Tag Archives: memories

It wasn’t always all pilates and swiss fit balls…

Posted on by
Reply

I went to the physio again today, and unexpectedly found myself undergoing a process called ‘dry needling‘.  Usually when I go to the physio there’s the application of the heat packs, and some pretty painful hands on manipulation stuff… then sometimes some sort of ultrasonic thingy that was supposed to stimulate the mitochondria in your cells or some such shit…. occasionally there’d be hydrotherapy or pilates, or  strapping or rubber band exercises or whatever seemed to be the trend at the time.  Well now, seems the flavour this year is this ‘dry needling’ which it was stressed to me is not acupuncture, but stuffed if I could tell the difference.

Anyway, I found myself laying face down with my back full of needles, and feeling like I couldn’t move and after a few minutes I realised I didn’t have any method of getting their attention from the back room if I needed assistance.  And it reminded me of an awful physio ordeal from about 16 years ago – not long after I hurt my neck originally in the first car accident back in 1991.  I was getting physio at the PA Hospital … there weren’t many physiotherapists about at the time, and the hospital was where they sent me.  I think it was maybe only my second or third visit to the physio, and they had put me into traction to stretch out my neck.  This involved basically putting me in a chair that was anchored to the floor, strapping my wrists down to the chair to pull my shoulders down, and then placing my head in a harness that went under my chin and behind the back of my neck and attaching that harness to the ceiling and tensioning it tight.  It was extremely uncomfortable and from memory I was supposed to be in this thing for about 15 minutes…. and there was a little timer in the room to say when time was up.  Only the little timer went off and no one came to let me out of the God awful contraption… I tried to call out for help and kicked about to get someone’s attention, but I couldn’t talk as my jaw was clenched shut from the upward tension on the harness.  It must have been another 10 or 15 minutes before anyone came to check on me, and by that time I was absolutely distraught with tears running down my face and in a lot of pain from being strung up to the ceiling for so long.

I haven’t thought about that incident in years, but it came back to me today as I lay there feeling not a little depressed, rather helpless and in plenty of pain.  The more I think about it, the more I feel that this incident could have something to do with my absolute abhorrence for not being in control of my person, and my intense dislike for being physically overpowered by anyone…. even in jest. 

I just can’t believe I am back on this road again, and feel like I am back to square one.  It’s taken me over ten years to get my shit together to live with the pain levels that I have every day and to do my best to just manage with what I had and now I’m all stirred up again and I have no idea if it’s going to settle back down to ‘normal’.   🙁 
.
*I’m sorry to anyone who’s actually reading this… hell… I am sick of thinking about all this pain nonsense, so I am sure anyone who’s reading this must be sick of me complaining about it too.  🙁   I promise to try and write something positively frivolous tomorrow.
.

Uncommon generosity

Posted on by
Reply

I remember years ago,  back when I was about 19 and dating A1, we went down to visit one of his Uncles – of which there were several – and while A1 and his Uncle were bitching about some football team, I spent some time poking around in his work shed.  Uncle Mike was a French polisher by trade and his bloke cave was messy as could be – full of half completed pieces of furniture, tins of paints,  dangerous looking tools and general creative disarray. The place was always stuffed to the beams with pieces of timber… some hastily discarded as rubbish… and others carefully stored for future projects.  I remember, quite vividly, the strong smells of the wood and the shellac and varnishes he used. … and I also remember the crunchy woodchips and the spongy sawdust underfoot, as I poked through the shed, opening drawers and looking in stuff I probably shouldn’t have been pfaffing with.

Anyway, when the football nonsense was over, I spent a few hours talking with Uncle Mike about what he does, and he showed me how to turn wood, and told me all about the different projects he was working on, some of them restorations, and some of them he was building something new from scratch.  He showed me lots of different timbers, and I remember falling in love with the colours of the Jarrah and the beautiful fine grain of the Tasmanian oak and the gorgeous smell of the Huon pine.  (God if you could truly bottle the smell of Huon pine and sell it as a men’s aftershave or even as a incense or something… I reckon you’d make a fortune.)   Anyway, I had a lovely afternoon with Mike in his shed, and then pretty much forgot all about it.

