I experience a little burst of optimistic extroversion about twenty minutes after I take Vicodin. I wish this feeling lasted longer. The chemical nature of the feeling intrigues me. Because it is a feeling... like a mood...not a sensation.
The aspect of my injury that is the most curious to me is not the pain, but the lack of strength...the weakness and the absence of a reflex in my right ankle. Several times a day, I try to stand on my toes. First I try the left leg, and I go up, almost bouncily. Then I try the right, and I wobble wobble wobble fall; I just can't do it. stand stand stand I say, and almost nothing happens. It reminds me a little of that feeling of trying to yell or talk in a dream. Those moments of sleep-space are interesting. Sometimes the desire to speak is so powerful that one wakes up mid-sentence.
I am told that I talk in my sleep often.
Time goes by, hazily. It is a February sort of way. Muffled, with narration.
This also means that I have had to take a break from the birds.
I've been thinking about fur. The next project involves fur, faux and otherwise. I cannot imagine wearing "real fur." When I think of it, I see flashes of Carrie covered in pig's blood. There is a sensitivity to it. It feels painful. "It hurts to look at you."
