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Genesis of a Historical Novel

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

adrift with a strained iliopsoas

Rain falls again from a heavy gray sky. I have returned from the chiropractor, who, when he listened to my hip-pain symptoms, said, "The symptoms you've just described are the textbook symptoms for a strained iliopsoas muscle." Terry, muscular and shaven-headed, gave me a fast tour of the muscle on a wall-chart.

"Sounds like I've come to the right place, then," I said.

"Oh yeah," said Terry. "Can I get you on the table face down."

Probable cause? Too much sitting, then not enough stretching before calling it into action with a run or a walk. He gave me some stretches. There was still pain on my way home; I walked gingerly and felt a bit old.

Writing? Yes, I did do some. Two pages. I float through it as though in a dream. The chapter is actually getting written, but it's almost like watching someone else do it. Am I in a dissociative state? Headed for one?

I think not. I retain my intellectual curiosity, and still read with attention, if not gusto, during my afternoon session with tea. I wonder at how others can be so sure of their theories. I sense a great tendency toward premature certainty. But I still seem to be mentally healthy, as far as I can tell. I have feelings of...how would I describe it. Fragility, uncertainty, self-criticism, low energy, and even a certain apathy about many things in the world that I think I should care more about. There is a quietness and a passionlessness about my condition.

Well then. Back to some notes. Even if I feel that reading and note-taking is and endless journey leading nowhere, what's my alternative? I might finally realize the true extent of how much I don't know and never will.

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