how the mighty have fallen: part one

and then some. on my way to the library monday night i walked, minding my own business, intent on the throes of sneaking a small cup of frozen yogurt into the hallowed hall, more because of the sheer illicit factor of will i get caught, i was caught except it happened outside.

while securing the yogurt in my purse, i didn't see a pothole: mistake numero uno. my traitorous ankle decided to forego living and like a soap opera diva fainted in midstep, twisting, bringing down the brunt of my weight to crash into the graveled sidewalk. i could see it happening but when my ankle decides to peter out, it's too late. i am learning to fall better though. as the ankle turned, i could see the next scene unfolding in my mind's eye and i muttered, "oh no." sprawled on the ground in a graceful position, i rose to find my black tights torn and a burning sensation above my kneecap where bright, glistening blood covered the mangled flesh. i hobbled into the library convinced this was a minor detour from the studying and analyses of james wright's poems for the evening. with a ten-year old band aid and after i washed the wound with water and soap in the toilette, i sat down at a desk, determined to feel the intensity of longing and affection for the river adige in verona. that is until, the burning sensation resumed anew and i looked down to find the bandage permeated by blood.

my friend michelle majored in public health in college, so she seemed a suitable choice to determine whether or not this needed to be stitched. she called over her next door neighbor annie, who works in some sort of eye surgery to assess the damage. we turned on all the lights and michelle squeezed a baby flashlight so annie could see the wound better. the prognosis, no stitches required but there were pieces of gravel embedded in the muck of blood and skin. she skillfully attacked with tweezers and i repeated the phrase of what seemed to be infinitely more painful than having tweezers poking at an open wound. the patient would live after all. :) michelle fed me a feast of edamame, tempura veggies and rice with a hot cup of iron goddess of mercy tea with ginseng. she is such a good hostess, mill valley's own florence nightingale. i drove home and gingerly approached each step up to my house as a grave decision.

in the e.r. the next day, a woman sitting two seats away with her back turned to me entertained herself by speaking in russian aloud which sounded like she was conducting a full on conversation with the occasional laugh and well-timed cackle. i have thought before and am reassured now that if i ever despair of writer's block all i need to do is sit in an e.r. waiting room for a spell and the spell will be broken. this did nothing to revoke my confirmation of this sentiment. other messiness brews, but another blog, another time. for now, you can call me "the hobble"