LATE again. This is not because I got up while it was still dark, in order to go to the Dawn Service. I did set the alarm, and had all the best intentions, etc. My body, however, was having none of it.
I'M about to go all Self-help bookish. I loath those types of books with a passion, because of their simplistic, patronising bullshit. But out of desperation, i am going to try something.
I'M tired of being in pain, and over the past few weeks it'[s been getting worse. I won't bore you with details. Suffice to say that I wake up every 15 minutes because of the pain. Pain killers aren't heping. I'm knocking back the super-super Big White ones the doctor's prescribed, but all they do is amplify my tinnitus. This is what overdosing on painkillers does.
SO - I've started my New Age Crystal Sucking Plan. I'm am not going to use the word "pain" any more, especially when I'm talking to myself, or thinking about it. I am, instead, going to use the word "sensation". Hmm. That was an exuberant sensation. Gosh, that sensation was... sensational.
THE thinking is desperate, illogocal, and facile. It borders on superstition. Here's how it's supposed to work: if I stop thinking about it as p**n, then perhaps my reaction to it won't be as negative... therefore I may be able to cope a little better.
STUPID, right? But it's where I am right now.
MY baby 'pooter seems to have stopped picking up my wi-fi modem. Bugger. This means I can't blog from the Notebook... which means I can't cut n' paste the next chapter of Paper Heroes.
LISTENING TO: The Raconteurs, "Broken boy Soldiers".
READING: Greg Bear, "Mariposa". I note that most sci-fi that i'm reading is now American.
WATCHING: Nothing on the horizon.
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Sunday Scribbles XXVI
Ain't it just a kick in the pants? Good news one week, bad news the next. I still haven't got the thing sorted in mymind, but at least I'm coming to terms with it. Adam and gabrielle seemed so genuinely happy at their weddin', just 16 or so months ago. I don't know the whys and wherfore, but at least they seem to be behaving well. I wish I could say that had been my experience, but I can't.
When I awoke this morning, it was to the tune of the Dr Who theme. I had been dreaming that I was in the Doctor's latest adventure. It was a Cybermen story, set in the bowels of the BBC itself: I had been invited to do a four hour mid-day shift on a BBC radio station, and the metalmen chose that time to invade. I was up for it, however, and vanquished the foe... with a little help from the Doctor and his sonic screwdriver.
I don't know how many people dream entire TV episodes or movies, but I often do. I remember them vividly for oh, an hour or so, then they fade. I should really write them down, but the fact is I'm busy right now writing other shit down. I'm working on a new project that's reallygot my blood fizzing. In fact, I'm going to spend an hour or three adding to it today. I have to say that it's about the best thing I've written in a long time: Jenny agrees with me, too - and that's important.
The cricket's on free-to-air TV, where it belongs, and we've had two thrilling games. At the end of the first innings yesterday I really didn't care about the final result (although another victory would have been nice..) because the standard of the Black Caps' fielding was so outstanding. I know you don't get any points for winning that battle, but if you did, yesterday's score would have been NZ1, Australia 1. Neither side batted well, but both sides fielded brilliantly. Best batsman was,of course, our Danny. Jenny and I have followed Vettori's career with glee ever since he was first capped.
Another perfect day in paradise. The weather's just superb. Might get to the beach today..
We're on hollerday, too: a week off. We're off to see Roland in Tauranga for a day or two: I'm looking forward to doing some body surfing at the Mount. I'll let you know how much of a dick I make of myself.
I have to say I'm tired of pain. Physically, I've been in a lot of pain over the past couple of months. I shudder to think what it would be like without the modern arthritis drugs. I shake my head in wonder at what my Dad must have sufferede: his arthritis was so much worse than mine.
LISTENING TO: Nina Simone, "Best of". YUM! I heard an interview with her daughter, who's appearing at the Art's Festival in Wellington (sob. Can't get there. Sigh. Weep.) and they played a couple of her tracks. Sorry, but it's not a case oflike Mother, like daughter. The daughter, who cimply calls herself Simone, is more of a WhitneybloodyHouston warbler. Very good, mind you.
