Holy Crap-Mas!

Short.  Documentation.

It's X-Mas Eve.

Spent the day with 2 extra kids, all behaved extremely well, a surprise.  Must be that last second naughty list possibility that keeps them on their toes.

Regardless, it wiped me out in a big way, not being able to rest during the day.

*     *     *     *     *

Around 5 O'clock, when the kids were picked up, I tried to relax in the hot tub.  It was impossible.  All I could do was unwind, literally.  The weightlessness of the water made it hard not to let the arms, hips and neck adjust.

A great deal shifted.  A Gestalt attempt to describe: mass/muscle went under-behind-then atop the right shoulder; mass/muscle went in front-atop-then behind the left; The right front of my throat (muscle beneath the skin, connected(?) to trachea) was swallowed, allowed to drop, letting my entire head tilt forward slightly.

I am incredibly uncomfortable, both arms seemingly requiring me to send the inverse of signals to them in order to do something without sharp pain.

I'd go the pain pills and pot route and try to go to sleep, but family is here.  On the bright side, they are all women.  Being the lone mail, it is no problem to be out on the periphery, rarely chipping in and able to slip behind a corner to sublux a limb as needed.

*     *     *     *     *

Nothing like a quick partial dislocation to speed up the process of unwinding, except when you go the wrong way.  Not fun, it's only happened a few times tonight.

And yes, the egomanical imagination is allowed to run wild in those moments between pain and involuntary continued attempts to right wrongs.  I think, "Wouldn't it be cool if I finished tonight."

Of course, I have this thought every night, but the holidays and birthdays and numerologically interesting dates always make me push just a little bit more than I otherwise would.

*     *     *     *     *

I wouldn't mind the daydreaming.  I used to do it to endure, after all.  Yet, now, it usually interferes with focus and actually slows my progress.  I can't come anywhere near the Mindfulness techniques of meditation I used to be able to do.  I'm fried. 

Although, in truth, sometimes I start exercising and adjusting and two hours go by and I haven't had more than a few thoughts I can remember.  So, perhaps I'm doing a better job of meditating.  That, or my memory is shot, too.

What was I writing about?

A Backup Date Back Update

I really wish I could articulate what I accomplished about a half hour before I sat to start writing this, but I know I cannot in the detail I would like.  Instead, I'll try to write out what I identified while trying to do the latest adjustment.

 - Both hip sockets are twisted out of alignment in the same direction such as to (a) cause the sensation of needing to twist in alternate directions, and (b) result in my right side of my core feeling as if it needed to be allowed to lift upwards, the left side downwards.

 - My lower spine's resting position feels as though it is too far back, as if the proper resting position would have my pelvis pushed further forward.  This may not actually be the spine that needs to move (or move much), as it could be the surrounding muscles or the angle of the hips from a pelvic thrust which becomes more aligned.

 - With lower spine pushed forwards, a backwards arch aids in finding muscle groups in need of alignment going from the core to points behind, in front, and seemingly within (a knot?) my right shoulder.

 - Current successful adjustments of the muscles tangling the right shoulder are linked very much to my chest's position, which I believe, at rest, is arched far too far backwards.

 - The at rest chest position, arched too far backwards, results in lungs NOT holding a proper resting volume of air.  The lungs are expanded, possibly a substantial amount more than one should at rest (at normal exhale), allowing a significant exhale when my back and shoulders are in a position I believe is much closer to their proper resting position.

This may explain a few things, like my inordinate breath capacity, even during times of constricted lungs needing Albuterol, where I could still make a breath gauge meter slap against the end of the measurement slide.  It may also be linked to the exhale/sigh/"ah" sound I used to make unknowingly as a youth, which I made after nearly any statement and was teased for as long as I can remember.

 - I believe muscles tangled around my right rib cage are responsible for the pushed out of position resting location of my chest and lungs.

*     *     *     *     *

Well, I made great progress in altering the resting position of my chest.  By the still kinked nature of my right shoulder, I believe I still have work to do, which also results in changes everywhere listed above, hopefully towards their proper positions (or maybe out of position in order to unlock a kink).

The most notable change afterwards was a clear improvement of my leverage in pulling my garbage cans out to the curb.  The sensation was overwhelmingly noticeable, especially with the heavy yard waste can.

*     *     *     *     *

As the above points imply, the number of points in needs of coordinated movement for a successful adjustment is rather complicated, and thus, hard to explain.

And yet, the sensations are becoming much easier to accomplish than ever.  It is still a challenge to get all needed done at the same time (forget one, and the "adjustment" results in something more like a stripped thread than an actual change in positions), but my successes create sensations of significant change from my jaw/face/neck down through my core to my hips and even then through the legs resulting in ankle changes (and even foot pad alterations).

Three cheers for progress.

No doubt, however, I'll know pain and/or dizziness later this evening as a result.

I'm Back, and Winter Is Coming with Me

I have so much I could try to explain.

The muscle development in my back, touched upon earlier, has continued at a rate which feels exponential.

One true positive occurred while meeting with my Rhuematologist.  I described the two portions of muscle I was becoming able of flexing in my lower back, one on each side of my spine, and she matter of factly stated in a 'continue, please' type tone, "as it should."

I nearly broke down in tears.

Let me be clear.  I have been as close to certain as one can be that I have been doing something right all these years.  I have been as close to certain as one can be that this latest muscle development in my lower back was right.  Yet, I did not know it was right.

I finally have some measure of confirmation.

*     *     *     *     *

This does not at all mean things have been rosy.  I am a mess.

The muscle development in my lower back has created slack (for lack of a better word) in both shoulders and hips.  It has lead to changes in my jaw, head, and face that I cannot keep up with.  Dizziness and ear aches are commonplace.  My swallowing difficulties reappear worse than ever for a day or two, then vanish entirely.

And it is starting to get cold . . . .

*     *     *     *     *

I am genuinely fearful of the months ahead.  When I do not continue to strengthen everywhere, parts get behind, things get very difficult, and I become riddled with pain and discomfort.

The colder it gets, the more difficult it is to relax and/or identify muscle groups needing work.

This is to say, when not cold, I can meditate my way from flexing these "new to me" back muscles to where they extend to by connections, my core, my limbs, my neck, even my groin.  Cold, I'm lucky to extend and work one area.  Others go unidentified, creating more unbalance, more . . . difficulties.

This is on top of just plain miserable physical conditions as the temperature drops.  Sleep becomes near impossible.

*     *     *     *     *

At the end of last Winter, I hoped I would not go through another while still adjusting.  It was a miserable experience.  Now, I face one with much more significant adjustments happening almost daily.

This will be bad, and I am having a hard time knowing it is on the horizon.

Baseball Fanology (an old post)

I have not been writing much.  That and my discovery that an old post I put on McCovey Chronicles a few years back is no longer available has made me put an old copy of this up here, just to keep adrift.

On the personal front, the changes are getting rather insane, which goes toward my being unable to write much.  I hope to get an update of sorts written at some point.  Anyway, here is some baseball fanology.

*     *     *     *     *

The following is a lighthearted attempt to describe different types of baseball fans as if they could be categorized into Jungian Archetypes.  Baseball fans vary.  All are unique, like snowflakes, or those weird cross breed dogs where they staple Poodle DNA to a "real" breed hoping for a "real" breed that doesn't shed - like the aussiepoo.  Let's stuff everyone into  little boxes anyways.

[To the Poodle owners I have irritated by suggesting their dogs are not of a "real" breed, relax.  I'm going piss off everyone by the end of this post.]

Any similarity to persons living or dead is no accident at all.

