I find it really satisfying to make a meal like this. I used the last of the turkey I had in that package, the last of the broccoli I had at all, and the last of the rice I had in the tupperware. I think it's because I enjoy the aspect of cleaning where you throw things out and then you never think about them again. And then there's empty places where you can put ALL NEW THINGS!
I almost finished the vegetable broth. I went a little over-zealous, trying unsuccessfully to finish it. Now there's probably not enough to use again, but my dinner was a bit too wet. I do that a lot, though. I also came very very close to finishing off the garlic salt and garlic pepper, which I'm ambivalent about. Normally I use garlic, salt and pepper, but I ran out of garlic a week ago, so I'm currently doing garlic salt and pepper. I can't decide if it's efficient or sloppy to use the latter in lieu of the former. Also, I could never remember which meant what between in lieu of and in light of, but I just realized that I've known for five years that lieu means place in French. So I should be able to keep them straight.
There's still a lot of cheese and olive oil left. Oh well. I was inclined to call this meal very self-sustaining, but that's not what that means at all. What would a self-sustaining meal be? Like, a hummingbird's meal? And what words would describe this one, other than delicious? That's collective your collective assignment for the night.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
It Go's
I'm feeling very uninspired. I'm almost done with the first draft of this little novel, and I'm suddenly ery unsatisfied with it. It will need so much editing! That's okay, but I'm getting the feeling that, once I edit it, the end product still won't be that great. I'm so married to the characters right now, though. And the time period. I don't know what I'll do about it. Like, nothing is exactly coming together like it should. I bet you can take a marionette doll and lay it on the floor, and the strings will look all messy and it'll look broken and stuff. But then you just grab the little stick things and lift them up, and all of a sudden everything rises into place and comes together perfectly. I think there's a better object for that analogy, but I can't think of what it is. A kite? No, but kite strings have only been tangled in my lifetime, and my experiences therewith are few and far between. But that's what I want to happen, I'm just not really feeling like it will. Do I have too many different characters with storylines of their own that just won't come together? Or do I focus too much on a single storyline, such that any time I mention anything else it's a paltry detail, leaving the reader wondering "either this will tie back in to the witch thing, or it's absolutely useless."
I don't have any other ideas right now. Maybe I should take another look through the previous novel. I had a dream a few nights ago that someone told me Two Hours Without Nannette was the worst short story they had EVER read. It wasn't crushing or anything. Just, oh, okay, well thanks for the feedback.
I've had like five dreams about Latin. One time I was translating from Spanish to Latin. Last night a bit of Latin came up in one of the classes that my subconscious is taking, and I interrupted to say that Latin only has hard g's (which makes me laugh, now. All they g's is hard). And then I went into one of those diatribes that all of the smart but quiet kids dream about but also are really annoyed by, where I just took control of the class and started telling everyone about Latin. And they were all fascinated!
I've been sweating a lot lately. It's not winter anymore, but I was sweating yesterday, when it was winter. I'm drenched right now! Maybe I should stop drinking this ginger tea. I've only been drinking tea for a few months; what do tea people do when it's too hot to drink hot tea? Surely they don't switch to iced-tea, which is the most vile and shudder-worthy thing I can think of now, in my uninspired state. My difestion has relied so much on ginger and peppermint teas that I don't know how I'll survive.
I don't have any other ideas right now. Maybe I should take another look through the previous novel. I had a dream a few nights ago that someone told me Two Hours Without Nannette was the worst short story they had EVER read. It wasn't crushing or anything. Just, oh, okay, well thanks for the feedback.
I've had like five dreams about Latin. One time I was translating from Spanish to Latin. Last night a bit of Latin came up in one of the classes that my subconscious is taking, and I interrupted to say that Latin only has hard g's (which makes me laugh, now. All they g's is hard). And then I went into one of those diatribes that all of the smart but quiet kids dream about but also are really annoyed by, where I just took control of the class and started telling everyone about Latin. And they were all fascinated!
I've been sweating a lot lately. It's not winter anymore, but I was sweating yesterday, when it was winter. I'm drenched right now! Maybe I should stop drinking this ginger tea. I've only been drinking tea for a few months; what do tea people do when it's too hot to drink hot tea? Surely they don't switch to iced-tea, which is the most vile and shudder-worthy thing I can think of now, in my uninspired state. My difestion has relied so much on ginger and peppermint teas that I don't know how I'll survive.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Stop that
I'm reading Lies My Teacher taught Me. It's really good, but it's also getting me really worked up. It's about how kids aren't interested in history classes because our textbooks gloss over the interesting parts of history, and instead make it about facts that children have to memorize. They don't want you to analyze history--you're supposed to accept everything that the textbooks tell you.
