I have friend, he is a psychiatrist. He has a screen saver that reads, "You are only as sick as your secrets." It's funny, but it is true. There is a shift in the focus of this blog site. I have had several psychic experiences today, messages from my dream last night and the nickle on the floor when I asked for a dime to appear from the universe, but this is almost a tangent. This blog seems to be focusing on my greatest theme these days and that is , "Empty Nest Syndrome". I meant to blog about the Eric Clapton concert Tate and I attended 2 weeks ago but it is mid term for us college students and I am in the midst of re arranging my life. I am set to open a new Barber/salon on the first of November. I won't do it that day though, it's All Saints day and the following day is Day of the Dead, also Tate's birthday.
Secrets. Clapton. There is a brand new Jeffersonian arena, tickets are sold out to see this show in Charlottesville VA. Tickets average $100.00 per ticket, thousands of people. The concerts these days we attend as forty-somethings are so different than those of our more youthful days. Gone is the feeling in the parking lot that you have arrived at your destination and you have sacrificed and journeyed for days to get here. People show up in their Lexus SUV's after their shift at the hospital. They have had their tickets for at least a month. There is "no smoking" inside the arena, cigarettes or pot, and there really isn't. There are people running around selling bottled WATER!!! Bizarre, AND they have cell phones permanently attached to their hands and ears. Who are these people in the crowd? I have worked hard today, I am getting a bit older, I watch the show from my seat. This is also a new experience for me. What is a concert without dancing other than a huge rip off, but...no dancing allowed.
I started to really pay attention to the 10 piece band on stage. Of course, awesome, but I was getting too sad. I guess that's why they call it the blues, eh? I could feel the saddness of Eric Clapton's life covering me like Linus's blanket.This man, this icon, this genius has pain within his heart which is unimaginable. His son, when he was only 2 or 3 years old, jumped on the bed in a high rise hotel room and bounced on out the window,the bed was on the 20th? floor of the hotel. His son died. His pain flows through me, I cry, I want to go home. I count the rows of seats in the audience,the avg ticket price. Holy Moly, this man is making so much money off of this show; and I am SO MUCH MORE WEALTY than he will ever be, in spirit. My baby, my Wiley, when he was 7 years old, on the Ides of March, fell three stories off of a roof. He lived. Only 2 broken bones. One in his foot and one in his tailbone. I am the luckiest woman in the entire Universe! Way, way, richer than Clapton. I want to hold him and tell him how it wasn't his fault, I want to take his pain away; but I already have, and it wouldn't help.
You are only as sick as your secrets. Neither I nor Eric Clapton spend too much time talking about how "If only we had done this instead of that." It doesan't take the guilt or pain away. It just doesn't.