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The Fair Weather Fan

An individual of little to no moral value, the Fair Weather Fan (hereafter, the FWF), is the single most common obstacle towards the enjoyment of baseball.  They aspire to associate themselves with winners in a desperate attempt to avoid their own shortcomings.  The seek only euphoria and expect instant gratification.  Most care only for home runs.  Pitching and defense is thought of as time to use the restroom, visit concessions, or make phone calls.

The FWF can often be located when sitting in lower box seats, usually attempting to wave to friends while talking on a cell phone in the background of the televised side view of a players' at bat.

The FWF changes "allegiances" for teams depending on the latest win streaks.  Their closets contain gear from multiple teams.  When asked how long they have followed their current team of choice, a FWF will always provide the defensible qualification "as long as I can remember" before providing a tenuously suspect justification.  Common justifications include: born in [city of team], born near [city of team], lived in [city of team], lived near [city of team], visited and liked [city of team], once drove through [city of team], has a relative who was born in, born near, lived in, lived near, visited and liked, or drove through [city of team], and of course, likes the team colors.

Famous Fair Weather Fans:  Carrot Top, Gary Radnich, Meg Witman, Sylvester the Cat, Zsa Zsa Gabor. 

The Weather Vane Fan

A common fan type.  The Weather Vane Fan (hereafter, the WVF) who's opinions are swayed by the recent events of their team.  The amount their opinions sway varies from WVF to WVF, as does the significance of the events which can cause the sway.  The extreme WVFs are borderline schizophrenics, going from complete confidence to utter depression with each pitch.  Most find their opinions subliminally affected by the last win, loss, or streak.  Other WVFs find their attitudes alter over longer periods, usually defined by eras appropriately labeled according to the positive or negative vibes the WVF has with a given individual (the Sabean era, the Bochy era, the Posey era, etc.)

To some extent, 92.7% of all fans fall within this archetype.

The Optimist

Not the rarest of fans, but you have a better chance of of being struck by lightning than being a true optimist, unless you are also a Yankee fan.  [Money can't by love, but can buy optimism by the barrel.]  Still, the haves and have nots of mlb, on the heels of the steroids era, have the true optimist close to being recognized federally as an endangered species. 

Technically, there is no time requirement towards fan categorization, so there are always plenty of optimists among the newer baseball fans.  This number drops dramatically with every year of being a fan, however, until year 7.  After following baseball for seven years, anyone who can still be optimistic regardless of their team's roster is going to be an optimist for life.

If one approaches the characteristics of optimism rationally, there can only be one conclusion.  The optimist is ignorant.  There can be no other explanation for his bliss-like naiveté.

Famous Optimists:  Brittany Spears, Felipe Alou, George W. Bush, Mychael Urban, Peter McGowan. 

 The Doomsayer

 It used to be difficult to find a Doomsayer.  People who actually epitomized all that is pessimistic did not speak up as often as they would have liked for fear of losing their few friends.  Then, Al Gore invented the internet.  The Doomsayer had soap box to scream from while protected in the shadow of anonymity.  Countless quiet, seemingly polite individuals would come home from their work day, sit at the computer, and morph into a virtual Golem.

Nothing short of a 10-0 perfect game can satisfy the Doomsayer, and even then, he will complain about the terrible announcers that ruined the televised event.  The Doomsayer is compelled to correct everyone, but only if it pushes an opinion further towards the negative.  Logic need not enter any equation, nor consistency.  All that matters to the Doomsayer is that the status quo is unacceptable, and this point is repeated ad nausium in every conceivable angle the Doomsayer can articulate.

Ironically, the never satisfied Doomsayer is quite often the only fan of a non-championship team to be content at the end of a season.  They rest comfortably under the not often logical conclusion that their team did not win the World Series because they were right.  The manager should have called the plays the doomsayer pointed out after the fact.  The GM should have made the trades he suggested (like Randy Winn for Albert Pujols) if the organization was serious about winning.

In the event his team actually wins the World Series, the Doomsayer conveniently changes tunes, becoming a Fair Weather Fan in the process, further lowering their value to a society.

Famous Doomsayers:  Glenn Beck, John, Nostradamus, and Tim Kawakami.

The Math Guy

The only thing separating the Math Guy (hereafter, the MG) from your average computer geek math genius is that the MG actually likes sports.  Some even play.

The MG knows far to much about statistics.  In their mind, baseball is a complicated version of blackjack, where the discovery of new data to incorporate into a statistical analysis is tantamount to card counting.  The MG really should be counting cards at a blackjack table instead, but they are usually gifted enough at computers or some other such nerdy enterprise as to not need to worry about money.  An MG is most comfortable talking to other MGs who understand their Saber metric terms.  They often consider non-MGs to be "missing the point," or, "not even watching the same game."

The MG, however, rarely delves into non-numerical aspects of a team.  Club house chemistry is a concept they know exists, but do not really understand.  This is why the MG is always a male.  Women, even mathematically gifted women, have emotional depth sufficient to understand the complexities and the necessity of interpersonal relationships.

The MG rarely has a girlfriend, though they are married for their money.

Famous Math Guys:  Theo Epstein.  Those guys at Fangraphs.

The Know-It-All

While the Know-It-All is more of adjective to add on to a classic fan archetype (like the "Know-It-All Weather Vane Fan" or the "Know-It-All Doomsayer"), they are worthy of their own archetypal classifications nonetheless, especially as they are experienced in greater numbers and far greater frequency the longer one remains on-line.  They must, however, be broken down into sub-categories.

A.  The True Know-It-All (aka The Know-It-All)

The rarest of all fans.  The Know-It-All (hereafter, the KIA) is to be both honored and pitied.  The KIA lives baseball.  The KIA spends nearly all waking moments thinking about baseball, reading articles, studying scouting reports, and analyzing statistics.  The knowledge within their mind is incalculable.  They rarely offer their opinion without clearly stating so.  That which is fact, they know as fact, and they keep it separate from any statements of opinion which could be susceptible to error.  The KIA must be honored given their rarity and the amount of accurate information they can impart during a discussion.  However, they must also be pitied for having no life outside of their obsession for baseball.

The discovery of a KIA is incredibly difficult, especially since the advent of the internet, which provides an Almost-But-Not-Quite-A-Know-It-All or even a clever Nowhere-Near-Know-It-All (both discussed below) the ability to appear knowledgeable.  Absent personal knowledge or extensive reputational evidence, one should never label anyone a KIA.  To do so would significantly raise the likelihood of finding one's own self labeled a Nowhere-Near-Know-It-All.

Famous Know-It-Alls:  Peter Gammons.

B.  The Almost-But-Not-Quite-A-Know-It-All (aka The Wanabe)

The simplest definition of an Almost-But-Not-Quite-A-Know-It-All (hereafter, the Wanabe) is an individual who believes he is a KIA.  The Wanabe is completely unaware of the most basic of KIA principles - "You never know enough."  On the contrary, the Wanabe is quite content with the mistaken presumption that they already know everything they need to know, and that any unfamiliar situation can be easily figured out through their omniscience.

Make no mistake, the Wanabe is a knowledgeable individual, just not nearly as knowledgeable they believe.  As one finds with the Doomsayer, "I told you so," is a common utterance of the Wannabe.  This is because all Doomsayers are Wannabes by definition, at least until their team actually wins it all and they transform into a Fair Weather Fan, who, by default, are no longer acknowledged to know anything whatsoever.

And while every Doomsayer is a Wanabe, the Wanabe can be any type of fan.  Sadly, the internet allows the Wanabe an audience of Optimists and Fair Weather Fans which he can pontificate to under the delusion of KIA status, usually creating Wanabe Optimists and Wanabe Fair Weather Fans in the process.  One need only turn on a radio or read a published article to find the work of such Wanabes, though they are by no means limited to professional writers. 

