All animals are upset. All three. All outside the bathroom door, banging to get it. They didn't expect me home early. They are pounding and whining. As Jess once said of them, "I know people can excited to see you, but not falling over excited."
*
I was sent home today. It was absolutely dead and there was no work. Last time this happened, Keith had to go, so now it was my turn. Plus, I threw out my back. It seemed to get better by Saturday night, but now I feel shooting pains in the back of my legs when I stand up. Without any truck runs, I would have spent the whole day on my feet.
"Shagoo's getting old," Billy said to me.
"Fuck that. My back's been giving out since I was fifteen."
But I also thought of all the great sickly writers. For good reason: when you're laid up, you get more work done. Hemingway had a bad back and had to write standing up.
Blindness. Bad backs. Asthma. Gout. Dysentary. Opium addiction. Hangnails.
Oh, those writers have seen and known the lot.
*
Bad for the pocket book means good for the novel.
I grabbed a cup of coffee, finished Pnin, and went on to read a Kipling short story and the first part of John Fante's Dreams From Bunker Hill, his last novel, written by dictation to his wife after his eyesight failed him.
During the reading, I wrote down pages of notes for my novel, and am back feeling like a writer again and not a would-be baker.
I was so excited to write that I untied my boots while driving, so that I could throw them off faster and get right to work. Which I did. And now, I'm taking a break but the break is broken now, too, and I'm back to work.
Flush. Autosave. Publish. The animals are happy. I'm happy. We're rolling.
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Sucks that your back still feels bad. I had lower back issues for about a year after I fucked it up skanking at a Reel Big Fish concert (apparently I overshot my previous record for vertical leap and my back was not prepared for the landing) and I hated it. Dealing with that since 15 must suck. Then again, I've had my neck issue since 16 so perhaps I understand... then again perhaps I have no comprehension at all because how does one compare pain in 2 different people?
ReplyDeleteThat reminds me of a comedian who was talking about how "scientists" figured out what the "most painful injury ever" was. I guess it's a sting from some sea creature like the Man O War or something. The comic wondered, did they just round up a bunch of stupid people and expose them to various tortures and have them rate their reaction? You'd think the answer would be no but I've heard some horror stories about what scientists used to do to mental patients before there were laws against that sort of thing...
This also reminds me of my recent lobster adventure. In looking up how much wine to add to the water I came across the "ethical" means of killing the lobster. You put them in the freezer for 15 minutes before boiling them. The way they decided on this method was by counting the number of tail flicks before death. They reasoned that less flicks = less pain... that feels a little weak to me...
Ha! I would rate my lifelong back problems as a minor inconvenience. I seem to throw it out once or twice a year, but other than that, I can do pretty much anything.
ReplyDeleteI'm more worried about the knees, but they seem to be holding up.
But I can't complain. I'm listening to music, writing, and hanging with Slapford. I've written 2,000 words so far today and will write more before I have to think about getting in my car and heading out to teach -- which I'll do tonight in case you're wondering.
See ya there! Hope you had a great time this weekend.