Until about a year later, when unexpectedly, he turned up with a gift for me… a beautiful hand crafted glory box made out of solid Tasmanian oak, and French polished to a beautiful sheen.  It was an overwhelming gift… unexpected and generous beyond measure.  I couldn’t believe that Mike had gone to all that trouble on my account, and I was truly overwhelmed by it.  He waved it away and said it had cost little but his time… but I can’t tell you how much it meant to me… how much that box still means to me.  It is probably one of the most treasured things I own, and most certainly, receiving it, is one of my fondest memories.

And now I have another friend, who is sharing their time and talents with me in an unexpected and uncommonly generous way…… and I want to thank him… and I don’t know how to  ….   yet.    🙂
.

Breathing… it’s overrated

Posted on by
Reply

I can not sleep

Which is, no doubt, in no small part largely due to the fact that I can not breathe 😐  I’ve had what I thought must be just a nasty head cold for the last few days – but I think it’s time to admit that I’ve got a full blown case of the dreaded lurgi and will need to see the quack tomorrow.   So having done nothing but couch yesterday and likely again tomorrow I have nothing to impart here… except this curious morsel.

When I’m sick, such as I am… in quiet moments, I frequently hear a small child singing “Frère Jacques” in a depressing dirgeful monotone… wonder what that’s about  – blink blink.

Frère Jacques,
Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous?
Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines!
Sonnez les matines!
Din, dan, don.
Din, dan, don.

Ghost Child

Elvis

Posted on by
Reply

Elvis is dead
Elvis is dead
Elvis had a heart attack
Because he got so bleeding fat.

Don’t know where this came from.  I can hear it in my head as if being chanted by a very small very bored child.  It’s an awful ditty for a kid to be singing.  But nearly every time I think of Elvis and particularly on August 16th each year, I end up with this in my head.  😐

On a lighter side August 16th also reminds me of a very cute memory of my very first serious boyfriend, A1, confiding to me, on the night of my high school formal in 1988, that he was in love with me…..  awwwww.  How sweet is that!   🙂
.

Dont go back…. dont ever go back… :(

Posted on by
Reply

Got up brıght and early (agaın whether I lıked ıt or not!!!)  Went downstaırs to sıng Happy Bırthday to Bonnıe (Bonnıe ıs an ex army cook from upstate New York who now teaches Resource Management and stuff) and gıve her a packet of Fruıt Tıngles for a bırthday present (whıch she absolutely loved!)  Then we got on our lıttle bus to head to Pammukale.  Bıt of a shıtty bus trıp – the people at the front of the bus were gettıng heaps of fresh aır so the drıver kept flıckıng off the AC…  but up the back of the bus we were hot and stuffy… and ıt was made worse by sıttıng behınd Dandenong Dan and hıs wıfe Gına (remember them the LED torch collector and the hıghlıghtıng nazı!) who eıther doesn’t shower regularly or doesnt know what deoderant ıs!!!  Damn hıppıes!

Anyway… we made ıt safely to Pammukale and went to our hotel whıch I must say ıs the swıshest joınt we’ve stayed ın yet.  The shower actually has a cubıcle and you dont have to lıke sıt on the dunny to get ın the shower stream for a change… so I thınk the threat of accıdentally sıttıng on a wet toılet ın the mıddle of the nıght tonıght has been serıously mınımızed!  🙂

We decıded to walk up to see the travertıne terraces and see the Hıeropolıs ruıns straıght away… partly for me cos the weather ıs lookıng a bıt forebodıng and also cos I dıdnt want to go up wıth the whole group.  Pammukale was one of the places I really loved when I was ın Turkey last so I was really lookıng forward to comıng back here.  Now I knew the management of the place had changed somewhat sınce I was here last… they no long allow swımmıng on the terraces ın an attempt to preserve them somewhat (I remember beıng amazed when we were here ın ’95 that you could stıll swım then).  But I wasnt aware that they are also messıng wıth the water management of the place… so when we walked up there ıt was quıte a shock to see the maın part of the terraces wıth no water flowıng over them.  Really very sad ….  to say I was dısappoınted ıs a bıt of an understatement I thınk.  Now I am rethınkıng whether or not I want to go to Ephesus and Truva and all those places agaın….


1995
 


2007