Just about anyone who expresses an opinion is a Wanabe to some extent.  Those with considerable knowledge yet still susceptible to pride are Greater Wanabes (GW).  Those with limited knowledge are Lesser Wanabes (LW).  The more one learns about baseball, the more individuals you believed to be Greater Wanabes become Lesser Wanabes with every new bit of knowledge you attain. 

Famous Almost-But-Not-Quite-A-Know-It-Alls:   Buster Olney (GW) and Bob Costas (LW).

C.  The Nowhere-Near-Know-It-All (aka The Idiot)

The Idiot, or Nowhere-Near-Know-It-All, is identical to the Wanabe in their mistaken self assessment, only their actual baseball knowledge is so low as to be undeserving of Lesser Wanabe categorization.  This is no small distinction.  The acceptable amount of knowledge for a Lesser Wanabe classification is quite minimal, knowing a mere 40% or one's favorite team's roster is usually sufficient.  Outright stupidity spoken with arrogance is required to be an Idiot.  For example, an Idiot may confidently proclaim the mistaken belief that the rules of school yard kickball, like do-overs or asking the pitcher for baby-bouncies, apply to mlb.

In person, these individuals can often be identified before uttering a single word, by scent, having likely soiled themselves by 10 O'clock in the morning.  Occasionally, they manage to masquerade as Lesser Wanabes, if only momentarily, by cutting and pasting other people's opinions on the internet or by the reading of prepared statements from behind a podium or on the radio.  Never fear.  Their true selves always surface.

There is really no excuse for them.  There is no legitimate justification for their continued existence.  Yet, they always manage to find themselves in positions of power or substantial influence.  Murphy's Law.

Famous Nowhere-Near-Know-It-Alls:  Bob Fitzgerald, Bud Selig, and Joe Buck.

The Dodger Fan

Originally believed by most Cognitive Psychologists to be the result of a birth defect linked to chromosomal damage from smog inhalation, the consensus today is that the syndrome is learned rather than innate.  Evidence suggests that the absent minded masses of Los Angeles turn to the Dodgers after their original entertainment of choice is no longer available, much as a starving vagrant will root through animal feces hoping for undigested matter which can still provide sustenance. 

Some of the more convincing evidence stems from the significant rise in the number of Dodger Fans following the cancellation of some of history's worst television programs.  Some of the largest spikes in fan attendance ever recorded in mlb history for a single team:  1971 Dodgers, following the cancellation of Petticoat Junction, 1981 Dodgers, following the cancellation of the Three's Company spinoff The Ropers, and most recently, in 2008, following the cancellation of ABC's Cavemen.  Rumors have it that, currently, both sides of the McCort's divorce proceedings are stalling in attempts to determine the future boost in team value following the inevitable failure and cancellation of American Idol.

Little is really known about The Dodger Fan as those who have attempted to study them invariably go insane or commit suicide.  What little is known has been deduced from the notes of the fallen.  For the safety of the reader, their attributes must not be discussed in any detail.  It should go without saying that Dodger Fans should be avoided at all costs.  Extended exposure to even the youngest of Dodger fans has been known to cause dizziness, light-headedness, head-ache, stomach ache, nausea, bulimia, diabetes, bleeding of the eyes and/or ears, skin cancer, tuberculosis, syphilis, aneurysm, heart attack, rectal leakage, and in some cases, leprosy.  Exposure to a long time Dodger fan is believed to be the only known cause of spontaneous combustion.

 

My Journey West

While I continue to struggle trying to find a way to describe not only what I am feeling but what it means, I have come up with a decent analogy as to what the experience of the last ten years have been like.

First, I acknowledge my presuption that what I am doing can/will make me better.  But let's not dwell on such a trivial matter (as I blush a little from embarrassment, knowing just how great the odds are that I may be wrong).

*     *     *     *     *

Let's pretend I am on the East Coast, and I know only two things, things we shall presume are true:

1) If I get to the West Coast, all will be well, and
2) Between me and the West Coast lies the Rocky Mountains, a very difficult impediment.

*     *     *     *     *

Now, take note of what I do not know.

1) I do not know about the Appalachians or the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
2) I do not know about rivers.
3) I do not know about long stretches of plains without water.
4) I do not know how far away the West Coast is, nor do I know where the daunting Rocky Mountains are.

*     *     *     *     *

All I have is a compass and the knowledge that if I keep going West, I can be free.

[In case you don't spot a portion of the comparison right off.  My "compass" is the knowledge that may changes are taking me West.  I know West by feel.  For this metaphor/analogy it's a real compass.]

*     *     *     *     *

Now, add that I am walking and that I am barefoot and that my feet bleed often.  Let's say I suffer from ankle fissures.  Walking across the room can be an ordeal, and I am trying to cross a continent.

*     *     *     *     *

There you have it.  That is what it is like.

Consider that I have now been walking a very long time.

Early on, every pass I reached in the Appalachians, I was certain was the highest apex of the Rocky Mountains.  I'd thought the hardest part was over, time and again, not knowing I had barely begun.

Now, I am exhausted, still not knowing if I have crossed the Rockies. 

For all I know, I am still in the East, or perhaps I am in the foothills or the California Central Valley, ever so close to reaching the coast.

All I can do is keep moving west.

Another Puzzle Piece

Further documentation.  This is more because I hurt to much to try to write it longhand in my journal than that I had some desire to post it here.

*     *     *    *     *

The adjustments continue.  The most notable being a segment of meat/muscle climbing up my back.

It is such that I can visualize a short segment rising from just below the shoulder blades to just above them, and it seems that I can do it. 

The change doesn't remain, however.  It is just the beginning of strengthening the muscles involved.

While swimming, this had a tremendous effect upon my freestyle.  It freed up the arms a great deal, and this is with the newly freed legs from only days ago.  One objective fact worth noting is that I could breathe on either side with easy in this posture.  I've never been able to take a functional breath over my left shoulder while swimming freestyle until just yesterday.

Wow.  Just wow.

*     *     *     *     *

Of course, such progress has come with a cost.

The adjustments around the shoulder have ridden waves both down through the hips and up through the jaw and face, even around the eyes.  Some dizziness returned for a while.

But the jaw has become swollen, again, just off, just to the side of where my old "ear infections" kept reoccurring.

And now I am certain -

At least to some extent, the vast majority of my "ear infections" in the past 2-3 years, those times when severe swelling had closed the ear canal and caused severe pain, those times where the doctors have looked in my ear, been unable to see because of a closed canal, and quickly prescribed antibiotics and ear drops, many of these were not really about the ear canal.

The ear canal was collateral damage.  The joints and ligaments around my jaw, so loose already, tweak the neck and ear, causing aggravation to lymph nodes, resulting in swelling that eventually includes the ear canal.

Now, the question comes to mind whether or not the ear infections of my youth, too, were actually related more to my perversion than to water drying out within the ear.

Flap Them Wings

Some big changes lately.

Extreme release of the lower back has freed my legs such that I can kick flutter kicks doing freestyle which do not take much effort at all.  It's amazing how much less tension exists.  It still takes a while to get back to this point, but it's been easier to reach each day.

Another offshoot, trying to apply the same relaxation and elongation of the lower back while running (which is much more difficult), resulted in the ability to run with a focus on the left foot and leg, almost as if left handed.  This, in turn, freed deep knots around the right shoulder.

Last, at least last remembered, is a deep stitch in my right side that I am finding room to work with.  It is possibly the initial tweak, as it is clearly a tangle of sorts from the right shoulder (the one dad pulled out) all the way into my core on the right hand side.  I am not sure I have found how to release it, but I have at least clearly identified it, the first important step.

On to the new coincidence, . . .

*     *     *     *     *

I'll keep it short as I need to be on my way to the pool, but-

Things advancing so much, so quickly, and the latest focus on both shoulders gave me the creeps, especially since it seems to possibly be the final focus needed, just discovered this morning.

Elongating the torso, trying to find the top of the shoulders (which on the right side, what should be on top feels buckled, cramped toward the back of the shoulder near the arm pit), I started oscillating both arms. 

Not in a back and forth, pendulum type movement, mind you, I did it much more fluidly.  Finding what I hope is the (real) top point, elongating beneath it, and then allowing the upper torso to push it forward and backward.  The top going back and forth, what is under it follows, slightly trailing, then past the end point of the "top" portion of the shoulder while the "top" has started back the other way.

I knew immediately this was going to be very helpful, my arms moving like a slo-mo video of bird wings.

Then, it hit me.  It's like Butterfly wings.  Coincidence?

*     *     *     *     *

When my kid was itty bitty, I'd do a silly thing with her.  Aiding, no pretty much doing it to her, I'd flap her arms up and down while saying, "Flap your wings and you might fly.  Flap your wings and you might fly."  We'd both laugh.

Those words came back at me with a vengence this morning.

I'm flapping.

Coming to a Head?

I am feeling ill.

The right side of my head, again, is swollen.  Small miracle, it is now below the ear canal.  So while I have some ear discomfort, ther agony of a severe ear infection is not present.

That said, I was crazy dizzy two days ago, and currently feel pretty awful.

I can't rightly describe how I feel right now.  I've never felt this way before.  I don't like it, and I am not very functional.

*     *     *     *     *

I have a theory, surprise.

The kink involving my right shoulder and neck, I hope, is coming to a turning point.

As usual, the progress has been very noticeable, subjectively as well as objectively.  The sensations have felt very much like the knot is getting smaller, maybe manageable is a better word.  It feels as thoughI may be able to isolate and undo it soon.

Objectively, there has been shoulder, neck and face changes.  Yet, it is this current swelling, identical to all those "ear infections" (as diagnosed by the powers that be), that is now below the ear canal.  It, too, may be lowering toward the section tangled curtain cords within me I call the kink.

Now, it's back to bed.

The Four Corners (or Clear On It's Face or Facially Apparent)

[Big changes in the upper torso, but this one is to document a change in my face I find hard to explain.]

It is like a muscle slid to the side (in very painful fashion while yawning, then adjusting my jaw) and suddenly my cheek bones are more pronounced, the flesh beneath them allowed to drop into place, creating depression between my cheek bones and my mouth.

The sinus is open on that side now as well.

*     *     *     *     *

So much muscle is moving up my upper torso.

Unfortunately, I can't list all the details as I'd like.  It's safe to say I am developing a set of back muscles.  In turn, they are allowing my shoulders to lift higher, letting some of those portions I believe have been trapped or kinked to release.

It's been too overwhelming to really consider the extent of this progress.  It's just too much.

I am optimistic on one front, most of all.  The muscle building at the back of the base of my neck is allowing significant extension to the back of the neck.  I can keep my head in a more proper posture, rather than cricked.

Had hoped to write more.  Hopefully I can map out some of what is going on better later.

An After-Life Possibility

[As promised, here comes my latest idea, an interesting possibility, not entirely fictional given recent quantum physics discoveries concerning cause and effect.  A note first, however, on Maya, my 14 year old lab/boxer, she had a grand mal seizure last night.  Urine and anal gland secretion all over the floor, she had collapsed and begun the leg spasms while I lay across her to keep her stable.  When she came to, she panicked, I believe more because she urinated in the house than because of the experience.  My daughter took it well, as did I.  I've known her end was soon coming for some time.  I think the reality hit my wife hard, though.  She was in that - "Sure she's dying, but it will be 2-3 more years" type of denial.  I guess it still may, but it would not be a good bet.  I doubt she'll make winter, which will leave me, trapped in a house with a small dog I don't really get along with.  Joy.]

*     *     *     *     *

Okay, this will be quick, or not.  I just want to get the idea out there.

First, the assumptions.

(1) A soul exists which contains some type of will.

Note this really assumes a few things, but we don't need to dive very deeply into them.  I do believe in a soul, at least of sorts.  I think some energy is zooming around inside us, oscillating, more likely. 

I do think it just as possible, however, that such a soul lacks a will.  This is to say, after death, this energy would be more an an echo of the self than a being.  It would continue to oscillate as it did within the body, but now free of that mortal prison.  As such, it would not really think or make choices.  Of course, an argument can be made that we do not really think or make choices either, so I guess I'll let that go for now.

All that matters for this theory is that a soul of sorts continues.  It was you.  It has your memories.  Let's consider it a butterfly that remembers life as a caterpillar.

(2) Time is not at all what we perceive it to be.

Here, I do not wish to go back into the cause and effect quantum physics ramifications.  Rather, just admit we do not understand time.

The reality we experience is bound by our linear perception, one moment after the other.

Could it be this experience, the linear perception of time,  is a result of our physical form?

*     *     *     *     *

So, the theory - The soul is not bound by time.

Think of it as a Cat's Cradle situation.  The soul, once free of the body, is no longer stuck in time.  It can revisit, and possibly even re-experience, the lifetime just experienced from a new perspective, any portion or specific moment it wishes.

It may or may not be bound to it's lifetime, but let's entertain that it is not, meaning you may visit the lives of your ancestors or even the lives of your descendants.  If so, then your ancestors and descendants may also currently be visiting you.

Kinda cool.

*     *     *     *     *

Sure, it is simply an idea. 

However, when I thought of it, I got the chills, well, a type of them I get once on a while, a euphoric tingling sensation throughout my body.  It made me burst out laughing mid-sentence.

I had been discussing Maya's imminent death with my wife and how we may approach the topic with our daughter.  I don't believe in telling my daughter there is one right religion.  I take the "lots of people think different things" approach, and note that they are all possible.  So, while running some of the "possibilities" by my wife, the about idea hit me, with the chills, and then the laughter.

*     *     *     *     *

Why did I laugh?

Well, my mind works pretty quick sometimes, and I also saw the possibility that that euphoric chill was a sensation one may perceive as your own soul revisits a moment within your body, when it tries to experience the moment once again.

For example, I've had something much like that feeling when performing in my youth, on stage, trumpet in hand, as I nail a solo standing separate from the rest of the jazz band.  Or when I jumped off a cliff into Cleo's Bath for the first time.  Or when I had my first hallucinogen influenced giggle fits.  All very pleasant moments I would like to revisit if I could.

Perhaps I still get to.

But I took that thought a bit further during that split second realization.  Perhaps my future soul was revisiting my current self at the precise moment I first had the idea, standing in the kitchen talking with my wife, as a means of telling myself the idea was correct!

*     *     *     *     *

Sure, more likely than not, it was a product of the discussion, some type of adrenaline release, similar to what happens when you watch your favorite part of a movie (like when Andy Duphrain is not in his cell, or when Babe shuts up the crowd).

Then again, maybe that's just your soul revisiting those favorite movie moments.

A nice thought, no?  It made me laugh.

Struggles, Joy, and Fear

The roller coaster keeps souring high and diving low.

Same as it has been, my cycle continues.  It gets really hard before a breakthrough, followed by a few good days, or a good day, or a good couple of hours anyways, then back to the struggle.

Each time, I have reason to think things are getting better, for the most part.

*     *     *     *     *

The summer has not been what I had hoped.

I was supposed to run and swim, and maybe lose some weight.

Instead, the setbacks seemed to stack up.  Then, I'd have time with my daughter where I'd choose her over rehab (but it is not like other muscle systems didn't get work trying to keep up with her).  Then, the puppy.

I'll go on record that it was either the wrong time for a puppy or the wrong puppy, one of the two, maybe both.

I was not doing nearly as well as I thought, nor was ready for the demands of puppy initiations.  On top of it, I don't click with the dog.  I can enjoy playing with her, but I think the mindset of the small dog is just non-compatible with me.  I like a bigger dog.

Perhaps when she gets older, things will work better.  For now, though, she's lucky she's cute.

*     *     *     *     *

The ear infections were relentless earlier this summer.  I still believe the adjustments were the root cause.  Swelling, so much swelling, the pain was overbearing at times.

Now, a new worry, I have a small lump under the armpit.

It HAS to be from all the hyperextensions and subluxations, right?

It is only a discomfort, though very sore initially.  And only three days, yet I have not gone to the doctor.  My personal physician in on vacation and I am not up for explaining everything to someone new.  Dumb, I know.  Dumb.

It can be so many things, so many that are not bad.  Still, I fear.

*     *     *     *     *

I have to believe it is from last Tuesday.  I spent six hours out with my daughter at the State Fair.  It was a very good day.

She rode ride after ride.  We did the Farris Wheel, the biggest one.  I got to soak up so many smiles and squeals of happiness out of her.

Sure, I was a wreck afterwards, spending most of the last two days in bed, much of it worried over the suddenly swollen gland under my armpit.

But damn, it was a good day.  I've had so few in so long.  No way would I give it back.  I have far too few of them with my daughter.  Her mother does most, nearly all, outings with her.

Maybe it's not that dumb, giving it some more time before a doctor visit.  The swelling has gone down, after all.

*     *     *     *     *

Still, this tale will either continue as normal, random updates that don't really do much more than get me typing, with the occasional rant or ramble into things I think about (I have a neat one I came up with the other night which I'll probably write about soon regarding the soul after death).  OR, this could turn into something I had hoped it would not, a living obituary.

I long feared I would get to a position near normalcy, only to then end up fighting the ills people normally get to fight.  If it were not for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all, the saying goes.

But we shall see . . .

Maybe it's just another trough.  Maybe I'm on the verge of another breakthrough.  Maybe, just like the lymph node swelling near my ear, this one is because of the adjustments, as I theorize.  I sure hope so.

Things have been hard.  There is still a good 2-3 months of warm weather left.  Maybe I'll get my chance to jog and swim with regularity yet.  And lose some of this weight!

Once more, Again and Again and Again; or Return of the Localized Night Sweats

[I'm exhausted.  What follows is just some rambling meanderings as to what has lead me to this point, sitting in front of the computer screen, typing while doped.  I went from crazy sore to too numb to sleep.  So I type.]

The current problem with the puppy, other than it being a small dog, a yippee little shit, a teething terror with the jaws of a piranha and a taste for my flesh, and has a puppy brain, is that it's too damn cute to not fall for.

Even Maya, the terror of puppies, loves this little brown furry land piranha.  Of course, Maya is deaf, so the yippee portion doesn't bug her much.

No, I like the dog.  I may even get used to the small dog concept.

*     *     *     *     *

The real problem is that this is harder than I thought it would be.

When I do my little jog/swim/jog, the ONE FUCKING THING I have been able to push myself with, the one way I have been able to really experience some progress, actual tangible progress, not simply subjective, I really do give it everything I have.  I hit the "I wanna quit and walk home" moment within a block of leaving the house, and no matter how well things go, I fight through so many pains during the outing that I am mentally fried when I finally get home.

I'm spent.  The tank is empty physically, the pain is everywhere, and the mind is like a scratched record, skipping, sliding and looping.

Enter Willa.

*     *     *     *     *

I mean, the puppy has been in a pen while I was out for 2.5-3 hours.

I go straight to her and pick her up to take outside so she can relieve herself (though a few times the excited pup went as I bent to pick her up).  Then, she becomes puppy spaas.  I do what I can to entertain her.

I don't get to recover from my rehab.

The next thing I know, the wife and kid are home, and I am desperately tired.

But now it's time to be Dad.  So, I do what more I can, though poorly at this point.

*     *     *     *     *

All the while, the body keeps changing.  It's high up the back now.  The kink/knot/fold is noticeably mixed with whatever it is that so often prevents me from swallowing.  It hurts my chest, and my right arm feels almost entirely unhinged, held on by some perversion of a tendon, still twisted beyond belief.

But I know some of the changes have been real, because the night sweats have returned.  They remain limited to the exact spots where I feel myself unfold.  The pillow of sheet beneath the spot is drenched when I awake, but nowhere else.

It must be like R.E.M for the negotiated muscle groups.

*     *     *     *     *

I'd sleep in, but the new alarm clock goes off.

My daughter wakes up to the puppy biting her nose.  She wakes and plays and takes both dogs outside to do their business.  She then wakes her mother.

I wake up shortly afterwards, when the puppy is finally biting too much, too hard, and creates the "No, no, no, No, No, NO, NO, NO, NO!" alarm that my daughter becomes.

Good thing she's cute, too.

A Willa Of A Week

Things got bad.  Major swelling in the neck, jaw, and right ear have been quite overwhelming.  Eventually, I was given strong antibiotics.

I don't think the pain is a simple issue of an ear infection.  It has to be related to tensions, portions as yet unwound but under high torque and pressure as a result of previous adjustments with physical posture still not altered enough to compensate.

Anyways . . . I endured, and still endure.  I have yet been able to not require Narco for the pain.  I have yet to sleep better than one 3.5 hour session in the past 5 days (I think I've managed 10 hours).

So . . .

*     *     *     *     *

It was not exactly the perfect time for a new puppy.

*     *     *     *     *

We have settled on a name (for now, anyways), complete with Titles:

Willa, Cutie P'tutie, Queen of Doughnuts

Lizze and the wife provided the titles as Lizzie crowned Willa with a rubber doughnut squeeky toy, creating simultaneous "Oh, Cutie P'tutie" and "Queen of Doughnuts" declarations. 

Had a pic (or good lord, video) of that moment been possible, the content of this blog entry would have needed health warnings for those suseptible to death or injury by excessive cuteness.

*     *     *     *     *

She is a chocolate miniature schnauzer, and I feel completely out of my league (like a zit faced nerd high school student escorting a supermodel to the Prom).

She is unbelieveably cute.

Now, my last two dogs were both cute.  Matilda had been so "ugly cute" as to take second place in a Contra Costa County Ugly Dog Contest.

But both of them were mutts.  This dog is just sickeningly near perfect.  It's a good thing AKC does not allow chocolates (I believe they call them livers) to compete, or there is no way this one remained available for us at 11 weeks old.

*     *     *     *     *

Unfortunate to be in a trough of pain at present, but the boost from Willa has been substantial.

I have been shocked by how our 14 year old, Maya, the lab/boxer, archetype of a dominant female, has handled things.  She has been incredible.

There have been accidents, and the puppy is too tiny for Maya, creaky and heavy limbs, to try to play with, but she has been both incredibly tolerant, and seemingly more happy than she has been in years (this is the real surprise).

Recently over pneumonia, limbs hurting possibly much more than my own, she has been pretty much a food/treat oriented dog with moments of "yeah, it's nice of you to scratch me" sprinkled in.  Since Willa arrived, possibly mirroring the smiles and laughs by the rest of the family, Maya's tail tends to be higher and wagging more joyfully than it has in years, probably 5 years or more, since Matilda went blind. 

It's also all over her face, at least when pointed at us, not Willa.  She is still sending messages toward the pup, but the lip has only been barely lifted once, and Willa has done things that would have gotten other dogs on death's door just a year ago (as I prevented when my Mother's new dog growled at Maya upon entering OUR house for the first time - she wanted blood for that insult). 

It's day 3 now, and Willa has been bouncing on Maya's head.  Unthinkable.

It does get a bit depressing, however, knowing Maya just won't be able to play with Willa much, if ever.  I just don't know what she could do without accidentally crushing the pup.  On the few occasions she gets spry with us, she does not really possess body control anymore.

*     *     *     *     *

So, just as Summer is arriving, I also get a new puppy in my life.  Even the truly horrific physical hurdles of late, again keeping me from the pool and exercise, only bring moments of depression.

I'm miserable.  Make no mistake.

Yet, I'd be in despair otherwise.  Even moments of agony can't stop visions of uber-cuteness from bringing a smile or two.

Back at Wit's End

The change was abrupt.
I was treading water, then
At the bottom, drowned.

*     *     *     *     *

I thought Summer was starting.  I thought I was gaining momentum.  I thought I was possibly getting better.

I still may be, but it doesn't feel that way at the moment.

Just days ago, I was on the verge of getting a puppy.  It didn't happen.

*     *     *     *     *

I have been telling myself that the Moore, OK tornado is what sent me into depression, but it was before that tragedy.

It was the puppy.

I admitted to myself just how alone and empty I have been, and am.

It's a harsh reality I knew, but had not accepted.

So, I had decided, even though it will be difficult physically, that I need the puppy.  The physical cost is necessary.  My emotional state is desperate.  I'll take more pain for a bit of love.

Then, it didn't happen.  Wrong puppy.

And I'm left feeling very empty.

*     *     *     *     *

I'll keep looking, but I won't just jump at the first available dog.

There has to be a bit of magic.  There was with Matilda.

I won't get another without some kind of feeling that it's the dog for me.

I could use something good to happen along the way though, cause I'm back at Wit's End, that cul de sac off Insane Way.

One Odd Action

I did the jog, swim, jog thing on Thursday, the weather having returned to warmth.

It was interesting, to say the least.  My upper arms and shoulders are really finding a new position, and during the jog home, I found myself much more upright than usual, without the effort it would normally take to concentrate on remaining so.

Last night, however, I had a terrible time trying to eat.  My throat just wouldn't let me swallow.

It is not fun to spend a whole day alone.  Then, when the wife and kid finally return, and I spend 40 minutes choking, coughing, and spitting in the bathroom because I tried to eat dinner, the day goes from unfun to shit.

Anyways, I hit the spa after my daughter went to bed.  There, while trying to trace some of the tensions, I ended up (as best as I can express) swallowing my throat with my neck.

It's the best description I can come up with.

Picture a snake with a mouse half in it's mouth.  It's swallowing motion to send the mouse a bit further in it's mouth is what I am getting at.

It was like the muscles in my neck were able to swallow my throat a bit further down towards my chest.

It felt pretty odd.  I was quite overwhelmed for a while.

*     *     *     *     *

The kicker was that I was able to swallow food afterwards, with only slight discomfort, compared to the complete inability a few hours before.

Moreover, it seems to have freed up some more of my right shoulder.  The jog, swim, jog was much more productive today, and the seeming change of posture during the jog, being more upright, was even more pronounced with very little effort.

And the dizziness stints were very minor today.

Such a roller coaster.

Weeeeeeeeeee!

My Leftists Agenda

[An update as to the latest issue.]

The progress has continued, though the swimming has slowed with a return of cooler weather.

I've gotten strength in parts of my shoulders which never had them before.  This, in turn, allows them to move to new extremes and several releases have been quite promising.  I, too, can perform a controlled back arch that I couldn't have imagined only weeks ago.

Yet, a problem has finally surfaced which I have long feared, and hinted at before.

I have long noted that my two sides seem to reflect issues.  The right shoulder needs to develop one way, the left the other.

Most often, however, when I try to stretch, or make adjustments, I use both arms the same way.

More often than not, I assume, this has been harmless, as the adjustment occurs on one side, where the other side maintains the status quo.  It may have been a longer process because of this, but progress was still happening.

Now, I am not so sure.

My left thumb, quite easily, becomes a lightning rod of pain.  It's like the tendon going along the side of the thumb to the left wrist is pulled too tight, from the shoulder, and any pressure on the thumb brings intense, rather sharp pain.

I can do an adjustment to the left shoulder (I can't quite explain it - it's like pulling the arm up the shoulder, which sends slack to multiple other places), and the pain instantaneously goes away.

However, I have as yet been unable to identify what I am doing that returns the left arm to this painful position.  I only know I do it as soon as I let my guard down, and I do not maintain attention anywhere near as well as I did 7 years ago.  It's been happening 10-15 times each of the past 4-5 days.

Don't get me wrong.  The pain level has gone up, but it is not as mentally taxing as when I feel like a knot exists that I cannot figure out how to undo.  I am not at wit's end over it.

At least not yet [knocks on the desk].

There is a part of me that envisions this puzzle as one of the last.  Should I figure out how to properly rehab both arms at the same time (a maneuver that will no doubt feel awkward as all hell at first), I will find myself on a path much more directed towards where I want to be.

One can hope, anyways.

Change The Channel (A Political, Apolitical, Rant)

[While I spent a great portion of my last sleepless night going through different ways to extrpulate on the "braid" concept, which included pictures of the body made of braids, demonstrating how a kink in one deep spot shifts the entirity out of alignment, better explaining both my overall theory of the human condition and the pain I personally suffer from trying to "unbraid, then correctly braid" myself together again, I found myself thinking politics.  In truth, I'm thinking governement in general and how exasperated I am with my own country.  So, here . . . ]

I have a 6 year old daughter.  She's pretty much the reason I continue.  She is the back brace that stops so many, so many, last straws from breaking me completely.

And while my physical, mental, and emotional states limit me to being less than 10% the Dad I want to be, I have managed to plant a few seeds in that brain of hers.

*     *     *     *     *

Commercials are the bane of a parent's existence.

They fuel the need machine that is my child, as if the things she actually needed were not enough work, especially when just putting together a meal presents one with physical issues.

I have not cured my daughter of commercials, by any means.  She pulls every manipulative stop out after each new desire hits her.  [Though it would be much more fun to write them out, demonstrating both her brain power and the hell of being a parent, it would take too long to do justice, and it would send this entry into an entirely different direction.]  Yet, she does know that commercials are "trying to sell you something."

Sure, she does not totally understand this concept in terms of the inherent deceptions of marketing campaigns, but that seed exists.

*     *     *     *     *

There is one set of commercials in which I have trained an automatic response from her, which has become one of our games, one of my favorite games.

You have most likely seen them, a man sitting in front of a group of kids asks a question, they discuss, and eventually the screen solicits AT&T Wireless services.  There are a bunch, most are pretty funny.  I particularly love "Wait!  I'm watching this," while the man watches a boy do two things at the same time.

Each commercial of this set starts with the man asking a question.  My 6 year old refutes the answer given to this question.  It has become an automatic response.

She can be in the other room, practicing typing on some computer game (which blows my four-finger-one-thumb-typist mind) while I watch a sporting event on TV, when she'll hear, "What's better, bigger or smaller?"

Before the commercial even gets going from that point, she'll scream, "Bigger isn't always better!"

Then, we'll start giving examples: bigger owies, bigger car crashes, bigger messes, bigger servings of [insert food you don't like], etc.

This makes me happy.

*     *     *     *     *

What does not make me happy is that our government has become a giant commercial.  It exists, seemingly solely, to advance the profits of corporations.

While facially evil, Citizens United is only the tip of the iceberg.

