Update: 8 march 2017

Sometimes my mind goes walkabout while my body languishes someplace forgotten.  The disconnect eats up my sense of time’s passage so that months or weeks elapse while the road seems still, making chronology seem a liar.

This isn’t, or wasn’t, one of those times.  I’m in pretty good shape this gone round.

I don’t recall when last I wrote regularly, and even if I were to look it up, the date would be meaningless.  Life is not an American high school history exam, the dates never matter so much as the ethos of their events.  As such, it’s pointless to dissect the calendar in a search for answers, because, without writing, my time is ephemeral, as my short term memory is rather shit.  I can tell you what life was like as a three year old, but I’m hard pressed to recall what yesterday’s breakfast contained.  My perception is built for the long game, for big ideas and long term recollection; for whatever reason the only minutiae that ever stick are spats of movie dialogue and biographies of fictional characters.

Having established my nature as something between Leonard Shelby and a cork at sea, the best course of action seems simply to move on, so on I shall move.

This weekend is the Philadelphia Flower Show, and while my business has been on something of a hiatus while I adapted to my new part time job, my interest in botany hasn’t abated in the slightest.  I’m excited for the show and look forward to the multitudinous displays and the many ideas they’ll give me.  I’d already planned to restart Thistlehammer Transmutational in the spring, and now is near enough.  I’ll take a few hundred pictures and a notebook full ideas home and into the studio, and with any diligence (the lack of which is my usual downfall, not luck; luck is like pneumonia, merely a description of a set of symptoms) I’ll rejoin that part of my life fully enthused.  At the very least, I’ll see some cool plants and have some good dumplings in Chinatown.

I’ve about hit the maximum word count for the internet’s mandated attention span, and as I’ve nothing specific to share I’ll end here.  My hope is to start posting more regularly, and I’ve some ideas for future posts that I think will be pretty cool.

I look forward to sharing them with you, soon.



An Unnamed Feeling

For two hours a subtle thought played repetitiously in my head, distracting me from the road.  It began as a sensation, remained as something like that, a proto-thought, the sense of something more that one has trouble describing to others but knows, in a self-contained, meaningless way, to be truly important.

I’d given the thought a form, came up with something clever as I drove the car in, around, and through an abnormally thick set of traffic along Rt 15, but the pithy thing fell away and I cannot recall it.

The sense has remained.

A strange sort of killer calm persists, has persisted through the day, back through the sunlight before it fled, through the meeting with my employer, over the hundred miles between here and D.C., back to last night, back before my departure, a night before my return, to some point between Wick’s start and the ‘monitor ready’ image displayed in white across the theater’s then empty screen.

I have no greater point as I have no explanation.  Life doesn’t work that way.  There’s rarely a narrative arc.

Twelve years ago I was certain I’d never go to college.  Instead I became a metal smith.  Five years ago I was so focused on jealousy and feelings of inadequacy at the contrast between me and friends my age that I could think only of finishing my undergrad somehow.  It nearly didn’t matter where.  Two years ago I was graduated and certain of going to grad school, again, somewhere, somehow, and becoming a novelist, a short story writer.  In between then and now I’ve vacillated on what I’d study, on how I’d manage it with four cats, a girlfriend already in school, and a family house to mind.

Now I’ve the satisfaction of an unlikely job with which to contend, and my plans seem like they’ll change again.

Maybe that calm is some new tact, a new tract of my mind’s trying to deal with big decisions by going to ground, digging trenches across my neocortex, and carving fox holes toward my foramen magnum  until all I can see faces inward.

I promise, despite the tone of my prose, I am happy.

In my way.

Bed Ridden, Kitten Encrusted

My brain’s screaming for production but my body’s holding back.  I’ve a thousand things to do, a complex hierarchy of their importance, that which comes inherent modified by the likelihood other projects may depends on their results, and I can’t stand to do more than an hour’s worth at a time.  The problem is, I can’t stand.

I tried two days ago, pushed myself to make use of the moderate decrease in pain, to finish as much as I could.  My reward was a sense that I stood in a tidal lake of pain, the sea slowly coming in, crawling up my ankle to wet my calf.

Yesterday I worked more diligently, spent the first half of the day prone, spent the latter half half-seated, forcing frequent breaks and demanding a quieter sort of production than my normal aggressive tac.  My reward was further excruciation that evening and an inability to sleep last night, drowsiness further delayed by the bad boops’ attempts at piscecicide sometime between deep dark and false dawn.  This morning, I do not recall; I woke up at three.

This is the worst attack of blood acid-crystalization* I think I’ve had.  I’m triple medicated and double folk remedied, and still my foot can bare my weight for no more than a few minutes at a time.  I consider myself someone with a high tolerance for pain: I spent an active month with a cracked hip and slipped epithesis before a routine doctor’s visit sent me to surgery; I’ve broken two ribs, and most of my toes at least once over the course of my martial career, none of which deterred me from class more than a week; I’ve been burned, stabbed, smashed, and cut by every sharp and blunt instrument in the house and available to modern medical science, with and without analgesics,  and none have broken me.  It shocks me, given all that, that this attack should so bereave me of my ability to stand.

Without standing, using my work bench, hammer, and chisel a bit difficult.  With not having my weight on my feet I’m disallowed the use of anything but my shoulders and arms to work and one loses a great deal of power and control when he’s seated.  Worse now, is that the pain persists while I’m seated.  The only positions in which I seem to find any relief are when I’m seated in bed, or lying down.  I’ve been bed-ridden before.  There were years in my life during which I was more constrained to a hospital bed than I was on my feet.  As such, I chaff more at the restriction than might some others.  You’d think I’d be prepared, that I’d’ve learned some sort of method of entertainment to cope with mattress imprisonment, and I have, but I exhausted them so thoroughly seventeen years ago that the mere reminder of them is enough to make me antsy, just in the way the smell of PA Dutch cafeteria food is so well associated with nauseous chemistry that cheap kitchens set in local grocery stores passed still make me ill.

I’ve little choice but to continue on in bed.  The pain remains a constant hum, so concentrating well enough to read is difficult.  If not for that, I’d look forward to the excused time off as a chance to catch up on the feet high backlog of texts I’d meant to ingest.  My new tools need tuning up, but I’ve watched enough youtube videos on how best to do so that anymore of them merely make me anxious to start rather than acting as a vicarious amelioration.  Kung fu is right out, disappointing as I’d just started back, doubly disappointing because we’re working on a staff form now, one of my favorite weapons.  So too are walks, pokemon or otherwise.  Try as I might, I cannot decipher an alternative to bed rest.  If only I knew that it were doing any sort of good, at least then I could view the act itself as some sort of productivity.  As of now, I know only that it hurts too much to stand.



*This sounds so much better than "gout," relaying both the truth of structure and the truth of feeling this attack inspires, devoid of the pejorative "fat man's disease" connotation.