But history isn't made out of facts at all! Everything is subjective, everything is conjecture based on evidence, everything is controversy. Was the Black Death the Bubonic Plague, or something else (hint: it's not Bubonic Plague)? Was there 10 million people living in what is now the US in 1492, or was there 1 million? None of us was there so it's impossible to know. And what makes it interesting is that it's discussable. You can have different opinions based on different evidence.
Did you know that Helen Keller was a radical communist? But we don't want people to know that because then how can she be an inspiration? Communism is bad, after all. And Woodrow Wilson? Total racist who was largely uninterested in progressive causes. Not only that, but he intervened in Latin America more than any other president. But we want to champion him as the man of self-sovereignty, a man who ushered in a new era of freedom. The point of the book so far is that by diluting and skewing history for our political motives, we take a lot of the point out of it.
If there's anyone who is at all interested in history, I would recommend it highly. And if you're not interested in history, maybe it'll change that.
But history isn't made out of facts at all! Everything is subjective, everything is conjecture based on evidence, everything is controversy. Was the Black Death the Bubonic Plague, or something else (hint: it's not Bubonic Plague)? Was there 10 million people living in what is now the US in 1492, or was there 1 million? None of us was there so it's impossible to know. And what makes it interesting is that it's discussable. You can have different opinions based on different evidence.
Did you know that Helen Keller was a radical communist? But we don't want people to know that because then how can she be an inspiration? Communism is bad, after all. And Woodrow Wilson? Total racist who was largely uninterested in progressive causes. Not only that, but he intervened in Latin America more than any other president. But we want to champion him as the man of self-sovereignty, a man who ushered in a new era of freedom. The point of the book so far is that by diluting and skewing history for our political motives, we take a lot of the point out of it.
If there's anyone who is at all interested in history, I would recommend it highly. And if you're not interested in history, maybe it'll change that.
It might be gross
I sneezed on my arm. Not a snotty one, just the reaction to a little tickle in my nose. So it was just spit that I sprayed everywhere.
I can't stop smelling my arm now. For as long as I can remember, I've loved the smell of my own dry spit. I think it might be my absolute favorite smell. Every time I encounter it, I have to experience it for as long as it is still there. I sucked my thumb well longer than I should have, and I think the smell was part of it. If I sucked my thumb now, think how much I could smell it later!
It's nice to know that I'll be going to sleep to it. Hmmm.
I can't stop smelling my arm now. For as long as I can remember, I've loved the smell of my own dry spit. I think it might be my absolute favorite smell. Every time I encounter it, I have to experience it for as long as it is still there. I sucked my thumb well longer than I should have, and I think the smell was part of it. If I sucked my thumb now, think how much I could smell it later!
It's nice to know that I'll be going to sleep to it. Hmmm.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
It's never as bad as it seems
I've been on the phone a lot over the last couple of days.
I'm going to have a full-time, eight week job, where I'll be making $15/hour. It is entirely fair and reasonable to assume that, by the time this ends, I'll have at least $3000 in my bank account. And with any luck, that places me just a few weeks in front of City Year, which I think will be the opportunity of a lifetime.
I'm now done with the draft of the first 2.5 chapters of The Indomitable Witch of Clives. That doesn't sound very impressive, except I'm also almost done with chapters 4 and 5, and I'm about a third of the way done with 6. Also, more importantly, there will only be six chapters total. Word or page count doesn't make a book, but double-spaced in Word I'm above 64,000 words and 196 pages. I haven't found nary a bite on The Selfsame Chime, but it'll feel good to soon have two entire novels finished.
It sometimes concerns me that I've written these so fast. The Selfsame Chime's first words were put to paper after I moved to Vacaville (in September), and considered done (although still open to editing) by New Years. The Indomitable Witch of Clives is work done almost entirely in 2009, and it seems mighty fast to be weeks away from having a draft done. That'll be almost three months for the former and little more than that for the latter. Something seems really wrong with that, when you consider that many successful novelists only publish a few novels in their entire life. Is it that they take years to complete a project, that they decide against publishing the vast majority of what they write, or that they are occupied with too many other things that distract them from writing? I suppose I have a bit of an advantage, as I'm writing of stories whose basest elements I conceived years ago. But I certainly wouldn't want to become someone who thinks he's writing heavy literature and is really writing throw-away romance.
