My physical therapist was so completely taken aback by the sex question.  The “rawkin’ out on bass” question was more her speed.  I have to come up with something new to ask her at my appointment tomorrow.

 

“Can I fly with my dragon again?  I miss the stunning vistas.  I don’t want to, you know, wear out my wings.  I could just ride, but hanging on is kind of slippery.  The scales.  You know.”

“May I visit my friend on Venus?  I mean, the atmosphere might affect the breathing exercises you gave me, so I thought I’d better ask.”

“When I asked you about sex, I forgot to mention that my husband is an elf.  Does that change your advice?”

 

Anything else I should ask?  I want to cover all my bases here.

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My all-girl punk band (Secondhand Thong) had rehearsal tonight.  I usually stand next to our guitar player, and we- well, a lot of our songs are kind of the same- three chords, similar structure, 4/4 time, loud, fast, you know.  Kind of similar.  And she and I share a certain…forgetfulness…sometimes (sotto voce: “uh…how does this one start again?”)  But tonight the drummer kind of got fed up with our solidarity.  And she got pissed off.  I said to the guitar chick,

“I’m absorbing your forgets!”

 

Maybe drummers lack a sense of humor.

 

Nude!  Nude!  Elves and sprites, nude and frolicking in sylvan splendor!  Click here now!

 

I am so freaking sick of sp4m, I could barf Lucky Charms.

Jack avatar

Apparently he is not a sprite after all (note the lack of wings).  He is an elf.  I am glad that I have been alerted to this incompatibility.  Look how happy he is, though, smoking underneath the magic mushroom.  And when Jack is happy, I am happy.

 

I drew this picture years ago and just found it in a pile of old papers and craft supplies in the basement.  It does look kind of ancient and runic, no?  Like something found in a battered leather-bound tome?   OK, I’m just really disorganized and delusional.  But I wanted to share it.  I hope it brings a bit of delight to your day.

The original quote that referenced the greatness of towels is found in Chapter 3 of Adams’ work The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-boggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Now I have always appreciated this advice, being the kind of person that simply needs lots of stuff surrounding me (more than just the usual keys, wallet, cell phone kind of thing).  Lip balm in multiple flavors, sunscreen, sunglasses, camera just in case, notebook and mechanical pencils, water bottle, coffee cup,  toothbrush, toothpaste, earplugs (never know when Jack’s going to take me to an ear-blistering show), books, gum, sweater (perhaps it may get chilly), plastic cutlery, electrician’s tape,  handkerchief or bandanna (usually- the smaller version of a towel); snacks; extra everything when I play with my punk band (except my bass amp, the biggest thing- and the most fickle); inhaler; everything but the all-important towel.  It just has never made it into the mix.  That needs to change.  I had a revelation today.  Because I got chided by my physical therapist (and not for carrying so much crap around, surprisingly).

 

She patiently explained to me all the things that are wrong with my body, in that optimistic “we can fix this” kind of way.  She showed me how my posture was affecting everything.  She put tape on my belly to remind me not to be all swaybacked ‘n’ stuff.  (I am a sucker for biofeedback).  Also, she massaged my ass ( valium removed the fancy name for this particular ligament from my memory), which hurt so good.  And she told me that I need to get rid of one of my favorite comfort objects- what do you call the adult version of a binky?

 

It’s a pillow I have used for lumbar support for years.  A very special pillow, carefully crafted years and years ago in complicated needlepoint, in kente cloth colors; it is monogrammed MLK.  I thrifted it years ago, pre-Jack, and it is like a part of me.  I imagine that it was lovingly created during the civil rights era, perhaps while listening to a televised speech given by our fallen hero.   It is now faded, torn, and  has had more physical contact with my body than any seat belt.  It has dried gum on it.  I’ve had it since I bought my 1984 Toyota Corolla in 1995 from a lesbian with bad scoliosis (her dad knew my dad.  Before I went to her house to purchase the thing, he warned me, “She’s kind of deformed.”  [Scolioisis, dad.  I have it too.])  She had to tuck herself carefully in with an elaborate system of pillows in order to drive it- I lucked out by needing only one: my trusty MLK.

 

At any rate, my PT now tells me- as the binky/pillow/MLK is shredding to bits, that it is just too thick.  And not variable enough.  It may have been harming me all these years even while I found its presence comforting and necessary- I may need help ending this possibly abusive relationship.

 

This story has a point.  I’m getting there.

 

So the PT pulls out a standard-issue hospital towel- you know the type: scratchy white terry, previously saturated with other people’s juices- and she showed me Magic.  Towel origami.  How to know when to roll ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away (without limping, I hope) when the lumbar support is done.  There was no chair that could resist this system.  It was eye-opening.  It was incredible. 

 

I am not going to carry around a terry cloth towel.  I am going to create my own Towelesque magic symbolic art object.  I will crochet (or knit?) it from soft, absorbent, dirt-resistant fiber. I will represent an important social justice issue in a beautiful way that promises to not make you yawn with boredom.  To paraphrase Mr Adams,  I could wrap it around myself for warmth as I bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; I could wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; I could wave it in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry myself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.  And, of course, I could also use it to sit comfortably and avoid re-injuring myself, both of which will make interstellar hitchhiking a much more likely possibility.

I awoke at 3am, and got up out of bed to enjoy the best part of the day: the time just before dawn, when all the crepuscular creatures are partying.  I love dawn, just before the sun comes up.

 

Once it was light enough outside, I went out on the porch- I have a great second-story porch with a decent view, and a tree that envelops it on two sides (which a previous very naughty cat used as an occasional escape route).  Now, Sheba has an obsession with the porch.  If there is any indication of an about-to be-open door- say, Jack goes out to enjoy a delicious Marlboro, or what have you-  Sheba will run out making a particular meow, used only for this situation. Kind of an urgent triple meow.  It has to mean something specific.  Is it simply “Hey, ma, I’m going out now?”  Is it “OMG, now’s my chance to climb down that lilac tree?”  Is it, “proximity to birds is imminent and my dream of burping feathers like Sylvester will finally come to fruition?”  Because, it’s almost like a “wow!  Wow!  WOW!”

 

Somehow Sheba- who was a wild cat in her younger days, and I will never know exactly what all happened to her, except that it involved five adorable kittens (who clearly all had the same babydaddy)- knows the boundary is not to be breached.  This porch has cat-width railings and she could certainly jump if she had the desire.   But when I tell her “No!”  she knows.  I stopped watching her so obsessively too, as she earned my trust; a couple times I even forgot she was out there for a couple hours, and then found her just lying down, in bliss, or curiously sniffing everywhere birds had been- bliss, again; or just rubbing on the railings- all pure, feline, delighted bliss.

Time has become such a different substance for me these days- the age-old question of whether time is a wave or a particle seems silly to me now- it is obviously a substance.  A thick, sticky, viscous substance, flowing slowly like mucilage from a brown glass jar, catching unsuspecting valium-takers, and slowly thickening around them until…