Nearly two on the ground, now. I should be able to walk by friday, perhaps without a limp by saturday. I’d initially had both times a day a head. I think, as acid needles drive themselves into the top of my foot with each heart beat, that I was being optimistic.
I’ve done less than I’d have liked to do this week. Yesterday I not only didn’t leave the house but I didn’t leave my floor. It was a strange sense, that of a bewildering sort of stagnation, when I realized I’d gone no more than twenty feet from my bedroom door all day.
Today I was a bit more active, but standing is difficult. My left crane and cat stances are getting a bit of work, at least.
I’ve started a dozen or so philodendron cuttings. I have about the same to do again tomorrow, likewise with the angel plant and the wandering Jew. I hope to have at least half of what I’ve cut rooted and developed enough for sale by november 21st. The conditions in the house aren’t ideal for cloning, so I’ll be happy if even a quarter takes.
I seem to be losing time. I don’t know how it’s gone, but it seems to have skipped. From then to there, from there to now. Fourth day of the week. I only remember today, pieces of yesterday. Not even all of today. Sitting too long makes one sedate, and an over dose of sedation often plays havoc with the memory. The brain, at least my brain, I haven’t peeked at yours, has a defense against tedium, at least in past tense. At some point, the recorder flips off. I imagine this is the case for most people or hyperthymesia wouldn’t be described as a disease, it would be the norm.
I’ve always had an engrossing imagination, especially when it comes to fiction. I despise over-describers, as I’ve often filled in a whole world from the odds and ends been written before the author’s gotten around to it. This could be cited as the primary impetus for my enjoyment and frustration at reading fantasy. What I imagine, not necessarily what’s been written, sticks with me a very long time. I still remember misinterpretations of novels I read in grad school, though I’d be hard pressed to tell you the names of more than a quarter of my graduating class, and only that many because said class was just sixteen and half the boys were called Matt.
Pairing a lack of external stimulus and Stephen King’s vivid short story writing, I’m having a great deal of trouble discerning the events of Skeleton Key and my mostly empty week while passively recalling. It’s as if time made a space that memories should occupy, without activity, those of the book fill in. It’s odd, not entirely unpleasant, but not entirely comfortable either. I think I could count the surviving protagonists from the dozen stories I read on a few fingers. Not even a hand.
This time the wandering is better anchored in my mind, physical rather than psychological. I can walk, now, with much less of a limp, though I think I’ve leached most of the salts from my system. My limbs feel heavy. I’ve got the eye twitch that used to come only when I’d smoked too many cigarettes, in the days I used to start with a stimulant and a depressant in attempt to create some sort of power-washed balance. It’s been years since I’ve had a cigarette. The twitch now mostly comes after hard work outs. I don’t know what Schwarzenegger was on (actually, given his commentary, I have a fair idea) but the inflated feeling after weight lifting is awful. I don’t know how one could soberly compare the sensation of being a human balloon animal with orgasm. Either he is, or I am doing something wrong with one of those.
Ramblings aside, I think I’m back. I’m not entirely sure where I went while I was away (not into one of Mr. King’s stories, thankfully), but I think my transience is at an end.
At least for now.
See you tomorrow for Friday’s Flash Fiction and Fortune Cookies.
Yes, the picture is a joke made from the context of today's post. Yes, I buried it. I just didn't think titling today's post "Mein Furher, I can walk" was the wisest of choices.