Tuesday, March 23, 2004
A comfortable bed that won’t hurt my back
More body stress release. I’m face down on the bench, and through the gap between the two halves of it, I can see the drool pillow beneath. I can see the right hand side of the drool pillow with my left eye, and the left side with my right eye. The ambient falling asleep music has changed from waves to slow jazzy sax: Kenny G on dope. Like the mood music for an Egyptian road movie. I thought at one point I heard the camel fart, but it turned out to be the collie asleep under the desk. The rattle and hum of the ageing air conditioner competes with the soothing sax. It doesn’t do much for me though – I am with the Commitments as far as jazz is concerned: musical wanking.
The prodding and stroking that composes the stress release is still hard to get used to. What he is doing is so gentle that I wonder if I could inadvertently achieve the same results, or bugger things up altogether, by simply leaning against something lumpy. If so little effort is expended in putting things straight, then it must be dangerously easy to crick everything again. Maybe there’s more to it – it feels like I am having runes sketched on my back. Hieroglyphics maybe.
After a spell working on my back, with me lying on my front drooling on the cushion, he turns me over to do the front. There seems to be so little to do on my ribs that I wonder if this stage is just to allow the marks on my face to disappear before I'm released to face the rest of the morning. The whole thing does seem to be helping, though. By no means cured, I am feeling more flexible. Wobbly even.
Listening to: Eric Clapton. All of his best songs belong to someone else, except one, and that's about someone else's wife.
The prodding and stroking that composes the stress release is still hard to get used to. What he is doing is so gentle that I wonder if I could inadvertently achieve the same results, or bugger things up altogether, by simply leaning against something lumpy. If so little effort is expended in putting things straight, then it must be dangerously easy to crick everything again. Maybe there’s more to it – it feels like I am having runes sketched on my back. Hieroglyphics maybe.
After a spell working on my back, with me lying on my front drooling on the cushion, he turns me over to do the front. There seems to be so little to do on my ribs that I wonder if this stage is just to allow the marks on my face to disappear before I'm released to face the rest of the morning. The whole thing does seem to be helping, though. By no means cured, I am feeling more flexible. Wobbly even.
Listening to: Eric Clapton. All of his best songs belong to someone else, except one, and that's about someone else's wife.