READING: I'm on the last 100 pages of Stephen Ambrose's "D-Day". Reading the horrow of what happened to the American troops on Omaha Beach would keep anyone awake. By contrast, the others troops got away so easily. Thankfully.
WATCHING: Stephen Fry tonight.
RATS:
...when the grimmest news Amy had ever known had been brought brutally to her.
She'd since been around almost every day to check the mail, fearful that her beloved Arthur had heard her news. Jayne tapped the envelopes, and set them aside. She went to her telephone, and picked up the ear-piece.
“Nancy?” she called out. “Put me through to the Copthorne farm, would you?” Nancy, one of the town's three telephone operators, called back “Right away, Miz Jayne.”
The new Exchange, in the back of Jayne's General Store, was a marvel of modern technology. With it, Jayne could be talking to the Store-man at the big Farmer's Department Store in Auckland in just half an hour. It was, however, horrifically expensive: a two minute call could cost as much as three shillings. Local calls, however, were free – and the Copthorne farm was just on the edge of the small Exchange's boundary.
The phone was answered by Amy and Tim Copthorne's father, Ausgustine, with his usual gruff “Working.”
“It's Jayne, August. Good news.” Every time she called anyone in town she'd let them know straight away why she was calling. If she had news, she'd forewarn them. As Jayne saw all the town's telegrams first, she was therefore the first to know if there was any bad news from France.
“Good news? That'd be a change, Jayne.”
Four months ago, Timothy Copthorne, Augustine's flame-haired son of just 17 winters, had shipped out for France.
When I awoke this morning, it was to the tune of the Dr Who theme. I had been dreaming that I was in the Doctor's latest adventure. It was a Cybermen story, set in the bowels of the BBC itself: I had been invited to do a four hour mid-day shift on a BBC radio station, and the metalmen chose that time to invade. I was up for it, however, and vanquished the foe... with a little help from the Doctor and his sonic screwdriver.
I don't know how many people dream entire TV episodes or movies, but I often do. I remember them vividly for oh, an hour or so, then they fade. I should really write them down, but the fact is I'm busy right now writing other shit down. I'm working on a new project that's reallygot my blood fizzing. In fact, I'm going to spend an hour or three adding to it today. I have to say that it's about the best thing I've written in a long time: Jenny agrees with me, too - and that's important.
The cricket's on free-to-air TV, where it belongs, and we've had two thrilling games. At the end of the first innings yesterday I really didn't care about the final result (although another victory would have been nice..) because the standard of the Black Caps' fielding was so outstanding. I know you don't get any points for winning that battle, but if you did, yesterday's score would have been NZ1, Australia 1. Neither side batted well, but both sides fielded brilliantly. Best batsman was,of course, our Danny. Jenny and I have followed Vettori's career with glee ever since he was first capped.
Another perfect day in paradise. The weather's just superb. Might get to the beach today..
We're on hollerday, too: a week off. We're off to see Roland in Tauranga for a day or two: I'm looking forward to doing some body surfing at the Mount. I'll let you know how much of a dick I make of myself.
I have to say I'm tired of pain. Physically, I've been in a lot of pain over the past couple of months. I shudder to think what it would be like without the modern arthritis drugs. I shake my head in wonder at what my Dad must have sufferede: his arthritis was so much worse than mine.
LISTENING TO: Nina Simone, "Best of". YUM! I heard an interview with her daughter, who's appearing at the Art's Festival in Wellington (sob. Can't get there. Sigh. Weep.) and they played a couple of her tracks. Sorry, but it's not a case oflike Mother, like daughter. The daughter, who cimply calls herself Simone, is more of a WhitneybloodyHouston warbler. Very good, mind you.
READING: I'm on the last 100 pages of Stephen Ambrose's "D-Day". Reading the horrow of what happened to the American troops on Omaha Beach would keep anyone awake. By contrast, the others troops got away so easily. Thankfully.
