant emotions have been happiness and pride at doing something useful for someone I love. Happiness, too, at being with her instead of forging ahead at my own pace, or trudging along beside her feeling resentful at having to walk at a pace that's nearly as bad for my back as standing still. And I'm not complaining about the workout, either.

I feel a little bit fierce, too. Protective, and even a little aggressive. Normally, trying to get through a crowd of people, I'll stand still and silently wait for an opening unless I'm in a real hurry. Even then I feel diffident about asking. Pushing a wheelchair, though? Sorry, buddy, I have the right-of-way. And, line or not, I'm not at all shy about walking past it to the handicap counter in the airport and asking, politely but without hesitation, for assistance.

I see the terrain differently. Small slopes suddenly become important. I plan ahead: is that ramp steep enough that I'll have to go down backwards? Will I be able to get back up? I look for the curb cuts. Learn to go over door jambs backwards, or diagonally, rather than jamming both front wheels against the bump and getting stuck. It becomes a contest: me and the chair against gravity and geometry. Sometimes gravity wins; that's awkward.

There's no use complaining; that's just the way life is sometimes. What still surprises me was how little I find to complain about.