Shankles.
Right, so my tennis parter is lovely, the lovely B. Also cruel. I referred to my swollen ankle as a cankle and he came right back with an oh no, no, no what you have is a shankle. Which is what happens, I am guessing, when your ankles are the approximate girth of your shanks. And here I have to cop to a minor prejudice, thick ankles seriously creep me out, as do ginormous calves. Horrible isn't it, and also completely retarded.
Ah, but isn't karma a bitch, because now I have one, and a big ole gray air cast to boot, and on top of that since I am obligated to keep my body mostly prone I have developed an appetite worthy of Pantagruel, soon I'll have the overlapping gut to match my shankle, nevermind, it's already there.
I do like ace bandages, though.
And so upward and onward to the confluence. Well in the weeks that I quit writing, stopped seeing people and played a lot of tennis, enjoyed my work and spent an inordinate amount of time in my car fiddling with the a/c or the defrost, monitoring the gas gauge and half tuned to NPR, I realized that I have become a full fledged misanthrope. This coincides with the two year anniversary (dubious in nature) of not having any sort of reliable man around to change my lightbulbs.
And I am sort of desperately bemused by my current situation of helplessness and where I find myself on this slim plain of reality. Because, well alright, I have reconciled myself to the fact that I did indeed get married and, okay it didn't work but I made it to the light and I survived to make disparaging jokes on my behalf. And I know all about the paralysis of depression and standing in the middle of a room with no bearings and the tears that continued to flow when a body is dessicated and saline free, yes, but the heart beats, pummels the ribcage.
Here I am at thirty-four in a brand new kind of stasis, scary for the absence of feeling, have I become so independent that all I need is streaming music and and my dildo and my six-hundred count sheets, because I feel that all of those sylvan threads of connection are dropping away from me and it's a matter of moments before I slip up to the stars. Especially now, that I have been robbed of my mobility, when I have no....
(I somehow managed to delete the last four paragraphs of my musings) why does it always happen like that -- when... Oh well, whatever. If I were to condense I would say that I have become a deeply suspicious misanthrope over the course of a few weeks. And that I didn't ask for it and I don't want it, and that I have joined the minions strumming their key boards on an august evening with the windows wide open, when we should be out with the others sheathed in the evening and cobalt with the night at the hem of our skirts and smoke at our wrists, instead of falling asleep before midnight on the right side of the bed only to wake clutching at the absent middle.
I take solace in that I must not be alone tonight, the blessed internet, the broad sword of the lonely and the disenfranchised, pouring all of our perversities and banal desires onto keyboards and message boards across the globe, and it never sleeps, somewhere it's always morning, somewhere the sun is setting. Somewhere in the world is the man seeking the girl in the clown shoes and somewhere, anywhere, is the girl in the clown shoes throwing the gauntlet, in this world of ours she can send the photo of her feet from her phone. I, child of the eighties, have not quite caught up, I still amazed and perplexed by the fax machine.
The Apple II E's, and the black and the green of my grammar school days are another short story for another evening.
I am older and not old at all, mostly I still feel fifteen, but for the betrayal of gravity, and the pecular stray wiry hairs, I am older and so old at all, save the petty betrayals of my forgetfull and covetous flesh. I am young and not young at all, benign memory and her sinister sister promise swirl about my shankless ankles, back when they didn't snap and were tapered and tanned...
oh yeah, the vicdon just hit, that and it's late and I must to bed, sleep and dream of spaceships and talking birds, damp, empty mines. She tells me that I musn't let our our mutual friend be bedazzled by smelted gold bars and gigantic beds in New York City, but I am that afraid it is too late, nothing left then but a jigger and a long prayer.
Right, so my tennis parter is lovely, the lovely B. Also cruel. I referred to my swollen ankle as a cankle and he came right back with an oh no, no, no what you have is a shankle. Which is what happens, I am guessing, when your ankles are the approximate girth of your shanks. And here I have to cop to a minor prejudice, thick ankles seriously creep me out, as do ginormous calves. Horrible isn't it, and also completely retarded.
Ah, but isn't karma a bitch, because now I have one, and a big ole gray air cast to boot, and on top of that since I am obligated to keep my body mostly prone I have developed an appetite worthy of Pantagruel, soon I'll have the overlapping gut to match my shankle, nevermind, it's already there.
I do like ace bandages, though.
And so upward and onward to the confluence. Well in the weeks that I quit writing, stopped seeing people and played a lot of tennis, enjoyed my work and spent an inordinate amount of time in my car fiddling with the a/c or the defrost, monitoring the gas gauge and half tuned to NPR, I realized that I have become a full fledged misanthrope. This coincides with the two year anniversary (dubious in nature) of not having any sort of reliable man around to change my lightbulbs.
And I am sort of desperately bemused by my current situation of helplessness and where I find myself on this slim plain of reality. Because, well alright, I have reconciled myself to the fact that I did indeed get married and, okay it didn't work but I made it to the light and I survived to make disparaging jokes on my behalf. And I know all about the paralysis of depression and standing in the middle of a room with no bearings and the tears that continued to flow when a body is dessicated and saline free, yes, but the heart beats, pummels the ribcage.
Here I am at thirty-four in a brand new kind of stasis, scary for the absence of feeling, have I become so independent that all I need is streaming music and and my dildo and my six-hundred count sheets, because I feel that all of those sylvan threads of connection are dropping away from me and it's a matter of moments before I slip up to the stars. Especially now, that I have been robbed of my mobility, when I have no....
(I somehow managed to delete the last four paragraphs of my musings) why does it always happen like that -- when... Oh well, whatever. If I were to condense I would say that I have become a deeply suspicious misanthrope over the course of a few weeks. And that I didn't ask for it and I don't want it, and that I have joined the minions strumming their key boards on an august evening with the windows wide open, when we should be out with the others sheathed in the evening and cobalt with the night at the hem of our skirts and smoke at our wrists, instead of falling asleep before midnight on the right side of the bed only to wake clutching at the absent middle.
I take solace in that I must not be alone tonight, the blessed internet, the broad sword of the lonely and the disenfranchised, pouring all of our perversities and banal desires onto keyboards and message boards across the globe, and it never sleeps, somewhere it's always morning, somewhere the sun is setting. Somewhere in the world is the man seeking the girl in the clown shoes and somewhere, anywhere, is the girl in the clown shoes throwing the gauntlet, in this world of ours she can send the photo of her feet from her phone. I, child of the eighties, have not quite caught up, I still amazed and perplexed by the fax machine.
The Apple II E's, and the black and the green of my grammar school days are another short story for another evening.
I am older and not old at all, mostly I still feel fifteen, but for the betrayal of gravity, and the pecular stray wiry hairs, I am older and so old at all, save the petty betrayals of my forgetfull and covetous flesh. I am young and not young at all, benign memory and her sinister sister promise swirl about my shankless ankles, back when they didn't snap and were tapered and tanned...
oh yeah, the vicdon just hit, that and it's late and I must to bed, sleep and dream of spaceships and talking birds, damp, empty mines. She tells me that I musn't let our our mutual friend be bedazzled by smelted gold bars and gigantic beds in New York City, but I am that afraid it is too late, nothing left then but a jigger and a long prayer.
posted by emma at
11:27 PM
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