Not tremendous sleep. Let the dosage on the lion's mane slip. Got to be careful about that.
Last night had a minor return of what I've dubbed "the stabby-spikies"-- random flares of nerve pain. They're fallout from the wreck, I've decided. There's no way to diagnose this stuff, because it's a transitory phenomena. I've been learning how to cope for four years. The pains don't stay localized; they migrate. Yesterday when walking the pier it was like someone lit a tiny firework in my left buttock; later that evening it took up brief residence in the back of my left hand; the last time it visited it flew through the wiring of the right side of my jaw, like an electrified toothache.
Most of the time they're not significant enough to stagger me. I've learned how to suppress most of my physical reactions to the pain. Maybe I grunt under my breath. Sig notices, because he's known me for damn near a decade, and he's helped to troubleshoot some of the fallout. He's the one who suggested the lion's mane. Mainly I try not to let the stabby-spiky shit override my ability to enjoy life. In the immediate wake of the wreck it scared me. Like the tinnitus, just one of those things that says "You're not here to stay."
A body is like a house, and sometimes when you enter a room the light switch doesn't behave; maybe it's the bulb, maybe it's the contacts in the receptacle, maybe it's the contacts in the switch itself. I've lived in enough houses, and walked through the remains of enough houses, that I dunno, being sentimental... I never particularly liked the house I was born into. Family always said mine looked exactly like my dad's. I used to hate that. Now, when I look at it from outside, it's an okay kinda fixer-upper. I've modified it enough that it's me. So I guess the damage is me too. What's the alternative?
The only real problem with pain is, it's tiring. So yesterday I went to bed early, totally sapped. It's taxing to think about the work ahead, today. But at least it ends at 3pm.
Finished reading Fraction & Charretier's 'November'. Damned fine little crime novel. I liked it a lot. If you squint you can see Fraction's struggle with alcohol & pills in the margins. It makes me glad I'm not an addict: noticing the problems other creatives have / have had. I can't concieve of those lives, of the expense, of the frustration. Nor the Fear, which I've noticed in so many with the chronic substance tendency: the Fear that they've forgotten how to be themselves without the dope or booze or whathaveyou. I can't conceieve of living in fear that one day I'd have to get it together.
I mean, being afraid you've lost the fine motor control to make art with, being afraid your brain's been too shook to manufacture fresh memories properly? I can empathize with that, easy. But my fears are not Chronic Fears. Mainly I'm just afraid of having wasted forty-odd years. Because one day this house will not pass inspection, and it's the only joint I've got a lease on.
Apropos of sweet fuck all. I'm awake. It's still November. I'm not officially 49, yet. No pain so far. Let's go to the job & get it done. Think I'll stop by lighthouse park and see how many rabbits we can spot, before work. Sunrise over lake Michigan is one of the finest panaceas I know.
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