Tuesday, February 4, 2014


They said the pain was from some kind of infection, some kind of bacteria, when I get home I realize all my symptoms are those of tetanus booster aftermath, the lump under my arm, the soreness and the way my bone hurts.Googling one's diagnosis is generally a bad idea, though this time I wish I had. So I'm on some antibiotics, and they took some blood sample and my conclusions are less scary than they were even if I now feel like a grudging vaccination paranoiac because it really did freak me out how much it hurt. It's sore, but it's movable, nothing torn, I can still play guitar and do everything needing to be done, and spent last night curled up in blankets reading King Leopold's Ghost for class and marveling and the general creepery of humans.

I played music this morning.



  1. nothing like an undiagnosed illness to crank up the anxiety, hope things are subsiding a bit, hang in there the days are getting longer...

    When I think of my youth I feel sorry not for myself
    but for my body. It was so direct
    and simple, so rational in its desires,
    wanting to be touched the way an otter
    loves water, the way a giraffe
    wants to amble the edge of the forest, nuzzling
    the tender leaves at the tops of the trees. It seems
    unfair, somehow, that my body had to suffer
    because I, by which I mean my mind, was saddled
    with certain unfortunate high-minded romantic notions
    that made me tyrannize and patronize it
    like a cruel medieval baron, or an ambitious
    English-professor husband ashamed of his wife—
    Her love of sad movies, her budget casseroles
    and regional vowels. Perhaps
    my body would have liked to make some of our dates,
    to come home at four in the morning and answer my scowl
    with "None of your business!" Perhaps
    it would have liked more presents: silks, mascaras.
    If we had had a more democratic arrangement
    we might even have come, despite our different backgrounds,
    to a grudging respect for each other, like Tony Curtis
    and Sidney Poitier fleeing handcuffed together,
    instead of the current curious shift of power
    in which I find I am being reluctantly
    dragged along by my body as though by some
    swift and powerful dog. How eagerly
    it plunges ahead, not stopping for anything,
    as though it knows exactly where we are going.

    "Mind-Body Problem" by Katha Pollitt

  2. Robinson in ruins: