Sunny today, with a blue cirrus sky, and the temp is presently only 66˚F.
Since 2004, I've been coping with extremely painful neuralgia in my feet. By 2009, I needed a stick to keep my balance, as the area around my big toes was mostly numb. And blah, blah, blah. I was utterly fucking determined that whatever had gone wrong there inside the labyrinth of my forefoot, the metatarsals and phalanges, all the metatarsophalangeal and interphalangeal joints, and the associated plantar nerves, I would not let it screw up my life. Then I was started on gabapentin – for my PNES seizures. My psychiatrist and I were both unaware that, although gabapentin was originally developed to treated seizures, turns out it has a wide range of benefits for sufferers of neuropathic pain. Back to my feet, which began, unexpectedly, getting better after I started the drug. So much so that, later this year, I was able to ditch the cane and walk unaided. Even go barefoot again, which I'd not done since 2005, so sensitive were my feet.
But I still have very bad days. Like today. I wake up with ground glass between my joints (shooting upwards into my ankles and even knees), my balance is shot to hell, and the gabapentin and pain pills don't help. These rotten fucking feet. But I refuse to allow them to slow me down, and I refuse to go back to the cane, and I refuse to be slowed down by the pain. This is pain. And pain is what I do, all my life. So, fuck you, my goddamn rotten feet. Keep it up, I'll have you both amputated and replaced with those sexy "J-Curve," carbon-ally transtibial prosthetics.
This is manifestly NOT an entreaty for pity. Fuck pity, too. This is what I think, this is how I maintain my dignity, which is infinitely more important to me than pity. If it doesn't work for you, go with what does.
I swore I saw you sitting on my bow
With a foot long smile trying to convince me
That it’s okay to give into the waves
And that I wouldn’t feel a thing
When the hounds of the sea start to take apart me
Ending my suffering
If I should pour the rest of my bottle overboard will it sting the eyes-
Those black eyes staring up at me from behind all those teeth?
Or should I save the last sip for my frozen gut and my blue lips? ~ Giant Squid
Yesterday, I was shone the rough artwork for a Greg Ruth painting for anAlabaster cover (to appear on a forthcoming dark Horse Presents), and fuck, fuck, fuck, it was gorgeous.
I promise that Sirenia Digest #81 – the 100+ page extravaganza issue! – will go out to subscribers tonight or early tomorrow. This morning, I received Vince's illustration for "Our Lady of Tharsis Montes."
Today is the tenth anniversary of Firefly. And a decade on, you still can't stop the signal.
Yesterday was "lost" in a haze of editing the first four installments of Alabaster: Boxcar Tales and realizing – wait for it – that I have to tear apart Fay Grimmer and insert most of the novel...well, earlier than I'd thought it would occur. I thought I was in the novel's middle, and I discovered, instead, I'm approaching the climax. I don't think I've ever blown it like this. Unless it was "The Maltese Unicorn." And there's no time for having blown it. So, yeah, that was yesterday. Today, I talk with my agent and give her the news that I'm picking the novel apart and "starting over" (fortunately, almost everything I've written, almost none of that will be lost).
Hopefully, she won't yell at me. I'll strategically insert comments about my foot pain that will make her feel like she'd be yelling at a cripple (yeah, I'm comfortable with that word; bite me).
Meanwhile the "pay the taxes" (because whose heard of health insurance?) eBay auctions continue. Take a gander at the goodies.
I should go, but look for news tomorrow about how we're going to work together to keep Alabaster going.
Fuck You, Feet