my life as a artist
You are viewing all posts from December, 2009. To return to the front page, click here.
anti-anti-life
Tuesday 22nd December 2009 10:42 PM
A concerned Jono comments;
'Don't be a wimp, go to the dentist before your dental abscess infects your heart and damages your valves. I don't want to scare you but this is serious shit and it won't go away with Bach rescue remedies.'
Thanks for caring Jono, and also for reminding me about Bach flower remedies. Since your comment I've been adding a few drops to my thrice-daily warm salt-water mouth-wash, along with a thrilling dash of iodine, and I do believe it's helping the healing process.
I've always found with any enemy that it's good to try and establish some sort of relationship, so as I swill, besides offering thankful prayers of love and gratitude for the existence of love and gratitude, I also extend seasonal good-will towards the abscess. I thank it for teaching me about oral hygiene and giving me the chance to try so many delicious mouth-washes, and then after a bit of small talk, we reminisce about the good times.
In the early days, when my sad, pus-filled friend was a young, vibrant, almost coquettish tissue cell, she was basically just potential, and in my opinion all the cuter for it. We lived in happy symbiosis then, carefree and gay, me a struggling artist and her a microscopic hint of infection, both of us united in our search for expression. When the moment's right I remind her of that blessed state, and encourage her to shrink.
I'm aware that some folk may think that my approach to this abscess- healing is just so much ill-conceived, over-idealistic, airy-fairy, flibberty-gibberty, shilly-shallying, namby-pamby, lentil-pie-in-the-sky poppycock, and that I'd be better off attack, attack, attacking it with antibiotics. However, once, in a luminous arctic dream, on the frozen tundra, under a midnight sun, in my underpants and yet strangely warm, I found myself playing Frisbee with a talking elk called Susan, who had a degree in medicine and a firm belief in the primacy of spirit.
She told me that the human body is designed to self-heal, and that viruses and bacteria are actually our friends. They eat up garbage inside, like crows and maggots clean up corpses outside, and so while present at the incident, your honour, they're not the actual cause of it, and the idea of sending in antibiotic storm-troopers to indiscriminately slaughter them is a cruel, irrational and destructive dollop of veal-pie-in the-sky plop.
She said these things with such conviction, that even though they were delivered in a Beckhamesque, squeaky Leytonstone accent, I believed her. The fact that I now value the opinion of a talking elk called Susan, that I met once in a dream, over that of my doctor, says so much about so many things. If the infection should prove resistant to my love-bombing, and grows, I'll cut it out and sell it to Heston Blumenthal, who I've heard does a mean abscess and whale vomit pie.
Posted 10:42 PM | 7 Comments | Permalink
cinderella rockefeller
Tuesday 1st December 2009 12:37 AM
'I've got flu, babe', was, I recall, a hit for Sunni and Shia in the mid-sixties, and now, over forty years later, those mis-heard lyrics seem truly prophetic, for indeed, I have been gripped by 'la grippe'. Enwreathed by this foul, groggy fog of flu, my mind has become a useless vessel, a boat without cargo, floundering in a shoreless sea of mucus. Meanwhile, my body is an abandoned village, submerged under a reservoir of snot, and when I cough they say you can hear the church bells playing Tom Waites tunes.
The staccato rattle of my hacking cough lays down a spiky beat, then the T.B. chest bass slaps in, the slow, rhythmic gurgle of its bubbling phlegm anchoring the chunky plotted discord of wild, fuzz-boxed, electric catarrh. This unwelcome symphony drowns out all possibilities of quiet creativity, and so alas, dear reader, I must to bed.
Before I do, while I'm on the subject of ill-health, does anyone know of a way to get rid of a gum/tooth abscess without recourse to the slash and burn tactics of antibiotics? I've been keeping it at bay for three weeks by nightly applications of a turmeric/water paste shoved down between cheek and gum, but have as yet failed to get rid of it. Many parts of my body, clothes and kitchen are now bright yellow, and although it's a bright, cheery colour, sometimes it's inappropriate.
Re-reading this blog, I realise I've painted a sorry picture of a sad and sickly man, made deeply unattractive and partly yellow by the repugnant symptoms and treatments of his multiple maladies, which is a shame. You don't need it. You've probably got enough problems of your own, and maybe you logged on to this blog to get some sort of light relief.
So, let it be said, for the spiritual furtherance of all sentient beings, that deep down in my soul, far away from the inevitable world of death, trouble, taxes and Stephen Fry on the telly, I feel terrific.
This is partly due to knowing that in just over three years time, pineal gland willing, I'll be enjoying the freedom of fourth dimensional living, and also partly due to Huddersfield Town getting through to the FA cup third round and getting drawn at home to West Bromwich Albion.
Another reason why my soul is exalted, and also why I haven't gone to bed like I promised in the second paragraph, is that when I was looking for the olbas oil in the medicine cupboard, I came across a large bag of forgotten marijuana. It's old, and even when it was fresh I don't think it was up to very much, but by means of a few broom-handle sized reefers, I've found it's given a sort of vague fluffy consolation and meaning to my illness. It's also made me go on a bit.
In the interests of literary form I was hoping to finish off this blog with a reference to another hit by Sunni and Shia, but I've found they didn't really have one, and rather than drag up obscure references to Esther and Abi Ofarim, I think it's best for all of us if I just go to bed.
Goodnight!
Posted 12:37 AM | 10 Comments | Permalink
