Woke up this morning and my back was surprisingly free of pain. For the past few months I’ve been dealing with a bulged disc (possibly two). For those of you who don’t know what a bulged disc is, I suggest you look it up. I knew nothing about it and still, to this day, find it easiest to describe as spine shit leaking out (which isn’t exactly a medical term.) As a consequence my neck, shoulder and upper back muscles are overloaded. They are so rigid that even the physical therapist can’t get them to loosen up. Most days I wake up wounded from nighttime movements and the kinks take several hours to loosen up.
But, this morning I felt good. I felt loose. I felt ready to move around. I started up the shower and contemplated going on a walk. I was hopeful that the healing process was progressing. Then, just as the water got to temperature, without thinking, I took a nice big morning stretch-/—/–/-fuck. I pulled a muscle. Fiery pain from the base of my skull to the top of my shoulder blade. So much for being upright today.
Looks like I’ll be spending the day in bed, which feels like a backwards slide. But as I lay here in bed I’ll think of Proust and all his time laying down. He spent his days writing writing writing, feverishly scribbling down every detail, memory and thought. I struggle for the words to describe a bulged disc and he found a way to mount eloquent hinges onto long run-on sentences. Look at what the amazing Frida Kahlo painted while suffering from spinal injury. It seems that in a world without Apple TV and Apple Music and iphones, bed-ridden people made art.