My voided summer.
I tell you, I just want to take a big red stamp and write VOID across the last two summers. With our transient homelessness last year and Megan’s completely inhuman course load this summer, we are just hoping next year things will settle down.
There are so many things I’ve wanted to share, especially later this summer, but I screwed up my ability to type with blah blah blah nerve pain blah you type too much blah physical therapy. This is not the first time massive pain has gotten in the way of my ability to work.
The first time the wrist/neck/arm pain got so bad I had to see the doctor was in 2003 sometime. It is just too much to be on the computer all day working and then writing at night. It adds up. I wrote a draft poem that I still think about when I’m in that much pain and since I’m feeling all stupidly exhibitionistic today, I’m going to throw part of it up here. It’s not done, it’s not great, but it’s called Pointe.
Before ballet class, we played at it—
six-year-olds timing the enduring tiptoe—
later, physics gave an equation
for the pain, pounds per square inch.
I never put on pointe slippers. Pale pink,
flat nosed, satin ribbon crossing the ankle—
a dancer unveils her feet like Salome,
the reveal is blackened toenails,
calloused yellowed scales.
I didn’t know masochism then,
not obsession or drive,
just no more ballet.
That’s all of it I’m going to paste in, but the point is that many of us are driven past/beyond pain and I’m never sure if it’s healthy or not. We work so hard and so much and these movements that will come back to haunt us in the end are repeated without thought. The point is that obsession and drive unchecked are a little dangerous and we wind up hurting ourselves.
What a happy medium is, though, that I just do not know