Posts Tagged ‘neck’

Garbage In, Garbage Out


17 Oct

bodies

Among Speaking Bodies

samplex

Originally published on October 17, 1996

Just when one thinks that it would be easier to drain all the seven oceans of salty fish nip than to squeeze another drop of self-pity from the rather mundane story of my life, then boom, another couple of notches later, I find feeling as if downing a jar of extra large crunchy Greek olives and sardines is the highest compliment I can pay myself for the failure of another unpersuasive idea...

This morning while taking out an armful of corrugated cardboard recycleables, I broke my left foot, again! I'm beginning to feel like a sad parody of Tim and his annual collarbone. The foot snapped lengthwise with characteristic audible clarity. I was stepping from the house to the front porch and my unfastened sandles slipped to trigger the occasion. Ten minutes later, wincing on the sofa, with vigor and gruff I jump up at Sue's notice that a man is foraging through our big blue plastic, metal, and glass curbside recycle bags. Once at the door I yell that rather than plunder the dozen or so smaller bags neatly packed inside the big blue ones he should just take off with the whole shebang.

Why is it that I have to guess at you breaking a limb? Why make me assume such nonsense rather than just say it out straight 'I broke my GD left femur!' Don't assume anyone in your audience knows all the details so you can discuss such as old news.
He was an older, maybe sixty year old black man, well-attired, did not exude the aura of a lifelong wino (would it matter?), but he immediately shot back that he wasn't gonna leave a mess. He was merely taking a few cans. I stared in dreaded white silence for ten to fifteeen long seconds before telling him to go ahead. I watched him scavenge for coke and beer cans, leaving the glass wine bottles and plastic milk jugs behind as he rummaged for parts of a penny. I took a bag of cans to the plant once and got nine dollars for what must have been a thousand crushed cans some years ago, never again. Ah, as I write this, the truck pulls up and regards the trash, and rather early today. Two pickups ago, they missed our whole street altogether. Dutiful citizen on even numbered years, I called Publics Works for a rescheduling. Three days later the trash was snagged, after I was told to leave the stuff at the curb indefinitely until pickup. Neighbor Chisley did not, and so had quite a mess two weeks later the next time. However, without too much gross exaggeration it is safe to say we sprawl along the curb other Tuesday more than the whole side of this block of Eighteenth Street combined. The scavenger in good news to the scafflaw followed his word, and the curb was nice and neat after he left, so I guess my starring role as the Billy Goats Gruff foul-toothed troll who lives under the bridge to the 21st century is safely undisturbed.

11dirtyfeet

Side Stepping

Despite this leg drop injury I refuse to rush to the hospital, unmoved by the indignity and the expense of THAT trouble. If I hadn't heard the snap, crackle, and pop at the time of the 265 pound stomp and roll I'd even doubt it was broken. I can even put steady weight upon it, and feel arrgglike pain only when I bend, drag or rest it in a bezier curve along the sofa. But the icy and instant numbing at impact and consequent prickly twinges further identify my condition. Ooh well dearies, fortunately it wasn't my ankle or heel. I still have a fine pair of wooden crutches I inherited for $30 from my last left foot catastrophe in September, 1993. The blood vessel knot and prickly numbness will no doubt subside in a few days if I don't aggravate it by jumping for joy if that Apple monitor ever frickin' gets here. Sue suggests the doctor. Says we've got insurance. Uh, workman's comp for injury on the job? I just ain't inner rested. Who will putter around doing the countless manipulations it takes to keep a hint of order around here? Who wants to lug around some ridiculous cast for six weeks. Oh I know. We'll hire a nanny...

Nausea. Sartre. Simpletons and Simon Magus. Surely I am blessed among men...

Oh course soon after writing this note I receive another nasty reply from my next door neighbor Blumstein, who types, (obviously from his workstation on the job, a job he wished upon me as often as the spirit moved him:

Gah Bree Elle,

Why is it that I have to guess at you breaking
a limb. Why make me assume such nonsense
rather than just say it out straight 'I broke my
GD left femur!' Don't assume anyone in your
audience knows all the details so you can
discuss such as old news.

But the reality is that if you did break your
leg, whichever left and/or right, you should
get it professionally set before it heals in
an obnoxious way and must be broken again
to correct it thus fucking it up even more.
God I hate martyrs...

Blum

It was interesting to discover he cared, even if it took the form of a Blumfisted flame.

Well Bob, it wasn't my left femur, but some bone, perhaps the cuboid, in my left foot. You're right. What I thought was obvious—I stepped on my foot wrong, I suppose some folks, yourself included, might presume that I had stumbled so hard and so recklessly that I would have been hurled forward, broken my leg, or even my neck, such is the beastly public image, brimming creative minds like your own have deployed as the real Gabriel Thy. My apologies.

