Imagine the Limited Possibility

Some time after that night.

While working on the Novel for some incredible late, night haul, I find myself waking up with my entire body resting forward. As if standing and pressing forward against the side of the table with my head. Make sense to you? Doesn't to me either. My forehead bears, not the bruise of the weight, but it's gone right past bruise to dead skin, it was for so long, and my neck folded between my head and shoulders like a billfold, went slack to be addressed at some later point.

Now how did this happened? Shit in the fuck if I know. I think I just blacked out. Simple as that. I think I just blacked out and my head hit the side of the desk and my body could not follow it down to the floor and were thereby 'hung' there by my neck overnight. Now here's the thing, upon waking, it seemed as if only an hour had passed. So not only was I confused, but I was also amazed. What really happened?

The first thing that I noticed was that I could not lift my chin off my chest without a tremendous amount of effort and a bridle of pain began to form, like a wooden yoke worn by a mule or an ox rested upon my shoulders the likes I have never known. I thought that this would be a manageable pain, one that I could deal with, but no. It continued to grow worse and worse to the point that I was in unbelievable pain. For some reason in Hell I remembered that I had some extra strength Tylenol in the house and I pounded those down like there was no tomorrow.

The blinding pain would go away for only every four to six hours. As long as those pills held out, I could make it. The goal? Dr. A's visit at the end of the week. Just for shit's and giggles, Thursday evening I tried to take my time in administering my next dosage, giving me a little break in the pain killing to see well, just how much pain was their left to be killed. Why, at my age, do I still see the logic in doing stuff like this is still beyond me. So I let that six hour dosage turn into a seven hour dosage.

It was as if some candy assed television show of fast riding sugar sweets rolled across fields of green cotton ball candy and over pretzel stick fences to the dark lands behind the skull, where black suited construction workers mined the deepest portion of my soul with pickaxes and drills of amazing size and ferrocity. I mean, really edge of sanity shit going on back there, where I was literally punching both sides of my head in to make it feel better than the just married cans of a demon's wedding rattling by. I think the longest two points in recoded history was the two seconds between the beginning of time, and that Tylenol hitting the blood stream a second time. I was never...ever late with the next dosage again.

Early Friday morning it was an uphill battle getting out of bed, up and out to Dr. A.'s office where we talked and he did an 'adjustment' on my back and things with the neck took an uphill trek. Apparently, when I slept on it wrong, I 'irritated' some of the tines at the base of the neck. IRRITATED. What the fuck happens when you break one of those little mother fuckers loose? Watch those tines boys and girls, if you know what's good for you.

Damn tines.
I'm on edge STILL I have a feature tonight at Nomad's Choir and I head there, finding it in the basement of a church which was quite large, and has been going on for several years non-stop. I have to admit, being the feature and having the joy of just sitting there and listening to one reader after the next come up with some terrific prose, I had the best seat in the house. It's very humbling to be in a room filled with such talent, and to top it all off, they PAY to hear my weak assed reading!!!

Unbelievable. To this day it amazes me. How does this work? Not that I aren't some broke assed twerp, because I are. But the fact that my work doesn't hold up a candle to theirs, and don't give me the 'economics' and the 'sliding scale of poetry' or any other fancy way of putting it. It's pay for writing. It may be twenty dollars, but it's a kings fortune when you're poor. And I get paid to listen to some beautiful work, and in turn leave behind whatever it is you want to call mine.

From there I took my broke ass back home, another mile marker down in my path. I'm feeling good no matter the adversity. Always hold out, even when there is nothing left to hold out for. The dead can't celebrate, and there are no parties in the grave!!

Fight for your right!

Hobobob