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May melancholy - Off the Cliff

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Wed May 9th, 2018


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10:10 pm - May melancholy
Spring melancholy persists. Possibly fall-out from the stubborn sinuses and spasming lower back, possibly part of the sadness that goes with cherries and lilacs and too-warm days, possibly just weltschmerz from Buttercup and the Dying Earth. (Hm. See this article for differentiation between angst, ennui, and weltscmerz. Maybe it's angst after all.)

This is heightened by the arrival today of Point of Sighs. The Points series for me always carries bittersweet echoes of 2001, which mind insists was a time long ago and far away and so much better than it is today. Well, curate's egg: parts of it were excellent, and the Point of Dreams part was one of them.

I read the Kalevala fr the same reason, actually: it recalls just about the only unforced memory from last year, coming home the first Saturday in January to find it in the mailbox. It too has a faraway feel, almost Discworldish. I read a few chapters but then that old niggling dissatisfaction crops up again. I'm reading something edited, not something in its original form. Yes, I know: the 'original' was already corrupted by Christian interpolations, if nothing else; and its oral tradition perhaps spans thousands of years, with that much more opportunity for improvisations and interpolations and what-all. But the things that motivated, say, Homer's rhapsodes to improvise and interpolate were different from what motivated Lönnrot; nationalism was not a concern of Iron Age Greece as far as I know. So- well, yes.

I do have my sense of smell and taste back, though I'm disappointed that I didn't drop a few pounds during the three weeks I didn't have them. Evidently I still ate too much, even if I couldn't taste what I was eating. And I would like to be back to what I weighed in 2014-2015 even if I don't care for the cause (chronic anxiety, if you ask.) Was sitting next to a woman at the physio's today who'd just had her second knee surgery, and her accounts thereof don't make me eger to experience it myself. Not that I'm likely to be sharing a hospital room with a 95-year-old Russian woman with dementia who speaks no English at all and wails non-stop- just a one-time screwup at St Mike's while they moved departments, perhaps; nor will I have problems with my blood oxygen because the staff forget to give me my CPAP during recovery, because I don't use a CPAP; but then again, I don't trust St Mike's to do anything right, for various reasons, and I'm not sure about other hospitals either. (Remembers her punctured lung from ten years ago.) I have this naive belief that losing another fifteen pounds would make the bone on bone rubbing in my knee go away, and would be happy to be proved wrong if it meant I was fifteen pounds lighter- because that *would* make stairs easier.

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