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May. 26th, 2007 12:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nonionayStill in pain, but it's a pain I'm forcing (or rather, which is forcing me) to be sweet, sensual and dramatic. There's a crow cawing eternally in the maple beyond my window. It's likely to drive me batty, but I'm unwilling to drive it off. Partly, I suppose, because of a superstitious admiration for the bird, and partly because it is familiar. I think there's actually two crow that reside out there, and this is part of their spirng mating rite. At least this time, they're not chasing the squirral back and forth across the roof-peak.
So today, this long, interminable day, is destined to be fraught with ritual and meditation. I'm forcing myself to alternate between sitting, lying and shuffling about the house. In fact, the first thing I did was to venture out to the corner for english muffins and caffeine. Right about the time the pain started, I bought two plastic stakes to post a no parking sign in front of our house. I took one of those stakes with me as a walking stick, and hobbled slowly away. Thankfully, I didn't suffer any of the random stabs which cripple me so badly for an instant.
When I got back (and the hill I dreaded walking up was like nothing. It was easier than usual, even) I curled up in my cozy comfy chair ("the sex chair") with an icepack at my back. I ate the bread and donuts and protein bar that I bought, and read the Catholic Encyclopedia I also bought during that ill-fated errand run which marked the start of my misery. After twenty minutes, I put the ice pack aside and walked in a triskeli pattern around my house, from the living room, through the kitchen (hereafter known as "Chauncey"), past my ladder and the porch door, and back through the living room, over and over while reading Paradise Lost. Ten minutes I did this, finally returning to my seat and icepack. For two hours I did this, alternating walking, sitting, reading, and meditating on life and my spiritual state. (My conclusion came to, "I'm in a state where my spirituality is so ingrained into my existence, trying to put it into words is pointless. So I should just shut up about it and go write some smut.") Eventually, a black jumping spider crawled out onto the ceiling, and I watched the twitching shape navigate my bumpy ceiling.
I believe in being grateful for every single thing that comes our way, and for my pain, I am thankful. It's definitely not the worst pain I've ever felt, it came at a good time (it's not like I had anything planned that I wouldn't be doing recuperating. Except Seamus' party. Sorry I can't make it. :-( ) And I get a THREE DAY ENDORPHIN HIGH.
That corner of my house is not ideal for meditation. Inevitably I found myself staring at Liv Tyler on the cover of the Lord of the RIngs movie, the "Beware of Dog" sign on Keffy's door, or the bright yellow "Tenant Parking Only" sign which I made and Keffy laminated. But I treasure every little bit of this house. Every layer of memory and muck piles up and creates a shell which I shape to myself and will someday slough off like a spider shedding its skin. That's why i won't toss rocks at the noisy crow (which, has apparantly stopped, for the moment.) Because of my masochistic stubborness to create my own existence. Like cutting, but with fewer razors.
I came upstairs, and lay in bed reading a chapter of Lolita. I already know the story, thanks to the magnificent Jeremy Irons movie, so it's a book I read occasionally, savoring the beautiful prose. So if this post seems overly ponderous and poetic, blame it on Milton and Nabokov.
Crap, now my foot is asleep, and Keffy's back. Time to be active.
So today, this long, interminable day, is destined to be fraught with ritual and meditation. I'm forcing myself to alternate between sitting, lying and shuffling about the house. In fact, the first thing I did was to venture out to the corner for english muffins and caffeine. Right about the time the pain started, I bought two plastic stakes to post a no parking sign in front of our house. I took one of those stakes with me as a walking stick, and hobbled slowly away. Thankfully, I didn't suffer any of the random stabs which cripple me so badly for an instant.
When I got back (and the hill I dreaded walking up was like nothing. It was easier than usual, even) I curled up in my cozy comfy chair ("the sex chair") with an icepack at my back. I ate the bread and donuts and protein bar that I bought, and read the Catholic Encyclopedia I also bought during that ill-fated errand run which marked the start of my misery. After twenty minutes, I put the ice pack aside and walked in a triskeli pattern around my house, from the living room, through the kitchen (hereafter known as "Chauncey"), past my ladder and the porch door, and back through the living room, over and over while reading Paradise Lost. Ten minutes I did this, finally returning to my seat and icepack. For two hours I did this, alternating walking, sitting, reading, and meditating on life and my spiritual state. (My conclusion came to, "I'm in a state where my spirituality is so ingrained into my existence, trying to put it into words is pointless. So I should just shut up about it and go write some smut.") Eventually, a black jumping spider crawled out onto the ceiling, and I watched the twitching shape navigate my bumpy ceiling.
I believe in being grateful for every single thing that comes our way, and for my pain, I am thankful. It's definitely not the worst pain I've ever felt, it came at a good time (it's not like I had anything planned that I wouldn't be doing recuperating. Except Seamus' party. Sorry I can't make it. :-( ) And I get a THREE DAY ENDORPHIN HIGH.
That corner of my house is not ideal for meditation. Inevitably I found myself staring at Liv Tyler on the cover of the Lord of the RIngs movie, the "Beware of Dog" sign on Keffy's door, or the bright yellow "Tenant Parking Only" sign which I made and Keffy laminated. But I treasure every little bit of this house. Every layer of memory and muck piles up and creates a shell which I shape to myself and will someday slough off like a spider shedding its skin. That's why i won't toss rocks at the noisy crow (which, has apparantly stopped, for the moment.) Because of my masochistic stubborness to create my own existence. Like cutting, but with fewer razors.
I came upstairs, and lay in bed reading a chapter of Lolita. I already know the story, thanks to the magnificent Jeremy Irons movie, so it's a book I read occasionally, savoring the beautiful prose. So if this post seems overly ponderous and poetic, blame it on Milton and Nabokov.
Crap, now my foot is asleep, and Keffy's back. Time to be active.