It's still hard to get an outside perspective on my writing. Michael has an answer to almost every question you ask him. "Was there any part that dragged?" He'll come up with a part. "How did you feel about the character development?" He'll have someone who was developed very well and another who needed something. My mom can tell you if she liked it or didn't like it (although I doubt she'd tell me if she didn't) and can discuss it a bit, but mostly edits as a spellcheck. My dad doesn't want edit at all; rather, he wants to discuss ideas and concepts introduced by the stories. They're all very helpful and I really appreciate them, but it's like, how do I really know if I suck or not? If agents accept me then I'm good, if they reject me then I suck? But most agents I've sent in to only read the query letters, and they probably skim those at that. Or am I too stubborn to see the message the many rejections are sending me? Am I over-confident in my writing and therefore I can't see any subtle proof that it doesn't have value? I certainly am confident, but it's just very hard to know. Maybe it's really good stuff but no one will publish it in my entire life. Maybe someone will publish it and it'll be considered the worst bunk ever written. I'll probably self-publish if no one else will take me on. But until I have the capital for that, it's more and more writing, more and more witches of Clives.
I'm going to have a full-time, eight week job, where I'll be making $15/hour. It is entirely fair and reasonable to assume that, by the time this ends, I'll have at least $3000 in my bank account. And with any luck, that places me just a few weeks in front of City Year, which I think will be the opportunity of a lifetime.
I'm now done with the draft of the first 2.5 chapters of The Indomitable Witch of Clives. That doesn't sound very impressive, except I'm also almost done with chapters 4 and 5, and I'm about a third of the way done with 6. Also, more importantly, there will only be six chapters total. Word or page count doesn't make a book, but double-spaced in Word I'm above 64,000 words and 196 pages. I haven't found nary a bite on The Selfsame Chime, but it'll feel good to soon have two entire novels finished.
It sometimes concerns me that I've written these so fast. The Selfsame Chime's first words were put to paper after I moved to Vacaville (in September), and considered done (although still open to editing) by New Years. The Indomitable Witch of Clives is work done almost entirely in 2009, and it seems mighty fast to be weeks away from having a draft done. That'll be almost three months for the former and little more than that for the latter. Something seems really wrong with that, when you consider that many successful novelists only publish a few novels in their entire life. Is it that they take years to complete a project, that they decide against publishing the vast majority of what they write, or that they are occupied with too many other things that distract them from writing? I suppose I have a bit of an advantage, as I'm writing of stories whose basest elements I conceived years ago. But I certainly wouldn't want to become someone who thinks he's writing heavy literature and is really writing throw-away romance.
It's still hard to get an outside perspective on my writing. Michael has an answer to almost every question you ask him. "Was there any part that dragged?" He'll come up with a part. "How did you feel about the character development?" He'll have someone who was developed very well and another who needed something. My mom can tell you if she liked it or didn't like it (although I doubt she'd tell me if she didn't) and can discuss it a bit, but mostly edits as a spellcheck. My dad doesn't want edit at all; rather, he wants to discuss ideas and concepts introduced by the stories. They're all very helpful and I really appreciate them, but it's like, how do I really know if I suck or not? If agents accept me then I'm good, if they reject me then I suck? But most agents I've sent in to only read the query letters, and they probably skim those at that. Or am I too stubborn to see the message the many rejections are sending me? Am I over-confident in my writing and therefore I can't see any subtle proof that it doesn't have value? I certainly am confident, but it's just very hard to know. Maybe it's really good stuff but no one will publish it in my entire life. Maybe someone will publish it and it'll be considered the worst bunk ever written. I'll probably self-publish if no one else will take me on. But until I have the capital for that, it's more and more writing, more and more witches of Clives.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Not Today
They took out half of my stitches. Or, rather, they took out half of my stitches in the peripheral areas, and in the red-yellow middle parts they left them all in. I started with 19, they took out 7 and now I have 11. I don't know how that works.