WATCHING: Stephen Fry tonight.
RATS:
...when the grimmest news Amy had ever known had been brought brutally to her.
She'd since been around almost every day to check the mail, fearful that her beloved Arthur had heard her news. Jayne tapped the envelopes, and set them aside. She went to her telephone, and picked up the ear-piece.
“Nancy?” she called out. “Put me through to the Copthorne farm, would you?” Nancy, one of the town's three telephone operators, called back “Right away, Miz Jayne.”
The new Exchange, in the back of Jayne's General Store, was a marvel of modern technology. With it, Jayne could be talking to the Store-man at the big Farmer's Department Store in Auckland in just half an hour. It was, however, horrifically expensive: a two minute call could cost as much as three shillings. Local calls, however, were free – and the Copthorne farm was just on the edge of the small Exchange's boundary.
The phone was answered by Amy and Tim Copthorne's father, Ausgustine, with his usual gruff “Working.”
“It's Jayne, August. Good news.” Every time she called anyone in town she'd let them know straight away why she was calling. If she had news, she'd forewarn them. As Jayne saw all the town's telegrams first, she was therefore the first to know if there was any bad news from France.
“Good news? That'd be a change, Jayne.”
Four months ago, Timothy Copthorne, Augustine's flame-haired son of just 17 winters, had shipped out for France.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Pain
I was going to write about pain. But I also wanted to write about "Tuesdays with Morrie", the book by Mitch Albom. Then I realised that I could do both, at the same time. I've been putting off writing about the book, because it seems my opinion of it doesn't run alongside that of my wife, and other important people. Like the rest of the reading world, apparently.
The pain I was going to write about is of the physical kind. My arthritis has been kicking up a bit of late, and I've gone a few nights without sleep. Lying in bed, vainly trying to get comfortable, and knowing exactly where my hips and shoulders are at all times because of the molten rock that seems to have replaced the bones becomes a time of deep reflection. One reflects on pain, frustration, pain, discomfort, pain, and pain.
And so the mind swings mightily between pain's casual aspects, and pain's deeper and more meaningful sides. We'll start with the insignificant, and move on to the profound. Small, now: the disappointment and emotional ache that strikes you when you open a pack of potato crisps, only to find that they've been reduced to potato crumbs. Insignificant indeed, but it not to be discounted. If your daily life consists of one hundred and forty figurative packs of potato crumbs, one after the other, you're gonna hurt a lot. The death of a thousand cuts.
Then there's the emotional pain described in "Tuesdays with Morrie", and the intellectual pain the book caused me. Words like cynical manipulation occurred to me, but I have an awful feeling that Mitch was sincere. The whole books reads like a sports-writers efforts to avoid using cliches. Actualloy, it is a book by a sports-writer trying to prove that his lexicon includes more than the five great sporting cliches. Let's be fair, though. The book does describe, quite well, the pain an individual feels when someone s/he knows, loves, and admires is being torn apart by a debilitating illness. Where it goes wrong is in trying to build the dying man up as a reincarnation of Ghandi, Christ, Lenin, Lincoln, and Guevara. Morrie was a simple old professor of Sociology who didn't hold with post-modern consumerism. I happen to think his mind and heart were in the right place, but he was, ultimately, an unsuccessful teacher. He may have led by example, by it seems he had only one disciple: the ever ruminant Mitch. What I'd like to know about Mitch now is this: how big is your TV, Mitch. And how many do you have?
On to significant pain. A few years back my arthritis doctor asked me to grade the daily pain, a score of 1 being minor, 10 being the kind of spiritual and physical pain that makes one question his or her blasphemous atheistic point of view. I said that what I felt then would score a solid 6: the sort of pain that would move me to the over-use of four letter words. They say you forget pain, but you don't. Well, I don't, anyway. Nowadays, if I were to answer the same question, I'd say, yep, 6. And reflect that a few years ago i didn't know diddly about pain.
