Rabbit (scarfacerabbit) wrote,

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it all goes so fast...

just like breath.

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*hugs* If you need them...
As you wrote,
"I want to burn in fierce flames and notice I'm the fire."

Why was Cataline crying on her birthday?
Seems a theme this month....

I think just need the desert soon.
The hot dry wind does something
when there's something gestating
in the back of the soul
so many religions founded in the desert
no surprise

I'm almost fit for that
I can nearly close my hand again
soon I can grasp tent poles
and then I'm outta here...
Because she wasn't getting enough attention...poor girl.

I like that poem. Indeed.
I'm told there are many wonderful things in Finland, but alas there are no deserts.
If you should find your way to Morrocco or the American southwest you're in for a treat.
It's the closest you can get to Mars without leaving the planet, and at night is when it really comes alive, with rabbits, coyotes, owls, bats, and more...
Why are you sad? :/
That's what my mother used to call such moods.
I'd see her sad and ask her whats up,
and she'd use her finger against her lower lip
to make an exaggerated tremble
and say
"just a pity party"

her life
made Job's
look like candyland.

I wonder what passes through Aimee Mullins' mind/heart when she's having an off day...
mmm...think I meant something else.
Is that "fetish" as in object of spiritual significance, or "fetish" as in sexual deviance?

Thinking back on the original question, here's part of the backstory, one of the more salient contributory elements:

I was hiking with a friend the other day, and in my recovering stage we had only a short hike and stuck to fire roads only - soft padded dirt, no cast iron drainage pipes in sight.

At one point my pal slipped a bit on the gravel, and he caught himself long before even risking falling on his keester, and it should have been nothing. But nothing more than the sound of a foot slipping on gravel struck my heart cold with a momentary panic, took my breath, stopped me dead in my tracks. Paralyzed.

Of course as soon as I froze I realized it was an irrational reaction, and I should have just laughed it off. But it's not so simple.

I've spent the first half of my life not just walking down hills, nor even skipping (though I had been known to do that from time to time). I fly down mountains, across the tops of rocks, my feet barely making contact, like a Wiindigo. I've invented more ways to get down a mountain that I had limbs, and that feeling of descending a hill with such a light touch was the closest thing my heart has ever known of human-powered flight. It was flying.

Now my confidence is as shattered with my bones. It makes me fearful, so intimately aware of the frailty of the faulty materials chosen for the design of the human body. At any moment I could lose another limb, or worsen the remainder of the damaged one, and I can only rely on one arm to break a fall so I gotta be lucky: there's a 50% chance that any fall will happen on the wrong side, and if it's on the wrong side my instinct to put my arm out will only ensure a rebreaking beyond repair.

All this ran through my head in an instant after the gravel sound, and like an accellerated post-adrenalin depression I became profoundly sad. All the months of work just to look slightly less gimpish, pushing the envelope of pain tolerance just to get 40% of my former mobility, and no one knows how many surgeries I may need to use that shoulder again....

I've been trying to be a good sport about all this, and I know it's wimpy given that most of the world would have faced amputation with such an injury. And every hour somewhere in the world a child steps on a land mine. I know this. But at that moment I stood there, recognizing my fear of flying, my fear of falling, and I couldn't stop the tear from rolling down my cheek as my shoulders dropped with my head and I caught myself saying, "I'm so tired of this."

As we descended the hill, my pal patiently waited while I carefully measured each step, placing my foot tentatively on the dry leaves to ensure my hold. It took several minutes to drop just a few yards. I had been reduced to a walking puddle of fear, at 39 moving like a man of 79.

So last night I was listening to Kate Bush, songs from a time when I used to teach my friends how to fly down the hills around my home town: "Just keep lifting your legs and gravity takes care of the rest." It seems silly to lament the passing of youthful vigor at the young age of 39, yet here I am. I no longer fly. I can't. I'm too brittle.

There's an upside: I made a fist this morning. It took a bit of work after a restful sleep, the bones so comfortable in their scar-tissue-hardened extension, but I was mad. So I squeezed and squeezed and for the first time in four months my fingertips touched the palm of my hand.

Every night in the bath I've been working toward this moment, letting the warm water thaw the atrophied tendons and using my good hand to press the fingers into a curve until the pain is too much, then a brief rest, and try again. 120 nights of that, 120 days of strapping my fingers down in an Ace bandage to keep them flexed. At last I can flex them on my own.

Now that I can make a fist, watch out God.

I know to many in this world this is just the story of another spoiled American. Most of the world doesn't even eat every day, and I'm crying because Superman has to retire his cape.

But after tasting flight, it's not easy to say goodbye to it forever.