I was waiting in the little chair in a curtained-off area for a long time. The stitches nurse wanted to wait for the wound nurse and my regular doctor to have a look. I love that wound nurse--she's this old filipina lady who is so cute and funny. She told me she didn't want to tape the bandage to my leg because I was very hairy. Also, she said not to get the "steri strips" (which is apparently what they put where stitches used to be) wet. When we asked if that meant no shower, she said "no, just spit baths."
I mentioned to the stitches nurse that I still had some numbness. She said that, because the nerves were cut, it might take a while for that to go away and *whispers ominously* it might never go away. But also to ask my doctor. He happily told me it was just a matter of time, and that the swelling was pushing on my nerves and it wasn't anything to worry about. Take that, stitches nurse! But I really liked her otherwise and didn't hold that against her.
It was the little place where people get vaccinations and TB tests and stuff. Needly things. I couldn't see the people who came in, but one middle-aged sounding lady marched in very loudly, complaining in a slightly jocular manner about how this was the one that hurt a lot and she was terrified. "Can I have like a leather strap or something to bite on while you do it?" She asked. I couldn't tell if she was joking, but I don't know that I'd joke to a complete stranger that when I think pain, I also immediately think of biting and leather. Also, it ended up not hurting at all, by her admission. But she told the nurse to inform the doctor that it was awful, very painful and such, and the needle broke, and a lot of blood, but that she handled it well. I'm sure the nurse really wants the reputation for screwing up routine shingles or something vacs.
I'm sleeping under the quilt that I held to the wound in the car. That quilt was once sort of annoying to me because it was in the car ALWAYS and just took up room. It was covered with little leaves and twigs and branches and stuff, so it was totally unusable, making it completely in the way. So I found a use for it and an excuse to make someone else wash it. Although now I'm starting to wonder if it's not bruising, but leaves and twigs and dirt pressing on my nerves and keeping the area around my knee numb.
I was waiting in the little chair in a curtained-off area for a long time. The stitches nurse wanted to wait for the wound nurse and my regular doctor to have a look. I love that wound nurse--she's this old filipina lady who is so cute and funny. She told me she didn't want to tape the bandage to my leg because I was very hairy. Also, she said not to get the "steri strips" (which is apparently what they put where stitches used to be) wet. When we asked if that meant no shower, she said "no, just spit baths."
I mentioned to the stitches nurse that I still had some numbness. She said that, because the nerves were cut, it might take a while for that to go away and *whispers ominously* it might never go away. But also to ask my doctor. He happily told me it was just a matter of time, and that the swelling was pushing on my nerves and it wasn't anything to worry about. Take that, stitches nurse! But I really liked her otherwise and didn't hold that against her.
It was the little place where people get vaccinations and TB tests and stuff. Needly things. I couldn't see the people who came in, but one middle-aged sounding lady marched in very loudly, complaining in a slightly jocular manner about how this was the one that hurt a lot and she was terrified. "Can I have like a leather strap or something to bite on while you do it?" She asked. I couldn't tell if she was joking, but I don't know that I'd joke to a complete stranger that when I think pain, I also immediately think of biting and leather. Also, it ended up not hurting at all, by her admission. But she told the nurse to inform the doctor that it was awful, very painful and such, and the needle broke, and a lot of blood, but that she handled it well. I'm sure the nurse really wants the reputation for screwing up routine shingles or something vacs.
I'm sleeping under the quilt that I held to the wound in the car. That quilt was once sort of annoying to me because it was in the car ALWAYS and just took up room. It was covered with little leaves and twigs and branches and stuff, so it was totally unusable, making it completely in the way. So I found a use for it and an excuse to make someone else wash it. Although now I'm starting to wonder if it's not bruising, but leaves and twigs and dirt pressing on my nerves and keeping the area around my knee numb.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
12:15
My doctor is so nervous. It's weird going to the doctor and having him be more nervous than you are. Not that I'm regularly nervous about it in the first place, but still. He's nervous. Nervous nervous nervous.
I'm getting my stitches out on Friday. If my leg looks good. But my legs always look good.
