I had some nasty sciatica once. It went away for about 3 years--it's baaaaaaaaack!
I think that perhaps driving nearly 2,000 miles last week did not improve the situation but that was my choice--to spend time with peeps I like.
I gotta go to the gym and see if I can "spin" some of this out on the recumbent bike.
I got back here in Oswego and found about a foot of snow in my yard--and a nice "plow sundae" in my driveway. Moving that mess may have been contributory to my back pain as well. I think a snowthrower is on today's shopping list.
I was sitting in my 44 degree bedroom yesterday, sending a rant to someone, when I noticed that there was tapping going on that was not a.) my fingies on the keyboard or b.) my castanet teeth. I went over and tapped on the freshly rocked wall and was rewarded with the sound a skwerl makes when he's feeling threatened (I've heard it a bunch of times now and, yes, they were right to feel threatened). I whanged on the wall with a piece of 3/4" plywood (so's I wouldn't screw up the shitrock) and cousin treerat vacated the premises. When I went outside a few hours later I saw the spot he had found to gain access; a never completed bit of siding by the previous owner. Of course it was 12-16 or so feet off the ground on a gable rake. So, after shoveling not one, but two, small roofs I got out my tools and started removing the builder's felt (tarpaper) to see what I needed to do and guess what--the bastard was home! I rousted him again and then put 16" x 30" 28ga sheet metal panels all the way up the rake to cover the gaps (no more than an inch or two, but those ratbastards are supreme opportunists). If he comes back he's gonna need goggles and a cutting torch. A friend I was chatting with last evening said that she was told by an environmental police officer (they have the death penalty for littering here!) that killing the squirrels will never solve the problem as they just keep making more and expand into the vacant territory--he sounds like a goddamned treeratofascist to me, I wonder if HE can see Russia from HIS house.
I think I may have to start putting non-progress reports on the house in here, as well as photos--seeing as everything is hunky dory now that we have a sane president in the wings. Then again, I was just over at Ed Brayton's "Dispatches From The Culture Wars" on this thread:
Maybe it's not over even WHEN the fat lady sings or the "Rapchure" get's called on account of demand side lesberalism. Google "democommie" and follow the fun. There's over 330 comments and at least half of them are batshit crazy fundies and reichtards (is that a redundancy or cies)
Another day, another poem or two.
The following two pieces were written about the same time and I used to like having people read them back to back and watch their faces as they finished the "nice" one and then the "sick" one (their general take on the first and second, in that order).
That moment when you touched him;
I knew he was not your man.
The touch was soft, yet, not tender
nor, did it linger,
for another moment's warmth.
It was a simple courtesy, perhaps even a kindness.
It was not the touch of a lover;
not the touch of a true friend.
It was a gesture of grace,
a moment of thoughtfulness, one human aware of another.
"Excuse me, please." not, "Hey, you!"
This morning, like most, was a welter of confusion in the moment that I woke.
Then, I sorted out the imagined and the factual.
I realized I was alone, in the sense of not having you next to me.
I realized my adventure had been milliseconds of REM.
I realized I was still sleeping underground, a vampire in the cellar apartment.
A vampire who had chosen unemployment over the bad job.
You said I was sucking the life out of you with my nihilism, negativism and cynicism.
I have to admit that I was being pessimistic, a response I thought extremely logical, given the state of the world and our relationship.
I took the coffin of my self-hatred and went underground.
I hunger for the warmth and sustenance of living in someone else's soul;
I do not act on my hunger.
I sit here, unemployed, looking through the employment ads that call themselves, "Personals"
I read about a lot of rosy prospects, no mention of the work involved.
I read about the rewards that will come from blindly answering an ad with a letter that has a code instead of a signature.
They ask for a picture.
I can't send one--they would see the fangs
Bear in mind, these were written when I had been living alone--and not dating--for about 6-1/2 years. I'm not sure if I owe my sanity to my celibacy but there are several lucky women out there who probably owe THEIR sanity to it.