Jupiter riding high in the south, unwinking: a faintly yellowed white, like ivory.
I'm still reading Elizabeth Bishop, but I can't drink her by the pint, as I could Oliver. A shot or two at a time is as much as I can handle. In the meantime I read about orangutans and the building of the Brooklyn Bridge.
All these projects seething in my head. Never have I seemed to myself so flighty, changeable, and useless. I wonder and wonder about the pain some of my clients are in. About fibromyalgia, irritable bowel syndrome, chronic fatigue syndrome. About cancer. Am I really doing all I can for people? Why are people's bodies turning on them with such ferocity, these days? I have no sympathy with the desire for purity that drives much of the yen for “natural” and “organic” stuff, but on the other hand it does seem awfully likely that we're all being slowly poisoned.
I do trigger point, and sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Much of this myofascial pain comes, ultimately, of loneliness, of sleep deprivation, of feeling unneeded and useless: of this queer zoo-like combination of isolation and overexposure, unappeasable hunger and constant eating, no exercise and no rest. That's what we have to change. I can ameliorate this pain but I can't fix it.
And in the meantime, the clocks all running backward: my own life so full of joy, and the stars spinning slowly away in our wake. Jupiter Tonans has never been my totem, but he seems to have taken me for his own, now.
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