Frankly, I don't know how my father survived the way he did. His arthjritis was so much more severe than mine, and I have to wonder if I have the courage to live as cheerfully as he did. Still, when all is said and done, it is only a physical experience: it passes, and these are just a few bad days. I have an enormous number of good ones to come.
I can't allow myself to be ruled by pain. But I can try and let it teach me something. The main thing I've learned from the past few days is that I really don't like severe pain.
READING: Robert B Parker's "Appaloosa". A Western. The language is dry and sparse, elegant, and stirring. Thoroughly enjoyable.
LISTENING TO: Jackson Browne, "Time The Conqueror". He's grown up.
WORD OF THE DAY: Drugs. I love them. Especially the pain killing kind. All I have to do is remember to take the damn' things.
MORE HENRY
Adam ducked and spun and turned and reached and talon-fingers grabbed and gripped and stripped the ball from his opponent, and then he ran.
He ran. On legs as leaden and heavy as punching bags, with the wind rasping and scraping at his throat, the mud and the blood clinging to his boots, he ran and he dared not turn. He heard the yells and the shrieking and the cheering of his home crowd, he heard the blood roaring in his ears, he heard angelic choirs shouting hosannas, he heard his Mother yelling as she ran up the other side of the field, he heard a heavy footfall crash crash crash behind him, he heard the grunting and strain of someone else, an enemy behind him, and he stepped off his right, side-stepping dangerously wide, crash crash behind him, and nearly going over, and there was the sideline, a blur of white and he’s been running for an age, an eternity, civilizations have risen and fallen since to grabbed the ball, and oh god won’t someone take this burden from me, the ball a golden leather trophy tucked under his arm, a chain-weight of glory clasped to his chest, and the ground is sucking at his feet and the drool runs from his lips and down his chin and sweat slaps at his eyes blurring his vision and only 8 seconds have past and he’s an old man, leaden legs driving, lungs heaving, throat screaming, his face a rictus of pain and death and hope and love and he hears a grunting cry as he feels a despairing hand tap at his heel and his left boot goes behind his right ankle but it’s too late too late and he crashes over the try-line and the ball, the precious ball, the burden that he’s carried since time began was between him and the grass, and the try is scored.
And once again, the game is won with a Talbot playing. And the Talbot in question lies still, hearing the thunder of his blood and the heaving of his lunngs and his Mother’s there, kissing him and crying and laughing and cheering and sobbing and screaming and he looks over and there’s his Dad, there’s Henry Talbot, and his Dad’s smile outshines the sun, and Adam knows that it has all been worthwhile.
What was it that made Henry the man he is? Often, it’s nothing more than the actions of the people he loves.
Chapter
Black Beauty
The horse stood at sixteen hands, and was jet black from fetlock to crupper, from crop to crapper.
The pain I was going to write about is of the physical kind. My arthritis has been kicking up a bit of late, and I've gone a few nights without sleep. Lying in bed, vainly trying to get comfortable, and knowing exactly where my hips and shoulders are at all times because of the molten rock that seems to have replaced the bones becomes a time of deep reflection. One reflects on pain, frustration, pain, discomfort, pain, and pain.
And so the mind swings mightily between pain's casual aspects, and pain's deeper and more meaningful sides. We'll start with the insignificant, and move on to the profound. Small, now: the disappointment and emotional ache that strikes you when you open a pack of potato crisps, only to find that they've been reduced to potato crumbs. Insignificant indeed, but it not to be discounted. If your daily life consists of one hundred and forty figurative packs of potato crumbs, one after the other, you're gonna hurt a lot. The death of a thousand cuts.