Our politicians are the actors in the commercial, paid to play a part.  Granted, most do so unknowingly, just as you can get most any kid to smile and say they love McDonald's Happy Meals (at least I hope most do so unknowingly - a hope greatly hurt by the current lack of transparency in trading stocks off of governmental knowledge), but the results are the same.  Everything, EVERYTHING, is geared to perpetuate the stranglehold corporations have on this country.

Our democracy has become an illusion.  Our votes serve corporate interests, the only question really being which ones.

Just like a commercial, our government manipulates us into believing we want or need what those producing the commercial want us to buy.

*     *     *     *     *

I cry often.  It's no secret or surprise, given my pains, their duration and all.

Usually, I'll cry over something good happening, fictional or real, because I so long for something good to happen to me.

Two days ago, I watched Lincoln.  I wept, often.

This time, it was because I saw evidence of politicians actually trying to do what they objectively believed was right.  Back then, the corporate interest was slavery, and it took a war and politicians of integrity to beat those interests.

I simply cannot even imagine men being able to work within our government to do what is right today.  Even should a few somehow be elected, even should several get elected, even if they were men willing to "commit political suicide" by calling for the people of this country to stop buying the products and ideas this governmental commercial is selling, they could not possibly make any real changes, not in my lifetime, anyways.

What I am trying to do to myself is infinitely easier than the prospects of our government actually beginning to serve The People.

And so I wept.

*     *     *     *     *

Yet, maybe, we can plant some seeds.

[It's a departure, but I felt like venting.  I'm a bit bothered that I do not have the energy to go back for a proof read at present, so forgive first draft the errors that surely exist, please.]

4 Swims In-to Bed Head

[The following is by far the worst entry I have ever submitted.  I'm a mess, and so is this attempt.  So I'll let it ride, as an example, a warning, to all other idiots like myself that ever attempt to write something for people to read while a mess physically, mentally and emotionally.  If you, yourself, ever believe you may be suffering from physical, mental, and/or emotional incompetence, yet feel compelled to write something and post it on the web, remember what you are about to read, honestly, and think better of it, and walk away from the computer.  If just one reader manages to avoid a tragedy such as the prose that follows by following this advice, then I guess my shame and embarassment over the following is worth it.  Sigh.]

I got back in the pool last week, three times, and once so far this week (ungodly high winds today).

The song remains the same - extreme progress with rearranging shoulders, hips, with something "new" - core changes (since there is always something "new," it still remains the same, right?), subsequently followed by dizziness, then soreness, then a sleepless night.

I'm too tired of trying to explain the progress, but I'll note it is definitely including aspects of my core with the shoulder and hip changes.  This I do find promising.

The lack of sleep, however, is working me over something wicked.  I have no energy for optimism, though I suppose I am quite optimistic about the weeks to come.

*     *     *     *     *

I have a new metaphor (surprise!), another go, trying to express what I feel like at times.  And true to form per previous attempts, a more literal observation can be taken from the metaphor, I suppose.

The metaphor - unbraided hair.

Imagine, regardless of type, freshly brushed hair is how your body is supposed to be aligned.  Doesn't matter if it's straight or wavy for these purposes.  Just go with your own hair, but make it long if it happens to be short.

Braid it.  Leave it in the braid for a week.  Unbraid it.

So, my body, or portion thereof, feel like a bunch of unbraided hair for a few days after a successful adjustment.  Nothing lies next to each other.  Waves are pushing bends.  Hair goes in every direction.

The only possible comfort is to go back into the braid, but that can't happen anymore.  A genuine adjustment tends to be a one way ticket.  Some segment of me finds it's proper position.  It is not going back, at least not easily.  Yet, all parts connected to it, which had managed to function by creating a braid, are now unbraided.

Enter the opposite of comfort - discomfort, uncomfort, acomfort, anti-comfort.

*     *     *     *     *

So, the above, as I sat in front of this computer trying to work out the prose for this entry (which I gave up on and went free form - my apologies), made me realize what horrible bed head I have known every day of my life.

Well, not every day.  There are all the days, like the current ones, in which my head is shaved.

I don't have a good looking shaved head.  It is not horrible, either.  But this way I don't deal with bed head.

And I should also note that I have ridiculously fine hair, which does make for worse bed head.

*     *     *     *     *

Not anything profound, but the odds are, if your bed head is crazy-every-which-way bed head, as opposed to one-spot-pushed-funny bed head, you are out of alignment.  Granted, you are not likely perverted like my body is/was, but I'll bet you also have restless leg syndrome.

[I would hope anyone that has actually tried to read my rants and ravings can guess my position on "restless leg syndrome."  Yes, doctors labelled a phenomenon and throw a sedative at it when the person is really just out of alignment.  The body wants to be in alignment, and the legs are trying to do so while your conscious self is no longer running the program - very much as I believe is the case with R.E.M., the eyes unwinding the day's work - but that's a post for another day, one I probably will never write.]

*     *     *     *     *

A beyond poor entry, but I've had some issues.

I don't think I can articulate may way into expressing what I know to be true.  It just can't happen, unless read by someone with a similar situation.

What I feel happening to my body, I believe, is so outside normal sensory perception others experience, I can't possibly do it justice.

Consider acid.  If you ever took acid or mushrooms or some other hallucinogen, you can try to explain to someone that has not what it was like.  You could do an incredible job, such that that person might believe they know, they might even be able to parrot what you told them such that others believe they have done the drugs.  Yet, you know they don't have a clue. 

Not until they dose.

It's actually arguable that even those that have dropped acid don't really know what it is like when they are no longer under the influence, as seen by the "oh yeah, I remember this" moment an acid freak has the next time they drop.

Have I mentioned I attended UC Berkeley.

Anywho . . . my point.

*     *     *     *     *

It may well be that I am better off NOT trying to explain this, at least until some inspiration sets me back to prose, so much as to recommend what others should do.

And with that, here is my first bit of advice -

All children should be exposed to yoga and a form of dance which stresses posture.

Get them to activate all their muscles through yoga, as unbalance increases exponentially otherwise as they grow and live.  Then, get them to realize positions of proper posture, as these will give them moments when there body is most balanced, in effort.

If your not a child, odds are your fucked.

Not as bad as me, of course, but seeing that any well meant efforts could turn you into some fraction of me, I wouldn't recommend it.

This Is Heeling?

Not sure if I should laugh or cry.

I'll probably do a bit of both.

Probably more than a bit.

*     *     *     *     *

So, for the past two years, maybe more, I've had ankle fissures.  Last year they were pretty bad.

I'm not up for describing them in detail.  Plus, they are not exactly easy to inspect.  If you know them, you know they are painful.  Mine were predominantly former calluses that began to crack, in several places.  Many of the cracks were quite deep, nearly a quarter of an inch.

*     *     *     *     *

I had a "breakthrough" with my doctor last week.  He finally understood the sock metaphor I have used so often.  Written of previously, my adjustments sometimes feel like the moment you fix your sock.

You know the feeling.  You put on a sock, not realizing it is not on correctly.  The heel is to the side or on top, so you feel pressure in some spots of the foot and ankle, great slack in other spots.  It's just wrong.  When you shift the sock into place, it just feels right.  All those oddities, the tensions and slack, go away instantly.

It really is a great metaphor for what I go through, though I can't claim to ever get my body on right.   My muscle and skin is the sock that is out of place.  Once in a while, an adjustment puts something in a whole new place, for me, that just suddenly feels right.

[Something to think on - for nearly 30 years, I wore my socks wrong without knowing it.  Now, trying to slide them into the right place, I've got parts that are stretched out, parts that have shrunk, and I'm in terror over discovering possible holes.]