—GT

Hints From The Personality Wars


10 Sep

Personality Wars

Personality Wars

samplex

Date: Tue, 10 Sep 1996 21:40:28

Nobody's yet responded to my note saxing this Situationist group, but Laurent's short muffin has everybody stirred into great swirls of chatter. Tom must be right. I am FRAUD. BOLD CAPS. A bossy brass blowhard (nee: that WIRED online discussion with SUCK and ECHO) clueless and simply not built for the imaginary beanies of his take on Topeka KANSASS. No, just crass, that's what he'd say. The dirt worst. A pathetic loser wired out on a messy wordslop. Uhmmmm...a Chas been, off chasing fickle dogs, chewing red meat son of a gun. And a good handful waste of moxy bandwidth to boot...ragged imperialist, cancor at the root falsetto. Nix iMote, he might say, it's NOTHING. Just a jackass I know I heard. Or to remain self-righteous I can snort back, "Oh Tom just knows how to push my buttons, and according to him, he doesn't like what I'm doing to his."

Steve issues a statement, "Spent too much time talking about myself in my last message to comment in full on the Howell/Thy exchange. Did read it through, however. To see ourselves through other people's eyes ... or mouths, as the case may be. Though I actually did start writing a response. Started off with a cheap kitchen metaphor, but realizing that was not accurate bidirectionally and not wanting to rewrite Goethe's treatise on colors ... how did that line from that Rites of Spring EP go?"

wrote SAST
& I mote

But yesterday I could have passed. I was ready to pass, take a rain check on that opportunity to visit with Bob, chow, and chortle, but I conceded with a certain joy. And we subsequently tore the leaf off the fig. Had a good time. Tim stepped in after work dead tired but micromanaged a string of Shipman logistics to finish his chili mac specialty of the Bob before retiring to his mat. Yeah Bob. Thanks for the memories, the perspective, the piss in the wind. Next door neighbor for 3 years, ain't it Bob? Bought the house next to the one we mortgaged just shy of ten ago. And just like it says on the label we've been some sort of sneaky friends for twelve now...
Blum came over last night for a chili cookoff conspired by his afternoon phonecall. He'd slept for three days straight thru Monday he announced while admitting he'd gone out a couple of times (took in the town is more like it) & he woke up in a birdzing straight & flinging. Or maybe not. Does Bob do that? Ever? Okay, we need a Bob mimic. Anybody here?

Awake by afternoon he now seemed bouncy enough, on an even keel as we used to say down coast, to wax poetic over chili and beer, so we mixed & matched ingredients, and warbled with our talents. We were out of stuff so Bob went to the Safeway. Returned grinning with six varieties of peppers. Needless to say a warming torch during this morning's constitutional had me grabbing for more than grain as my next of kin. Sue followed Bob. I had a stiff neck upon waking that morning, and with all the it of yesterday crawling exactaways down between my shoulder blades as the day wore on—driving spiked letters, plumfiring fearsome and weary words with the puffs versus enuffs we all were relieved of by that alcohol binge with the boys & Baby by evening. I think again I've noticed this deathkick pattern I can't escape until the grave. Every time I don't partake of at least one beerglut a weekend by Monday I fail the polyglot, hang a stiff neck, or am bound to broker a bad intestinal tract. All of which then pertly leads me straight to a beer fix and another series of egg questions we all have to sit down with but mostly right now it just seems MY problem. Am I to fix this broken machine of personality disorders, work a savvy solution or two, or three, or just perpetuate it by mimicking it, or stumble through that popular sin of omission by simply ignoring it. Not an easy tally to finesse. Always results in a mudslide of rambling wreck claims. But yesterday I could have passed. I was ready to pass, take a rain check on that opportunity to visit with Bob, chow, and chortle, but I conceded with a certain joy. And we subsequently tore the leaf off the fig. Had a good time. Tim stepped in after work dead tired but micromanaged a string of Shipman logistics to finish his chili mac specialty of the Bob before retiring to his mat. Yeah Bob. Thanks for the memories, the perspective, the piss in the wind. Next door neighbor for 3 years, ain't it Bob? Bought the house next to the one we mortgaged just shy of ten ago. And just like it says on the label we've been some sort of sneaky friends for twelve now...

Now mind you not too many weekends pass me dry, except in the mouth on hangover dehydration mode, but it is uncanny how my tensed up natural reactions to life enforce their nerve ending moxy along my spinal cord, specific to my neck and shoulder areas, and as it's put to me by fate's own finger, a single night's guzzlement tends to soothe the savage beast of course tagged with an ogle of limitations and side effects walking right on in with assorted blessings & barnacles, as bait for the U mote I Mote we all Mote for iMote debate...

There is always the dream to go back to where I came from, to build meaning from the sky down until people suddenly find themselves in the lap of luxury stuck with the problems of their lives knowing nothing they do can change THAT fact, but here is Gabriel barely in print thinking this misery that's upon us requires attention. We can tame it, or we can let it eat us alive.

Everywhere I spy I see it's just that "doppleganger?" gig or how's that go in the bigs baby? Tracking with the whole saider figs?

The taunt to be like them, not MORE than them, but less than them I CAME NOT to be.

—Shave Pierre

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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