The last time I had anyone identify me as his/her "best friend" was Marie, during sophomore year. And even though I liked her and was glad to be there for her, she was much too needy and I never felt like the friendship was reciprocal enough for me to reciprocate with best friend status. I guess that means that my last true best friend was Dale, in fifth grade. But I don't think we ever really used the term, so I don't know if he would have applied it to me (he was very aggressively competitive with me and so maybe he didn't see me as a best friend). So the last person I called my best friend who also called me his best friend was Justin Stanley, for a few months in second grade. We were generally known as best friends throughout school, and you couldn't think of one of us without thinking of the other. But then there was that weird set-up thing, where Sarah claimed that Justin admitted that he was really just using me (I don't know that, as seven year-olds, we really knew what that meant). I wouldn't really put much stock in that, except for the fact that Justin invited me to his going away party at the very last minute, only after someone else canceled. So we might have been best friends, but it really only lasted for a very short time.
That would explain why there's a pain in my heart whenever someone says the words "best friend". I don't really know what that is. I know how it is to be one of someone's best friends, but not the single most important friend in someone's book. That would have been nice to experience. It really hurts when someone who I'm close with says "my best friend Xla," I guess because even though I never thought we were best friends, it still sucks to know they have people they value more than me.
It's probably why I've always been so lonely. I don't really know what it's like to have someone that devoted to me. I know that was an issue in both of my relationships, and I remember telling Jase I always wanted someone to choose me first. And it was a point of insecurity for me, because Jase always chose himself first, second and third. I didn't even figure in the equation. And Michael put himself first, too, and then his friend Jason was second, and then there was a world-wide tie for third.
Michael always tells me nowadays that he's thinking of me. I know it's just a thing someone says, so I never put that much thought into it, but it's kind of satisfying, now, to know that someone thinks of me so often. I've accepted (finally) that people like me, but I'm still not convinced that they are really that interested in me. I don't think anyone thinks of me very often when I'm not around, but I guess Michael does. That's really special.
Alisha's mom called me on Monday. It was really a surprise, and at first I couldn't remember who she was, and then I couldn't think of why she was calling. Oh yeah, my accident. Alisha had told her about it, and then she read my letter in the paper, and she wanted to call to tell me she was praying for me and was glad I was okay. It was kind of uncomfortable for me, because I didn't really know what to say, but once I got off the phone it really meant a lot to me. Come to think about it, she and Karen are the only ones to call me expressly to wish me well following my accident. That's not to say it's the only source of comfort, because I've gotten a few texts and emails, and lots more communications through Facebook. And Ashley came and hung out with me when she heard, and I appreciate all those things. I think you're supposed to be able to tell who your true friends are in a situation like this. I don't know if that's just a cliche or if I'm an exception, but this has only muddied the waters.
It's a vicious cycle, I guess. The more I start being down, the less on my game I am about being in touch with people. And the less I'm in touch with people, the less their in touch with me. And the less people are in touch with me, the more down I get. I'm going to need a big shovel.
I don't know where this came from, really. I was 100% nothing but positive from the time they put me in the ambulance until some time Thursday evening. Everything was grand. I guess it's easy to fall.
Sometimes I think it would be fun to convert to being nocturnal. Just for a few weeks--you know, just right now, while there's nothing but TV for me during the day. It would probably make me much more productive, if I spent my TV hours sleeping, and my sleep hours not being about to watch TV, considering the state of TV at 3 am. I could get some good work done, but maybe I'd just find a new video game.
City Year application is almost done. It's pretty much my one and only ticket out of Tirana.
I'm getting my stitches out on Friday. If my leg looks good. But my legs always look good.
The last time I had anyone identify me as his/her "best friend" was Marie, during sophomore year. And even though I liked her and was glad to be there for her, she was much too needy and I never felt like the friendship was reciprocal enough for me to reciprocate with best friend status. I guess that means that my last true best friend was Dale, in fifth grade. But I don't think we ever really used the term, so I don't know if he would have applied it to me (he was very aggressively competitive with me and so maybe he didn't see me as a best friend). So the last person I called my best friend who also called me his best friend was Justin Stanley, for a few months in second grade. We were generally known as best friends throughout school, and you couldn't think of one of us without thinking of the other. But then there was that weird set-up thing, where Sarah claimed that Justin admitted that he was really just using me (I don't know that, as seven year-olds, we really knew what that meant). I wouldn't really put much stock in that, except for the fact that Justin invited me to his going away party at the very last minute, only after someone else canceled. So we might have been best friends, but it really only lasted for a very short time.
That would explain why there's a pain in my heart whenever someone says the words "best friend". I don't really know what that is. I know how it is to be one of someone's best friends, but not the single most important friend in someone's book. That would have been nice to experience. It really hurts when someone who I'm close with says "my best friend Xla," I guess because even though I never thought we were best friends, it still sucks to know they have people they value more than me.
