bad
Everything hurts. One of the baroque incisions is developing a nasty weal-like scar; this is from the baroque underwiring, and one can't help thinking the doctors (who were after all in a good position to notice the baroque physique) might have noticed the possibility of that and incised half a centimetre lower. The pyjama bottoms are in the wash, and the jeans (low-rise, loose, usually belted in three notches) can't be done up and sat down in: thus shattereth the dream of a hobble down into the human world, where hitching up your top to undo yourself before sitting at the table is generally frowned on.
My sister has gone to lunch in town with the ex-ex Mr B. Not that she doesn't deserve it; to all intents and purposes there's been no visit yet. I think she'll leave and I'll wake up one morning and realise I've missed her. We haven't taken even one picture.
The opticians have still not fixed their glazing machine and are unable to name a date when it will be fixed. The baroque eyes are not feeing very good either and it would just be great to have those flaming new glasses. All I've managed to read all week was two poems out of Harmonium (ta to Wales' best-read stripper, my guest-blogger Chip, for the reminder) (and, well, three if you count the one he wrote about): Le Monocle de Mon Oncle, and Sunday Morning. There has been virtually no film-watching: everything just seems sort of patchy and haphazard. I've even been making the dinner because, frankly, I'm the only one who will do it and the discomfort is far less than the discomfort of watching everyone randomly graze at weird times of day.
I can now not even remember ever having felt good and all this new pain just feels like a deterioration no matter how logically I may know otherwise, like something I must just be stuck with now. I can't seem to sleep very well even thouh I'm not sleeping enough: the other night I was awake for two hours in the middle, and before that, nightmares. But I'm having to get up every morning to get Mlle B up for school; the one morning I overslept, so did she.
I'm still dizzy. Can it really still be from the anaesthetic?
Salutary reminder of the day: Baroque includes El Greco.
5 comments:
Poor you, Ms B, sounds like a hellish situation. Very much hope you feel better in the near future.
It may cheer you up to know that the awards have started over at my gaff - only the first category so far but the rest should take place tonight. Thanks for your nominations!
MH x
Ms B - I send you good wishes and healing thoughts from the edge. Ideally, you shouldn't have to do anything for anyone right now.
Miss H, thanks, well it is all par for the course I think: it would hardly be a recuperation without at least one day of black despair.
Excellent decision in section 1 of your awards, btw: it had to be.
RTS, I think that's just me... I'm sure the doctors would want me to be mobile, anyway. And thanks for your wishes. Are you on the edge? Of the forest, right?
A call for Katie's return
mediatised bores pretend rubbish writing is class and class writing rubbish, amergin's answerer-text proved sum poets are not real, far from it, and when A speaks in print he's close as one gets to a cow epic existing throughout time and space, in ones community of continual unashamed lunacy in lettered lore, coining and minting ones unique note, its very strain is within one and all alone as four of us, the grandparent to our derbhfine of poetic uknowledge, the five card swizz dearest seven jack bragger of ten loaden aul lore of pure litearte Love is all i reckon, though.
Amergin is triple A chain link being to ones pre-literate utterance, certainty in bardic import, poetic gravitas and mean valency, aggregate of shine in language and balance of sound and rite to infer a silence and live in print.
"...natural born bore learning mores and poetical lore from a culture in flux, very life force and essential spark of holiness, native life a convesational cloth swaddling eloquence in the Art of speaking rubbish beautifully stitched in air and print, and the odd poem-sequence we create with what craft is deployed by ones inner de facto, idiot and thrall of you katy evans, bush knowing one and pretend bore drawing breath, living good her life of telling tales in her inimitable speech and print continuum, 1200 years aul 48 generations of pets stretching back to Amerginm the first who coded utterance in the pre-roman expansion into brittonic cultural more and lore, uncorrupted non-penal, "pagan" and shakey caliban of humanity's mirror continually recording the music of what happened since Cuhullain lived in the time before prose, when memorised verse was da norm, zero jesus and zilch of Art in ones unique spacerdome real of fictional reign in a deluge of disposable Art, throwaway lines in the rare aul times me dears, verse swap op occurs there katy, recording utterance, 16 generations past, English, tradition began in one note, three times the size to blather with than this have timid fawn of natural killer wit o ftriple time reality, in compactable myth one can conflate and retract as a search in ether occurs, for what sheer weight of electric sidhe career online and are as page savvy and inherently natural as you katy.
One can insult those pro-actively seeking to ignore us as an irrelevance, of "fine by moi:" the cauldron of self hood and poetical scanger is a wattled more where tramps and poet combine, converge, all wo/men under the sun, nominal reality for they who seek not the chosen ones, "it" herr dictator Amergin says:
"in every other person (cauldron of selfhood) is on its lips.. ignorant people. It is side-slanting in people of bardcraft and strophes (mid-level poetry)). It is on its back in the "great streams" highest poetic grades "peaks and tweets" of great wisdom and poetry. On account of this not every mid-level person has it on its back because the Cauldron of Motion must be turned by sorrow or joy."
Translated Eryn Rowan Laurie, undisputed preist of Ogam lore, real folk queen behind a bluff, who wears her truth most eloquently and will be fine katy, it's only been a week and what you went through was major stuff, real physical and the sorrow of flesh that will return and sing from an even greater peak of utterance than before, which was already on the up. Your blog is a bludding ground for all serious wannabee bores now, the natural gobbing off arena whipping up, not to whup ms baraque, the one and only original katy bush, you may recall i lumped you and shiela e murphy together some time ago when our cxareers entwined elsewhere in our previous mode of address, and instinct proved true, as i always beleived - and still do - i am in the company of the most serious contendor when first engaging with you in our immediate flush and fuse of printed exchange and what we do we share, but a personal Muse katy, sidhe alone no other dictates to here, rant and rage, in the throes of truth in a music of what one makes happen in life at the moment, and bounce back you will, better for it as a writer if nought else, moi reckons katy hating not, for nowt is a poet without understanding the first silent tweet of an idea retrun out from sea, ones fog of mind and Art construct one is, or not, you are deffo i reckon, staying strong and chanting a druidic lay of sea, stone and sky, arising with whatever inner strength is guiding you, the essential KEB katy evans bush, triple platinum birch plumb and planted her dutum of logical Art and thrust beauty as what we want, your own unique online prescene, de-barring the unfree speaker, dreaming a believe in katy o are the sidhe at poetic source, the truth of yeats and daftness of graves combined to speak alone itself and none other, free and swift, three levels, each within seven bardic grades of ascendancy gone through for you ms, get well soon, smile and love a family above all others, no matter in what state or number, oneslef alone or two, who cares, be yourself and feck the maoners as bertie rightly pointed out after unintentionally insulting suicide victims, or rather those left behind in the wake of this practice, also quite rightly, moaning about bertie being insensitive.
Thanks Desmond. From what I could make out there it seems like you're wishing me well.
Can I refer you please to item (2) in the Baroque comments policy?
I'm also thinking of instituting a word-count limit.
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