Monthly Archives: November 2011

Bone 4: Of arrghs, fears, pains and couches.

Today’s bone, my self expression and writing exploration exercise is brought to you by fear, twinges of pain and really crappy memories.  With a side note of arrgh.

Quite the menu to fulfill.  Mmmm, menus, not so bad as getting lost in a six page menu, though.  Have you ever tried seeing how many dirty things you can come up with in a menu?  Dennys is particularly useful for this.  It all started with “Pam is available upon request.”  And if you don’t get how that leads to fun, dirty sex talk, well, we need to work on your filth quotient.

To argh first or to argh later, that is my question.  Whether tis nobler to tag it on at the end or just spill it all out at the beginning, placenta on that hospital floor, first expression of life all tangled up with death.  Booya.

I have decided, I shall argh.  Suitable warning is wrapped up in the arrgh.  And the arrgh is this:  when I write about a nasty/painful/scary/fearful/depressed/etc moment and I say I’m not doing it for sympathy, I really, truly, honestly mean that I’m not looking for sympathy.  It actually makes me uncomfortable to receive it, cared about, yes, but uncomfortable.  Because I didn’t want it.  I share because it’s healthy to be honest, to be bald and brave and bold and put real feelings out into the world, fuck whether or not they’re positive or negative.  I share because I believe it’s important that we see all of the world.  I share because I want everyone else to realize that it’s okay to feel all these crazy, mixed up, painful emotions.  And that they can be shared without a need to be fixed.  That I can sit with the emotion, give it its own time, its own space, acknowledge its essence and being, without needing to smother it or, gods forbid, “fix it”.

So that is my arrgh, should the universe, or some spark in it, decide to empathize, then low-five friend, just no sympathy.  No insult, no rejection of anyone as a wonderful person, just stating my own needs and boundaries.

Right, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get into those freaking emotions.

And I am freaking out.  It’s at this weird, deep, quiet level, but it’s there.  I herniated a disc nearly a year ago, 11 months actually.  And the last two days I realized that I’ve done something bad again.  And in the last week I had an exercise that showed that there is damage in my back due to the herniation which may just be causing other lingering pain and may indicate a degenerative situation.

Degenerative disc, horrible fucking phrase.  Bite my ass, phrase.  I’m going to take you to the good doctor and get some real answers.  But in the meantime I’m phased with the results of my own, in hindsight foolish, choices.

I figure that I have either re-injured the ligaments in my back, have another herniation or both.  I so hope it’s the first.  I’m most fearful that it’s the last.  Mostly because I have this little zip of a pain sliding down my ass into the back of my upper thigh.  That’s nerve shit.

So tonight I lie on my couch, typing awkwardly on my laptop and determinedly not thinking about that which I cannot fix.  I have made what arrangements I can to try and heal faster and solve the problem.  Now I wait.  No, now I lie, prone and lost on my burghundy couch.  It was here for my last time, and it still supports me.

Do you ever think about that?  About how when you sit, the furniture you are on supports you.  It is uncaring but also endless in that support (minus a Three Stooges moment).  It asks for nothing and gives its very essence over to us instead.  Is there anything more selfless than a piece of furniture?

Picking the right couch has always been important to me.  First test is naturally the sitting one, is it comfortable?  But for me this is immediately followed by the lying down test.  I need to be able to rest my head on one end, feet up on the other, and be comfortable.  This eliminates about 80-90% of couches.  After that it becomes a matter of looks and additional features (recliners, for instance).  Even our couches come with extra features these days.  We really are never satisfied with simple and plain, are we?

I want to keep writing, keep tossing my existence onto the whiteness of this screen.  But NaNoWriMo calls my name.  As a potentially contributing factor to my situation (the extra sitting during all the extra typing these past two weeks), I considered being pissy and saying ‘fuck you’ to it.  But then the injury wins.  And that just makes me crazy.  So instead:

Today, today I write!


Bone 3: Peeing

I find it very strange to sit and pee and listen to someone else peeing.  And have them listen to me peeing.

It is an odd form of intimacy.  All alone in my wide stall (I like the one in the corner that’s for wheelchairs, but not for the size but because it has a railing and I got used to using the rail to hold my back brace during the recovery months) with the unmistakable sound of streaming water into a big white bowl keeping me company.

And it isn’t mine.


I admit it.  I want solitude in my physical expulsions.  I want to sit in isolation when eliminating the unused portions of my food.  I want to be alone when I pee or take a shit.

