Rust and pearls

Bridgeview

Rust, steeples and cranes

Portsmouth as seen from the Route 1 Bypass bridge over the Piscataqua River, halfway between Maine and New Hampshire.

My to-do list has about 20 items currently, all of which can be summed up (today and every other day) as: do battle against the forces of chaos, entropy and decay.

I went to my shoulder-specialist orthopedic doc in Portsmouth yesterday, who was suntanned and wearing a tie decorated with tiny ice cream cones. Some people you can just look at them and tell they love what they do. He manipulated my shoulder into various positions, then pronounced that it is still partly frozen and in need of continued physical therapy.

Because he knows I write for publication now and then, we talked about how frozen shoulder, adhesive capsulitis, is a relatively unknown condition considering how relatively common it is, and how it needs more press.  For one thing, misdiagnosing the pain as a torn rotator cuff can lead to the wrong kind of physical therapy.

I declined another steroid shot. I’d rather feel the mild agony of the stupid, pointless scar tissue being gently pulled apart by PT manipulation. Anyway, pain has been lessening. If there is not further improvement in range of motion by May, doc will consider cutting the shoulder capsule’s scar tissue surgically.

Then I went across the bridge to therapy-shop the outlets in Kittery, Maine. I came home at dinner time with a small bundle of new clothes in my personal rainbow of favorite colors – white, black, gray and blue.

Last night I dreamed my husband and I were in a small city with another couple, after an event that required formal evening attire, walking through the streets looking for our lost limousine. I was walking ahead, wearing something blue and long and fairy-sparkly and my husband said to the couple, kind of snarkily, “She’s very Age of Aquarius, isn’t she?”

The night before last I had been reading about elephant seals in Point Reyes, California. Then I dreamed there was such a thing as elf seals. They are at the other end of the seal size spectrum, of course, and they cluster on the stony beaches of the Outer Hebrides.

Speaking of mystical Scotland, lately I have rediscovered (if I ever really knew) the odd, original and sort-of-secretly-influential music of the ethereal-goth Cocteau Twins. Here are a few (tiny) music videos on their website. (Warning: 1980’s hairstyles.)

 

Song to the Siren.mov