Bad Poetry From A Bad Place

My reading of fiction has slowed recently due to a bad choice of novel (yes, I still insist on finishing every book I begin). It was abominable “comedic” novel, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian. My comment to Byron was that if any Nazis came by, they could burn that book first. It was one of the books that my dear housemates/friends, Angela and James brought me in hospital. I can’t blame them for the choice though because I’d been eyeing it up in the bookstore a few days prior. It won awards and shit. It just didn’t float my boat, I’m afraid.

I’ve decided to pick up Jamie O’Neill’s At Swim, Two Boys next, as it has been highly recommended by both Richard and Donald.

That is not the point of this post though. In choosing which book to pick up (and I have already collected about a dozen to choose from), I found the poem I wrote in the back of Quentin Crisp’s How To Become A Virgin. I wrote it in the second hospital in Amsterdam, a few days after the incident.

It reminds me of how fragile I was back then.

You can recover when you get the blood from under your fingernails
Recovery is walking in thongs and braving the looks of the undamaged
Recovery is forgetting the glass and the teeth and the paranoia

It is easy to laugh in the face of evil but you’ll probably pay for it
Love can only take you so far and when it turns in on itself it can swallow universes
But not the smell of vanilla or the smell of dried blood

That is for recovery
And forgetting
And time

Dress Ups

Thanks to my very good friend, I went to my interview today decked out in a suit worth more than I have in my bank account at the moment.

Dress ups are fun.

Interview went well. I'm going to be sent a brief on Monday morning for a trial project. Can't ask for much more than that.

All in all, I expect to spend the next week sweating like a bitch, worrying if my skills are up to the task.

Hopefully, after that I can afford to buy my own ridiculously expensive suits.

¡¡¡Feliz año nuevo!!!

I'm starting my new year before this one is over. I've just decided.

Things are looking up.

The job thing: Some very nice opportunities popping their heads up, including a possible inroad into a decent advertising company.

The house thing: A nice little number in Fitzroy coming available in late January. Looks promising.

The hand thing: Fuck it, I can use it.

The boy thing: Only one cure for that...

I'll keep you posted. ; )

Happy New Year!!! Let's kiss that last fucker goodbye!!!

Scar Tissue

I neglected to let you all know about my trip to the hand therapist last week. It has been playing on my mind since then and not just because I was neglecting one of the prominent and more informative threads of NNM.

Apparently everything is going well. I still can't make a fist but the fingers are gaining movement steadily. If my hand continues to improve at this rate then I may be able to dodge going under the scalpel again. It was good news but unfortunately I realised how little work I had been putting into my hand. I had pretty much resigned myself to another operation.

More putty, more exercises and more massaging to work the scar tissue.

Scar tissue - forming even now and will do for another year or so. I found this immeasurably upsetting. It fucked my head up no end. In my mind, I was on the uphill trek, about to crest the hill and see the sunrise.

No. They are still pouring cement into my hand and I’m still sinking. (Okay, I was dealing with a breakup at the time as well.)

I know these are only symbols but I put a lot of stock in them. I walked out of the therapy wing realising that I hadn’t come nearly as far as I needed to, physically or emotionally. I’ve been living in a fantasy world for the past few months. It has been fantastic but ultimately illusory.

The road goes ever on…

Tags: hand therapy, injury, recovery