It's probably why I've always been so lonely. I don't really know what it's like to have someone that devoted to me. I know that was an issue in both of my relationships, and I remember telling Jase I always wanted someone to choose me first. And it was a point of insecurity for me, because Jase always chose himself first, second and third. I didn't even figure in the equation. And Michael put himself first, too, and then his friend Jason was second, and then there was a world-wide tie for third.
Michael always tells me nowadays that he's thinking of me. I know it's just a thing someone says, so I never put that much thought into it, but it's kind of satisfying, now, to know that someone thinks of me so often. I've accepted (finally) that people like me, but I'm still not convinced that they are really that interested in me. I don't think anyone thinks of me very often when I'm not around, but I guess Michael does. That's really special.
Alisha's mom called me on Monday. It was really a surprise, and at first I couldn't remember who she was, and then I couldn't think of why she was calling. Oh yeah, my accident. Alisha had told her about it, and then she read my letter in the paper, and she wanted to call to tell me she was praying for me and was glad I was okay. It was kind of uncomfortable for me, because I didn't really know what to say, but once I got off the phone it really meant a lot to me. Come to think about it, she and Karen are the only ones to call me expressly to wish me well following my accident. That's not to say it's the only source of comfort, because I've gotten a few texts and emails, and lots more communications through Facebook. And Ashley came and hung out with me when she heard, and I appreciate all those things. I think you're supposed to be able to tell who your true friends are in a situation like this. I don't know if that's just a cliche or if I'm an exception, but this has only muddied the waters.
It's a vicious cycle, I guess. The more I start being down, the less on my game I am about being in touch with people. And the less I'm in touch with people, the less their in touch with me. And the less people are in touch with me, the more down I get. I'm going to need a big shovel.
I don't know where this came from, really. I was 100% nothing but positive from the time they put me in the ambulance until some time Thursday evening. Everything was grand. I guess it's easy to fall.
Sometimes I think it would be fun to convert to being nocturnal. Just for a few weeks--you know, just right now, while there's nothing but TV for me during the day. It would probably make me much more productive, if I spent my TV hours sleeping, and my sleep hours not being about to watch TV, considering the state of TV at 3 am. I could get some good work done, but maybe I'd just find a new video game.
City Year application is almost done. It's pretty much my one and only ticket out of Tirana.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Scratchy
I used to have a really good power of restraint. I quit drinking soda cold turkey when I was 16, and didn't look back until I needed to mix it with alcohol, four years later. I stopped eating pork the following year and haven't had a taste since, and I've rarely even been tempted. I had the willpower of Catherine of Siena (or probably all of the saints, it's just she's the one I know most about), and I took pride in not doing what most people couldn't resist.
But that has since faded. Numerous attempts to control my eating and diet have lasted less than a week, as once I get the idea in my head that I want ice cream (and it happens several times a day), it is impossible to destroy, but can only occasionally be postponed.
So now I've met a new temptation: moving my leg. The ER nurse told me not to flex a single muscle in my leg. Well I'm very aware of my leg muscles, and I can flex four per/leg independently of all the others, so as soon as I took to my crutches I informed him of where I couldn't help but flex. So he corrected it: don't bend my knee. The muscles in my leg are like sponges, and they can't be sewn back together but instead must be forced near each other so they can re-fuse. Bending my knee too early would rip apart all the new sinews or tissues or whatever that have been built as part of the recovery process.
It was no problem for the first week. I had, for a few activities, needed to bend my leg slightly--it was impossible to avoid. What I found, however, was that I was physically unable to bend my leg beyond 135 degrees. So, fine. No risk there, no problem at all. But then, this weekend, I discovered a new temptation. When sitting or laying idle, I have the habit of flexing my said four isolated muscles. I'll just briefly move through them, the quad, the hamstring, the outer thigh, the glute. These are all above the knee, so most are just fine. But my flexing of my quad muscle happens below my wound, so it's a no-no. But it's in my head! The right side did it! It's a figurative itch that I have to scratch, for balance's sake. So, just a little bit here and there, I've been sneaking a flex. Just a little one, nothing that I feel like is doing any harm to the wound. It's certainly not bending my knee, so it's okay. It's just a puff, and I'm not inhaling. So no biggie; I've found a loophole and it doesn't compromise my healing.