*     *     *     *     *

And so, this morning, in the shower, ankle fissures acting up even though I used some "heel balm" last night, I realized another almost-but-not-quite-irony.

Previously, the ankle fissures were behind my heels, most pointed straight behind me, varying by maybe up to 20 degrees or so.  Most are currently pointed diagonally, 45 degrees from the back.  [sigh]

They are not new.  No.

They moved.

*     *     *     *     *

I'm embarrassed that I never put it together before.  I presumed all the jogging had brought them about.  Pretty dumb, when you think about it, as I no longer land on my heels.

Nope.  It's just the meat-sock that was has been adjusting.  The calluses that were once protecting an impact point have slid to the side, dried out, and cracked.

On the bright side, they don't hurt that much and have been annoying the hell out of me the past day.  That means every place else must not be hurting that badly, or I wouldn't be noticing the fissures.

*     *     *     *     *

Mentally, I've had just about enough.  The pain and mental exhaustion is bad enough.  Realizing cruel and painful ironies pushes me towards a psychotic break.

I've coined the phrase "Death by paper cuts" to express slow exquisite torture.  These not-quite-ironies are like, well, the torturer takes a break from slicing me with paper to water board me with lemon juice.

Maniacal Laughter

I'm getting closer.

Interspersed between periods of extreme discomfort, I am having moments, just a few, of almost-wholeness.

I am not whole, not yet, not even all that close to completely whole, which, in truth, I doubt will ever happen.

Yet, in these moments, where the creases are pushed to the top, above my chest, above my shoulders, stacked atop my torso, where their compliments are allowed to drop past my hips below my core, my torso feels like one piece.

And I know what it is to not feel segmented.

I know what whole must feel like.

And I laugh like a fucking maniac.

I may actually do this.

A Dark Matter

[I have wanted to write this one for some time, multiple versions exist, most probably better than this one, but incomplete.  Here, I am going short.  I am throwing out one of my theories into the world that I believe is at least more correct than current beliefs.  Why now?  Well, first it is not one of the ones I hold dear.  Yet, it's kinda big.  Also, I just had my first EKG yesterday.  So, mortality, the odds on never getting better, and the odds of never being able to articulate the things I would like to, have me lowering the bar.]

It is ironic.

Dark matter is light.

Well, in many forms, I'd presume, but for the most part, it is light.

We look up at the stars and see these pin points, hundreds and thousands of light years away.

They are not spot lights shining only at us.  They emit light in all directions, each of them, and they have been for a really long time.

Stars die.  Why?  They use up their fuel.  Where does it go?  All that mass?  Hello, conservation of energy.

So, yes, I am saying a light wave has mass (Personally, I'd bet light is a wave that can become a particle, more than the "it's a wave and a particle" argument, but either way).  It may be extraordinarily minute, but in mind boggling numbers over vast areas of space . . .

I could be wrong.  I'm probably wrong to some degree, possibly substantial.  Yet, in all the information I have seen (admittedly little, and I have not done much research on the topic given my own issues), all that light, all that energy, travelling over great distances, all the time, is not really discussed.

It's funny to me.  Light only illuminates what it's hitting.  So, I guess all that light is dark.

But if it turns out to be a substantial portion of "dark matter," and all those big brains were missing it all this time, that's funny.

[Okay.  Back to my unwinding.  Should someone decide I am onto something, perhaps they'd be kind enough to go out on a limb that I am also possibly correct on my theories of what I am dealing with, and that perhaps, with the ear of the right people, I could help revolutionize the understanding of the human condition.]

42 on 4/2

Happy Birthday to me.

Adjustments to my shoulders-collar bone-neck-jaw have left me with dual "ear infections" that NARCO barely helps.  Major shifts in the jaw muscles, it hurts much differently than the classic ear infections I have known my whole life.  It is much more about swelling of the head at the base of the jaws that puts pressure on both ears.

My glasses are tight. 

My hats all squeeze my head, currently shaved, to a point of great pain.

And the mental pain of a wasted decade taxes on me so as another candle hits the cake.

*     *     *     *     *

But it's my birthday . . .

So, I'll plug my ears with vasolined cotton balls and try to enjoy a dip or two in the spa.

I'll try to find something good to watch on TV.

I'll probably visit Skyrim for a few ours.

I'll hope for something yummy for dinner.

I'll search the channels for a game played by one of my teams.

Wait, this is like every other day.

*     *     *     *     *

Not entirely.  Maya is still under a watchful eye.

My Maya, a crazy dominant Lab-Boxer female, 80 lbs. and a week or two shy of 14 years old, is clearly on her last legs.

She has pneumonia.  We are treating it the best we can, but fear underlying conditions are the root cause.

I had a tear filled day last week waiting for a vet trip I was convinced would be her last, but the anti-biotics have picked her up substantially.  I can't say things look good, however.

My gut says she'll pull through and have one last summer.

When it was at it's worst, I empathized far more than anyone should.  She was not happy.  She was in great pain.  She'd avoid moving rather than continue the struggle.  She'd given up, the only difference between the two of us.

I fear there is brain damage.  Why else would I not give up?

*     *     *     *     *

On top of it all, the Giants gave LA a wet dream opening day yesterday.  That would annoy me to all end, but for the delusional fans that kept arguing the Bruce Bochy had no role in the loss, far more annoying (and predictable) than the loss itself.  The God of Bullpens, yet when he screws up they all give excuse after excuse. 

Now they are 0-1, with another game in LA tonight.  The Giants record on my birthday is, at least as memory serves, poor.  I don't recall any wins, in fact, just losses, even when not yet the regular season.

The only thing I know is that a loss tonight will not be Bochy's fault.  It will still be early in the season.  It will only have been two games.  Yada.  Yada.  Yada.  I can hear (er, read) them already.

March Madness

I'm so tired.

The changes have been completely new, yet familiar.

The pain has been substantial.  Big surprise, I know. 

At one point, a segment of something (muscle, tendon, whatever) maneuvered through the side portions of my hip and gut, slowly enough to make my eyes water.  Well, I don't know how long it took, exactly.  I went into reaction mode (no real thinking, just mindful of sensory input).  When it was over, my eyes and face were soaked with tears.

I could say the same of several movies I've watched of late, though.  I cry over the most trivial of crap, most usually others' good fortune.  It's blatant - I'm desparate for something good to happen to me.  Doesn't take much Psych to see that.

*     *     *     *     *

The physical target is so close, yet still undefinable.

The change in my hips is the most noticeable, subjectively, at least.  I'm sitting differently, and it changes how everything above my hips rests upon what is beneath it.

Yet, at the top, this change has not quite reached  a tipping point over my shoulders.  But it's close.  It's a kink at the end of a hose you can't just walk to and straighten, no.  I'm constantly whipping the hose, small and firmly directed bursts, big sweeping throws, you name it.  All it does is change where the kink sits on the lawn, no water coming out of the sprinkler, yet each time I try, I'm certain it will be come undone.

Wrong.  wrong.  wrong.  Until it actually does unkink.  [Worth noting, in the multitude of times I have lived that hose kink flipping literally, the unkinking never fails to release water under much higher pressure than anticipated, soaking me, and making moot the reason for not walking out to the kink in the first place.]

So close, it's maddening, ten thousand times a day.

Some NCAA distractions couldn't be more welcome.

So, let the madness begin!  Er, change, get redirected.  That didn't write well.

*     *     *     *     *

On a different note, my 42nd birthday is quickly approaching.  Late joke that I am, it'll be on April 2nd, 4/2.

Here is to hoping some I Ching type of numerological mumbo jumbo makes my 42nd on 4/2 a good day.

Sure, it isn't turning 11 on 11/11/11 or anything so clearly special (rare), but it's something when you don't have much to grasp on to.