Then there's the emotional pain described in "Tuesdays with Morrie", and the intellectual pain the book caused me. Words like cynical manipulation occurred to me, but I have an awful feeling that Mitch was sincere. The whole books reads like a sports-writers efforts to avoid using cliches. Actualloy, it is a book by a sports-writer trying to prove that his lexicon includes more than the five great sporting cliches. Let's be fair, though. The book does describe, quite well, the pain an individual feels when someone s/he knows, loves, and admires is being torn apart by a debilitating illness. Where it goes wrong is in trying to build the dying man up as a reincarnation of Ghandi, Christ, Lenin, Lincoln, and Guevara. Morrie was a simple old professor of Sociology who didn't hold with post-modern consumerism. I happen to think his mind and heart were in the right place, but he was, ultimately, an unsuccessful teacher. He may have led by example, by it seems he had only one disciple: the ever ruminant Mitch. What I'd like to know about Mitch now is this: how big is your TV, Mitch. And how many do you have?
On to significant pain. A few years back my arthritis doctor asked me to grade the daily pain, a score of 1 being minor, 10 being the kind of spiritual and physical pain that makes one question his or her blasphemous atheistic point of view. I said that what I felt then would score a solid 6: the sort of pain that would move me to the over-use of four letter words. They say you forget pain, but you don't. Well, I don't, anyway. Nowadays, if I were to answer the same question, I'd say, yep, 6. And reflect that a few years ago i didn't know diddly about pain.
Frankly, I don't know how my father survived the way he did. His arthjritis was so much more severe than mine, and I have to wonder if I have the courage to live as cheerfully as he did. Still, when all is said and done, it is only a physical experience: it passes, and these are just a few bad days. I have an enormous number of good ones to come.
I can't allow myself to be ruled by pain. But I can try and let it teach me something. The main thing I've learned from the past few days is that I really don't like severe pain.
READING: Robert B Parker's "Appaloosa". A Western. The language is dry and sparse, elegant, and stirring. Thoroughly enjoyable.
LISTENING TO: Jackson Browne, "Time The Conqueror". He's grown up.
WORD OF THE DAY: Drugs. I love them. Especially the pain killing kind. All I have to do is remember to take the damn' things.
MORE HENRY
Adam ducked and spun and turned and reached and talon-fingers grabbed and gripped and stripped the ball from his opponent, and then he ran.
He ran. On legs as leaden and heavy as punching bags, with the wind rasping and scraping at his throat, the mud and the blood clinging to his boots, he ran and he dared not turn. He heard the yells and the shrieking and the cheering of his home crowd, he heard the blood roaring in his ears, he heard angelic choirs shouting hosannas, he heard his Mother yelling as she ran up the other side of the field, he heard a heavy footfall crash crash crash behind him, he heard the grunting and strain of someone else, an enemy behind him, and he stepped off his right, side-stepping dangerously wide, crash crash behind him, and nearly going over, and there was the sideline, a blur of white and he’s been running for an age, an eternity, civilizations have risen and fallen since to grabbed the ball, and oh god won’t someone take this burden from me, the ball a golden leather trophy tucked under his arm, a chain-weight of glory clasped to his chest, and the ground is sucking at his feet and the drool runs from his lips and down his chin and sweat slaps at his eyes blurring his vision and only 8 seconds have past and he’s an old man, leaden legs driving, lungs heaving, throat screaming, his face a rictus of pain and death and hope and love and he hears a grunting cry as he feels a despairing hand tap at his heel and his left boot goes behind his right ankle but it’s too late too late and he crashes over the try-line and the ball, the precious ball, the burden that he’s carried since time began was between him and the grass, and the try is scored.
And once again, the game is won with a Talbot playing. And the Talbot in question lies still, hearing the thunder of his blood and the heaving of his lunngs and his Mother’s there, kissing him and crying and laughing and cheering and sobbing and screaming and he looks over and there’s his Dad, there’s Henry Talbot, and his Dad’s smile outshines the sun, and Adam knows that it has all been worthwhile.
What was it that made Henry the man he is? Often, it’s nothing more than the actions of the people he loves.
Chapter
Black Beauty
The horse stood at sixteen hands, and was jet black from fetlock to crupper, from crop to crapper.
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