It is just downright weird to me to listen to someone else’s plop plop fizz fizz.

And almost (though not completely) equally weird that the other person is listening to me dribble it out.

It’s not supposed to be that strange, right?  That’s why we have multiple stalls in places?  Mind you, it’s not so bad in say a movie theater where there are plenty of people coming through, plenty of noise to cover the personal sounds.  Or plenty of distance between the stalls.  It removes that intimacy, the closeness, the unavoidable awareness of the pure physicality of another person at their most base level.

And their awareness of me.

Maybe it’s my own animal nature made naked before the other person that really bothers me.  Tomato tomato.  That just doesn’t work the same in writing.

And look how quickly I skip right off that concept.  It’s still there.  The uncomfortableness but hey, I can avoid if I want.  So there.  😛  Ah, the joys of immaturity.  We should never let that go.

In fact, if I’d kept some of that childhood viewpoint I probably wouldn’t be so conscious of shared peeing in the silence of a small bathroom.  Kids never seem to mind.

Ah, to be young again.

~Samantha, a skeleton woman

Setting Quiet Pages Free

Last night that line from the song Ravens in the Library by S.J. Tucker was stuck in my head.  Endless, relentless cycling on four words.  Occasionally a few other would sneak in, but always back to those four words.

Setting quiet pages free.

The full chorus is:

My friend bids me come and see
the ravens in the library
setting quiet pages free.

I want to set my pages free.  I’m afraid they are gone, fluttered out of my insides into nowhere.  Where are my ravens plucking at my insides, ripping out my pages and spitting them out onto the canvas of life before me?

Do I even have ravens?  Gah, no ravens, no pages, nothing to set free, just an empty wasteland stretching wide and pointless inside me.

Not that I’m prone to whining and self-pity.  Oh wait, that’s just what I’ve done.  But it is how I feel.  Empty but for jumbled half-form nothings that clutter and confuse my insides.

Dear Ravens, you are cordially invited to enter in, find my pages and set them free upon the world.  Or at least the screen.

Ravens?  Hello?  Am I getting through?  <thump thump>  Hello?

No answer.  Shit.

Just me and my non-existent pages.  This is going to make my nano words very hard to come by tonight.

I wish I had more to express.  But I am quiet.

And my ravens are napping.

Writing my bones

I’ve been reading Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones.  It goes well with NaNoWriMo imo, getting all inspired and shyte.  I’ve also been going through an existential writing crisis.  Can you even be an author if you don’t go through them periodically?

Tonight, though, is not about the crisis or where or how it might get resolved.

Tonight is writing about one of my bones.  I have at least 206.  And in my soul?  How many does it have?


I miss cable.  I miss losing myself.  I miss running far and wide away from any dreams I may have.

I miss living life as a dream.

Waking up is not easy.  Bah!  That is the language of fear.  Waking up is brutal, hard, painful, agonizing, exhausting and did I mention hard?

I want my cable.  I want my Big Bang Theory and my—gods, a second show doesn’t even immediately come to mind.  They do now, though, they want to flood my consciousness.  They want to sink back deep into me, my bloody sirens of the modern age, luring me to my psychic death on their shores.

Damn them.  Survivor, I remember you.  And new shows, with witches and fairytales.  Shouldn’t I be watching the fairytale one?  Almost like research.  But who’s fairytale do I really want to live in.  Mine or theirs?  I think theirs is better told.  But then, I have no faith in my writing in this here and this now.

I’m too caught up in the words, in the movement of my fingers on the keyboard and the truth becomes lost to me.

The t.v. mutters in the background.  One movie from my collection plucked out to put its story on the screen.  Not my story, just a story.  Love, death, hate.  All the big ones.  You make me miss cable less.  But you, I must choose you, make the effort, not just have it all served up to me with just a flick of my finger on a button to change channels at the appropriate moment.

It’s gone.  That free for all smorgasbord of programming.  Gone.  The land of endless distraction is closed to me.  And by my own choice.

What was I thinking?

That this would make me free?  Open my mind?  Give me time to seek out more of what I “want”?

Do I even know what I want?  My heart says no.  But wait, a whisper, deep inside, it says that we do know, just need to listen a little harder, a little deeper.  Deep, deep, deep, when do I get to be the light sparkling on the surface of the stream?  I want to be a glittering shimmer of light, effervescent and fluid.

I want
(to be a)
glimmering shimmer of light,
effervescent and

~Samantha, a Skeleton Woman