I am in a strange predicament - I cannot write. Let me start again. I am in a strange predicament - I cannot write because my right arm hangs useless, there is a constant burning pain in my right shoulder. So I am supposed to make notes for this essay on Apoplexia and Paralysis, but I myself am suffering from some sort of paralysis. I have actually somewhat of a sense of humor about this. Today I am sitting up in my office chair, books are surrounding me - novels of Elfriede Jelinek to consider her characters, her performance artists of rage, my laptop is balanced on Catherine Clement's Syncope, but I cannot manage to get through more than chunks at a time, because it is difficult to concentrate because of the pain. I am sitting up because John thinks perhaps I slept on my shoulder funny, when I laid around all day. And this is why it hangs useless. I couldn't write on the chalkboard while teaching last night. And yet I am still ridiculously wearing 4-inch platformed sandals, the kind-of cheap ones I bought in Copenhagen. And a Panama straw hat. It is easier to exist, in costume. Last week I went to an emergency orthopedic clinic. For severe pain in the other shoulder, that froze and caused pricks of sensation to dance all around. But now it is this other shoulder giving me grief. So I am going now to my general practitioner. Who will send me I'm sure to the acupuncturist. The words will be used, again, cautiously, like what happened in the fall and winter - a flare-up. Some sort of flare-up. Yes, you are obviously showing inflammation Ms. Zambreno. More tests will be ordered. More pricks of the skin. More tests will come back ambiguous, inconclusive. Perhaps I need to go see a nerve doctor. Perhaps I need to go to a soothsayer who will bathe my feet. And why would it matter if it was conclusive? Then I wouldn't feel that I have perhaps somatized stress, that I'm not hysterical. That I haven't, almost hilariously, lost good movement in my writing arm, a block physicalized. Like Dora with her cough. Like those Rochester cheerleaders who didn't want to go through the syncopated movements anymore, so instead they had spazzes. But regardless of what they conclude. I know what it is. It's my agitated writer's body. Am I making my body a metaphor? I dont' know. I will have to reread Sontag.
Don't worry about me. No need for medical advice. I'm essaying. Which is a state of working-through. My body is essaying, perhaps, as well.
The advertisement on Blogger is telling me for $14.95 I can turn my blog into a book. Yes. $14.95 and my soul and flesh and blood and vomit and shit and tears.