This is ridiculous.
I’ve written several posts today, but have abandoned all of them, and they lie incomplete in my documents folder.
I got bored with the insightful article on Victorian photographic portraiture . . . though I reserve the right to re-visit this in the future . . . ; I got muddled by my account of sounds that annoy me or make it hard for me to navigate in a new space; I got annoyed by my neo-Buddhist examination of the meaning of silence.
In short, I have been muddled all day.
My painkillers for my sciatica have been increased, with the result that all is a muddle.
The painkillers have not killed the pain; they have deadened my contact with it. My brain seems to have become a ball of apathy. What I have become is a raw pain in a body that doesn’t care that it hurts. And what’s the point of that?
I can imagine that I might be in a state of panic now, or frustration at my inability to focus. Fortunately, I know how this brain of mine goes, and from whence it gets its sensations.
So, I will ride the confusion, surrender to the heaviness of laboured thought, and see where it takes me.
I made it to the woods with Ruby this morning, though I suspect the adventure had not been properly risk-assessed.
I walked slowly, sitting every thirty yards or so to ease out my spine and listen to the enveloping silence. It all sounded like that silence you get when you’ve got a really heavy head cold. The woods felt sinusy!
Even the baby buzzards that had been mewing for food every day near the millpond had gone, to ride high thermals over the moors.
The world has become distant and still and quiet, as though it is waiting for me to come back.
Big worry now . . . have I written a load of drivel? Publish it, Steve, and be damned . . .