But then, starting Sunday, I have a new, much worse itch. I toss and turn in my sleep and I'm accustomed to bending my knees in almost every position. I'm just used to moving my legs around a lot. Even when I'm seated, I shift frequently so as to give my legs a little movement. So it started to work my neurosis that I haven't bent my knee much at all. Then it hit me: we bend our knees hundreds, perhaps thousands of times a day, and I've only done it about four times a day, to a much lesser degree. It's like being told you can't blink but once every hour. It's impossible!
It's in my head now, and it has not been helped by events: I noticed that now my knee is capable of bending further. I haven't done anything, but I no longer felt resistance when I moved it slightly to sit on the toilet. It's possible now. It's possible and it seems like a necessity. The thoughts are in my head and some part of my brain has decided I need to move my knee. I'm putting it off as well as I can, promising that part that I will be at liberty to move it as much as I want soon, but I know it can only be delayed so long.
I'm seeing my doctor tomorrow morning. I am hoping that he is impressed with the healing process, that because my body is accustomed to building muscle and because I've been such a good and careful boy, he will determine that I can move it a bit more here and there. I don't expect full mobility or full range of motion. I still have 19 stitches in the thing--I know I'm going to be laid up and out of action for a while. But please, PLEASE, Doctor. Satisfy my urge!
But that has since faded. Numerous attempts to control my eating and diet have lasted less than a week, as once I get the idea in my head that I want ice cream (and it happens several times a day), it is impossible to destroy, but can only occasionally be postponed.
So now I've met a new temptation: moving my leg. The ER nurse told me not to flex a single muscle in my leg. Well I'm very aware of my leg muscles, and I can flex four per/leg independently of all the others, so as soon as I took to my crutches I informed him of where I couldn't help but flex. So he corrected it: don't bend my knee. The muscles in my leg are like sponges, and they can't be sewn back together but instead must be forced near each other so they can re-fuse. Bending my knee too early would rip apart all the new sinews or tissues or whatever that have been built as part of the recovery process.
It was no problem for the first week. I had, for a few activities, needed to bend my leg slightly--it was impossible to avoid. What I found, however, was that I was physically unable to bend my leg beyond 135 degrees. So, fine. No risk there, no problem at all. But then, this weekend, I discovered a new temptation. When sitting or laying idle, I have the habit of flexing my said four isolated muscles. I'll just briefly move through them, the quad, the hamstring, the outer thigh, the glute. These are all above the knee, so most are just fine. But my flexing of my quad muscle happens below my wound, so it's a no-no. But it's in my head! The right side did it! It's a figurative itch that I have to scratch, for balance's sake. So, just a little bit here and there, I've been sneaking a flex. Just a little one, nothing that I feel like is doing any harm to the wound. It's certainly not bending my knee, so it's okay. It's just a puff, and I'm not inhaling. So no biggie; I've found a loophole and it doesn't compromise my healing.
But then, starting Sunday, I have a new, much worse itch. I toss and turn in my sleep and I'm accustomed to bending my knees in almost every position. I'm just used to moving my legs around a lot. Even when I'm seated, I shift frequently so as to give my legs a little movement. So it started to work my neurosis that I haven't bent my knee much at all. Then it hit me: we bend our knees hundreds, perhaps thousands of times a day, and I've only done it about four times a day, to a much lesser degree. It's like being told you can't blink but once every hour. It's impossible!
It's in my head now, and it has not been helped by events: I noticed that now my knee is capable of bending further. I haven't done anything, but I no longer felt resistance when I moved it slightly to sit on the toilet. It's possible now. It's possible and it seems like a necessity. The thoughts are in my head and some part of my brain has decided I need to move my knee. I'm putting it off as well as I can, promising that part that I will be at liberty to move it as much as I want soon, but I know it can only be delayed so long.
I'm seeing my doctor tomorrow morning. I am hoping that he is impressed with the healing process, that because my body is accustomed to building muscle and because I've been such a good and careful boy, he will determine that I can move it a bit more here and there. I don't expect full mobility or full range of motion. I still have 19 stitches in the thing--I know I'm going to be laid up and out of action for a while. But please, PLEASE, Doctor. Satisfy my urge!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
You might think it's bragging
My in progress novel, The Indomitable Witch of Clives, just surpassed the completed The Selfsame Chime in length. I believe it will end up being comfortably above 200 pages.
