There had to be a first time eventually. This month marks the first time that the band Marillion has come to the US on tour that I have not gone out of my way to get to a show somewhere. I've flown from North Dakota to Colorado to see them. I've closed my eyes and let the Mr drive 100 mph up I-95 (and I didn't screech a single time) to get to a show on time in Alexandria, Virginia when he had to be at work until 5 pm in Fayetteville, North Carolina. I got VIP treatment to see their old lead singer perform solo at the House of Blues on Sunset in LA. And for twenty years, I've had recurring nightmares that they had concerts in whatever town I was living in, and I didn't find out about it until the show was already starting, so I almost missed it. Now, for the first time ever, I have had to let a tour go past me. The closest show to me is in Dallas, which is something like a thousand miles away. I can't drive that far by myself anymore. I don't have the fortitude to sit in an airplane seat right now, and let the pain of swelling destroy my ankles and feet even more than they're hurting already these days (I can barely walk). And the concert is on Mr S-P's birthday, and I would like to stick around and needle him as he hits the same milestone I passed back in October. So with great sadness, I had to accept that I wouldn't be attending a show this time out. That is not to say I'm ignoring the postings of other fans, who have gone against the express wishes of the band, and put up videos surreptitiously recorded at the shows. I know the guy who runs a large fan group on Facebook (know in the sense that he and his wife were in my fantasy football league that grew out of a small Yahoo group of fans of the band), and I fully expect him to yank the videos down, since the band made a point of saying don't do it. I watched them while I could, a fifteen second clip of the guitar solo from Kayleigh, and a long spoken intro and full performance of the Mr's favorite Marillion song, Easter. I might have to fall asleep to the last big studio album, F.E.A.R. It's not lullaby music, but damn, was it prescient for the times we are living through right now.
Yesterday sucked. I had distractions to keep me from thinking about what was happening in our country, but I couldn't keep my mind off of it for long. I'm madder today, but feeling even less capable of changing any of it. Instead, I focused on my own little world, on Smith Park West only. I cleaned house in anticipation of having our regulars over for game night, and I brought Bumpy in for his 3 o'clock feeding and told him over and over how much I love him. His appetite is getting a little better since we started him on Prednisone, but he's still very thin and frail. He doesn't get to eat much at a time before the pressure of the tumor against the base of his stomach starts to cause him pain. A week ago I wasn't sure he would live to see another week. Now I'm allowing myself to pretend the tumor might shrink and give him extra time. I know pancreatic cancer doesn't work that way, but I am not ready to say goodbye to him forever yet.
We had several hours to act like sophomoric kids this evening. And we were as childish and gross as sophomores for almost all of that time. I shan't recount the coarseness of our humor in detail, but it was as bad as you think it was. And the whole time, my cats were swarming our group, jumping on the tables, walking through papers and dice, stealing chairs the second anyone stood up, and absolutely absorbing the game master's personal space. When our neighbor wanted to tease Harvey and spook him like he does with his dog Barley, I stopped him immediately. I know he thought it was funny, but I explained how differently cats react to threats, even pretend ones, than dogs. It's quite important to me that this crew is so calm and comfortable when outsiders come over to play. Growing up in Oklahoma, my cats were terrified of strangers. My friends barely knew what my cats looked like. In comparison, it is remarkable that mine now are accepting of a rotating group of maybe seven or eight people who come over all the time, plus Barley in the back yard and Sheba in the house when she visits. They might be annoying, but I much prefer cats who are quite literally "in your face" to ones who are under the bed at the first hint of change.
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