A PAIN IN THE ....

It’s only when I sit a certain way. Correction; it’s sometimes when I’m sitting still, at other times when I shuffle my bum to the back of the chair. Truth be told, it’s worse when I lean forward, to put something down, from a seated position except, when I stand up and reach for something it’s sometimes even more of a pain. Come to think of it, it could be when I take a sudden step forward; at least that’s when it causes my leg to fold on me and I lose my balance.

Who am I trying to kid; all I really need is plenty of fresh distractions, that way my awareness of it would simply dissipate.

A few minutes ago, whilst standing by the kitchen door, it suddenly attacked again! A searing pain shoots through my thigh but, unlike sciatica, there’s no apparent reference back or forwards from the hips or spine, nor is there any downwards extension through to the calf muscles. All is (apparently) encapsulated within the rear of the thigh. The physio suspects that it’s a nerve problem.

Pain-killers hardly touch it, but then, how would I know if they were being effective? It’s the brutally spasmodic, crippling, lightning flash that’s the real pain; there have actually been periods today, of almost 20 minutes duration, when I’ve not been startled by it. Meantime, a manageable dull bruising throb is much easier to ignore than the staccato stabbing.

My diagnosis is that “it’s a real pain!”

If only it wasn’t such a discomforting thought, I could add that “at least it keeps me on my toes!”

New on Mal's Factory

I've just posted a freshly woven poem, WINDBLOWN, on 'Mal's Factory'

Today's posting on Mal's Murmurings

The Force of Circumstance can be found on 'Mal's Murmurings'

Random Ramblings on Time and Perspective

Strange, the tricks of light and perspective; the history of art has a lot to answer for. I’m stood by the backdoor and, a good three hundred or more metres away, there are giants working on the roof trusses of a house under construction. I see these figures, each around 5’10” to 6’0” in height, at much the same height as they would appear if they were standing next to me. Were I to paint, or draw, the scene I’m witnessing, it would be expected that these figures would appear quite miniscule, positioned well on the way towards the vanishing point. Why, for the sake of convention am I expected to diminish their stature; our observation is always subjective, we always interpret the scene laid out before us so, why did anyone ever to take the trouble to lay down rules as to the way we are to portray it? Is it supposed to bring some sort of objectivity to the interpreted world?

I suppose there is a degree of importance to quantifying time and space, to enable us to more easily modify our environment for the sake of efficiency in our daily routines but, it has got me wondering about whether art comes under the category of work or play.

Mind you, I’m not wondering all that seriously, it’s more a case of letting ideas fly off the top of my head (and being bald, I suppose it makes for a smooth take-off as these random thoughts take flight).

Suddenly, I find time has become a greater issue than space, as I await the arrival of the workmen who are going to be renovating our downstairs loo; as I wait each minute seems like a quarter of an hour and, once the appointed time for their arrival has passed the moments seem to stretch out even further. It’s strange how the waiting process plays havoc with temporal values! Where once patience was a virtue I could uphold to a considerable degree, the past few years have swung the pendulum the other way; patience is now a quality which seems to belong to a dim and distant past life. Somehow, whilst anticipating an impending event, I find it impossible to apply my mind to any other task; it only seems possible to concentrate on one thing at a time and, even then, the quality of concentration ain’t what it used to be.

At least these random jottings have helped the time pass more quickly and, I’m relieved to hear the doorbell ring. Meantime, I’ll get on with a little bit more net surfing, before my physio arrives to administer the magic needles once more.

Reclaiming KING

People usually focus on the historic "I Have a Dream" speech, but it's the work King was doing at the end of his life that deserves more attention.

Read the article:

Reclaiming King : Beyond "I Have A Dream"

http://www.alternet.org/stories/74337/

transformations elsewhere

Mal's murmuring persona bears witness to some TRANSFORMATIONS

BEST FRIENDS

A generalized sluggishness pervades my being, marginally more so than is my norm. Yesterday, the day being somewhat brighter than of late, decided to take a modestly longer walk than I usually manage, in the (misguided) belief that it may alleviate the droningly throbbing pain in the left thigh. I almost overdid the exercise and, found myself struggling as we tackled the homeward bound section. At least it proffered no more than the usual degree of tiredness and discomfort by way of reward; I suppose that’s progress of some kind.

Although you may find it difficult to believe, I don’t really like moaning on about my assorted aches and pains, it’s quite simply that they are my most constant companions; I feel the same obligation to report upon them as I would were I to boast about or describe the achievements of best friends. [Yes, I admit it; best friends can at times be a pain too!]

Trouble with the aches and pains is, they never seem to know when one needs time to be on their own. There are times when I would appreciate the absence of their company!

Mal's Cold Feet

Mal has been Murmuring again, this time about The Chef's Cold Feet. Why not visit 'Mal's Murmurings' to see what's cooking!

Quite Simply Breathtaking

Just as well I received the CUPPA THERAPY boost to my morale yesterday; otherwise, I would be feeling quite morose this morning. Last night’s bed rest was intermittently disrupted by intense discomfort in the lower limbs; a dully throbbing sense of bruised hollowness affected both limbs but, more emphatically on the left hand side. I felt less comfortable than I had in the previous position, no matter which way I turned, nor how slowly, within minutes of each move. This, combined with a vengeful return of the night sweats, ensured that any bout of sleep would prove less than refreshing.

At 9.40am, my light slumber was disturbed by a thunderous hammering at the door accompanied by a seemingly panic stricken sustained ringing of the bell. By the time I’d groggily disbanded the duvet, and donned my dressing gown, two large boxes were resting at the side of the door and the delivery man, from Argos, was carrying another couple of parcels. He asked me to sign for them but, I questioned whether he’d come to the right address; the outcome was that he was on the right road but at the wrong number. Our house number is clearly displayed adjacent to the door! I dread to think what I’d have said were the benefits of yesterday’s therapy still not apparent on the emotional front.

Having dragged myself back upstairs, decided it was perhaps time to get dressed and confront the day head on. Seated on the edge of the bed, I carefully placed one leg into the top of my trousers when the spine, or quite probably the muscles attached thereto, decided to deliver a short sharp shock. Now that’s what I call a breathtaking experience! A few painkillers, and a generous Ibuprofen rub later, I have returned to my more comfortably familiar sense of dis-ease.

Fortunately, I have no immediate need to venture far from my comfortably supportive armchair.

Therapeutic Cuppa

This morning Malcolm submitted himself to some CUPPA THERAPY. Why not read of the results on 'Mal's Murmurings'.