However, I'm not blogging to brag about this. This pass happened earlier this evening. Just now, as I'm nearing 60,000 words, Microsoft Word informed me that there are "too many spelling and grammatical errors" to be displayed within the text, and that I need to do something else (I don't remember what) to view them. Of course, it's because the story takes place in the Acrolan Empire, at either the Appero, Frontton or Clives courts. The main character is Ariane and her siblings include Alix and Davidt, while her husband's name is Ferand. Ferand comes from a place called the Auveyr, meanwhile Davidt is Grand Duke of Allonia, while their other brother and narrator, Andrew, is Count of Iszmon. Of course there are too many spelling errors!
I would be delighted to wear this badge of honor until the end, except that--every once in a blue moon--that squiggly red line catches a real spelling error. I need it back, so Acrola will have to be added to my dictionary. But I'm doing this one word at a time, you word processing nazi!
However, I'm not blogging to brag about this. This pass happened earlier this evening. Just now, as I'm nearing 60,000 words, Microsoft Word informed me that there are "too many spelling and grammatical errors" to be displayed within the text, and that I need to do something else (I don't remember what) to view them. Of course, it's because the story takes place in the Acrolan Empire, at either the Appero, Frontton or Clives courts. The main character is Ariane and her siblings include Alix and Davidt, while her husband's name is Ferand. Ferand comes from a place called the Auveyr, meanwhile Davidt is Grand Duke of Allonia, while their other brother and narrator, Andrew, is Count of Iszmon. Of course there are too many spelling errors!
I would be delighted to wear this badge of honor until the end, except that--every once in a blue moon--that squiggly red line catches a real spelling error. I need it back, so Acrola will have to be added to my dictionary. But I'm doing this one word at a time, you word processing nazi!
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Vicodreams
I've heard tell that some people experience bad dreams while on vicodin. I've been on vicodin once before, when I got my wisdom teeth out, and didn't really notice any affect the drug had on me. But now that I'm on it again, well, I've noticed something different.
It made me really drowsy today (and perhaps I can blame it for my writing "it maid me really drousy toda"), so I decided to take a little nap break. I wouldn't call them bad, per se, or dreams, per se. It was more like strangely unpleasant hallucinations. I'd close my eyes and, within fifteen seconds, I'd be surrounded by a bunch of poeple trying to make me stand up. They demanded it, and the more I resisted the more they pushed me. Then the phone would ring and I'd snap out of it. And then more sleep-like dream-like people trying to make me stand up. Despite already suffering from one of these hallucinations and already being able to dismiss it, it seemed real again.
The weirdest of all came later, when I started shivering like crazy. I mean, the worst shivering I've ever done, ie what I was doing last night when I first arrived in the hospital or when my legs were bare beneath the rain. Only, as time went on, I realized I wasn't shivering at all. I mean, my body wasn't shivering, but I could hear my teeth chattering despite the fact that they weren't, and I could feel the bitter cold and rain that I couldn't feel. It's a really strange circumstance that I don't know how to describe (obviously). But no matter how much it's drowsily forcing me into non-sleep and messing with my idea of consciousness and reality, I'm glad for the vicodin.
It made me really drowsy today (and perhaps I can blame it for my writing "it maid me really drousy toda"), so I decided to take a little nap break. I wouldn't call them bad, per se, or dreams, per se. It was more like strangely unpleasant hallucinations. I'd close my eyes and, within fifteen seconds, I'd be surrounded by a bunch of poeple trying to make me stand up. They demanded it, and the more I resisted the more they pushed me. Then the phone would ring and I'd snap out of it. And then more sleep-like dream-like people trying to make me stand up. Despite already suffering from one of these hallucinations and already being able to dismiss it, it seemed real again.
The weirdest of all came later, when I started shivering like crazy. I mean, the worst shivering I've ever done, ie what I was doing last night when I first arrived in the hospital or when my legs were bare beneath the rain. Only, as time went on, I realized I wasn't shivering at all. I mean, my body wasn't shivering, but I could hear my teeth chattering despite the fact that they weren't, and I could feel the bitter cold and rain that I couldn't feel. It's a really strange circumstance that I don't know how to describe (obviously). But no matter how much it's drowsily forcing me into non-sleep and messing with my idea of consciousness and reality, I'm glad for the vicodin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)