writing living my life in disconnected fragments. I’m whiplashed. Thrown back and forth like Freddy Grey of Baltimore infamy. No flow: tried to express things so primitive, so primeval, so… … …Neanderthal utterances; grunts and growls, would sound right at home in my screaming painfulness. There are no words… … …before there were words, there was the pain. Nine point three, in my humble estimation, on the Comparative Pain Richter Scale. Yes, it rocked me.
Torquemada’s Iron Maiden, if it didn’t kill you, mortally wounded your soul. You’d make any devil’s bargain; piss yourself, beg and plead, for relief. And I did.
Yes, I survived. Not only I: many others have survived as well. I’m proud and humbled to be among them.
Pain at that level is gone. For now. More of the same is bound to follow. I am a hearty, full-bodied man. But also a vulnerable man. My names are legion: colchicine, allopurinol, hydrochlorothiazide, digoxin, benazepril, metoprolol, oxycodone,clonidine, warfarin, fentanyl, simvastatin, nortriptyline. Slowly, ever so slowly I turn; turn towards my struggle towards health. My physical therapist, and The Lord, are my shepherds. Wit sustains me when muscles weaken. Melancholy is a guilty treasure. Prudently mined; it’s a gift that keeps on giving.
Along the trails thru the frontier, lonely outposts were manned to give succor for the weary explorer. I’m at one of those existential waystations now, waiting for few moments to catch my breath. A new day is before me, but it’s getting late. Got to get on my way.
Saddle up, Taxi Dog! It’s time to ride.