Artist at Work

Last night I had a bout of insomnia due in part to the fact that I have been discouraged by my PT from sleeping in my most satisfying position—on my side, top knee hiked up, bottom leg straight—as it "mobilizes my SI joint" or something like that, in a bad way, so that I wake up stiff and feeling ninety. So this afternoon I crabbed at Stella that Mommy would be taking a nap. (Note: I did wake up this morning far suppler than usual, praise be.)

This is what I get for chasing the dragon of restfulness (yes, with a Sharpie)—

furiously and regularly

I haven't blogged furiously and regularly in a while so I'm grateful for each little red dot that shows up in my Feedjit map. Because I've neglected you. In fact I've pruned you. Did you notice? I've cut large swaths of posts, streamlining my ramblings into a hopefully coherent, essay-ish patchwork.

duct tape and a toy gun

Did I tell you I grew up around here? Five minutes away. I pass my childhood home sometimes on my way to Borders, Bed Bath & Beyond, the local cobbler. I've wanted to ring the bell since I moved here in 2008.

I've been doing a lot of walking lately. Traded my sticky mat for Pilates-based physical therapy. One of my doctors told me that jogging is out due to the arthritis. I was jogging for a while too. So I've downloaded Lady Gaga and Cee-lo Green and some muh-fucking song called Traktor...and I've been hoofing it all over the sleepy nabe in hopes of snagging some kind of endorphin rush, a feeling of exercise accomplished. I'm not easy to fool though. My arms, my yoga arms...I grieve. But they'll be back someday.