#I need to be prescribed a rest by the sea in a temperate climate

[thebibliosphere]

I think the most annoying thing about when my neck injury from the chiropractor flares up, is that it feels like cracking my neck will fix it.

It feels like if I just move right or stretch it far enough the permanent tension at the base of my skull will ease and my head will stop feeling like it’s a half inch too high on one side. (The misalignment is mere millimeters but it feels like a lot more. Feels like someone’s driven a shim between my skull and the atlas at the top of my spine.)

It won’t, of course. Because it’s not a too tight muscle making my head sit wonky. It’s protective scar tissue. Scar tissue that helps splint the area and keeps my skull from cronching my cervical vertebrae like an anvil punching through polystyrene ceiling tiles.

(It’s amazing how heavy your head feels when the muscles in your neck don’t work right.)

And even though I’m aware of this. Even though I’ve worked hard for several years in physical rehab to strengthen the area and relieve what pain I can, it just feels like popping my neck would fix it and it’s taking everything in me not to because that’s the devil talking.

I should probably find my brace, though. Maybe that’ll help.

#chronic health tag #injury #neck injury #it’s this fucking weather #all my joints are swollen #everything is aggravated #I need to be prescribed a rest by the sea in a temperate climate #like an ailing regency novel mama

[toddgoolsby-blog]

A Stranger’s Tale Part One

     This is a story in the age of fantasy and sorcery, where wielders of magic and heroes of mystifying strength are legend to deeds as if they were gods. Their stories spread throughout the land, as evil warlords and witch kings die under their blades and spells. Unfathomable wealth and treasure plundered, unholy artifacts smashed under their heels. But this story isn’t about that. Sure, I live in that age, but I am neither wizard nor knight. I serve no king, nor quest for a princess’ favor. I’m what’s considered a vagabond, a wanderer, a waif of this world, lost to purpose and unclaimed by any of worth. I’m sure I once had a name, given by my birth-folk, but I hadn’t use for them nor their care. I left as soon as I could walk, I suppose, or perhaps I was abandoned. My earliest memories consist of relying on no one but myself, dredging though the murk of forests at night, resting my head on the broken bricks of forgotten roads. I’ve seen the evidence of horrors and honor of this time, nigh did I ever hold interest for such. I imagine no great purpose for myself, just a bite to eat and a bottle of wine to ease my stomach when it calls. I’ve seen the open plains, the seas to the east, the desert far north. For three seasons now I have settled, some my consider it so, in a small fishing village of temperate climate and customs. I traded stories for coin and bought a small shack just on the end of the village markers. I raise chickens. What I don’t eat I sell in the market. What I don’t sell in the market I trade for drink at the tavern. It’s ne’er enough to fill my want, but the owner is fair, and his daughters keep their blushing secrets from him. I became friends with an old, bearded practitioner of the more mystic arts of alchemy. He makes medicine for the townfolk that even sometimes cures their ailments. He spends most of his time sitting on a tall rock, line in water, hoping to catch his next meal. He refuses payment for his medicine, with good reason which lays at the root of its inconsistent effects on its prescribed illnesses, so many leave a bit of coin on his stoop. He pays the children of the village to go into the forest or along the banks for herbs and roots or whatever else he believes he needs for his concoctions. I ensure to spend time with him daily, sometimes only as a greeting, other times at great length. I find his stories much more fascinating that my own even though he hasn’t journeyed from this village even once in his entire life, and a long life it has been. He sometimes talks of an apprentice, a young man whom name, apparently, the old man has sworn to never speak. I spend very little time pondering what scandal surrounds the reality of their relationship, but it is enough to darken his otherwise whimsical demeanor considerably. Ne’er did I see his anger emerge than when the thought of this young man surfaced in his mind. I had just left him there at the rock mere moments ago on my way to The Taken Hook, the village tavern, with a sack of eggs and a butchered hen, fat and tender when I heard a haggard voice call my attention. A man in torn robes, hood over his face, sat on the ground in the village square. “Do you have time for a story?” He said. His voice was luring, and I heard his words as if from the past, spoken from mine own lips. “The real question is, do you?” I challenged. “I will start a story and if it pulls at your curiosity, even a little, you will owe me something in return for it’s ending.” I nodded. “That seems fair enough.” I smiled. “Dare I tempt you the same bet, sir?” He nodded. “I will start...” He insisted.