I really haven't been able to type. Still can't, really. Crazily, one of the fingers on my right hand seems to be the on/off switch (or 1 of them) for the eye spasm. I may put some audio posts up between now and the time I'm able to fully resume my digital (in every sense) responsibilities. Better go before I bloooow.


(Written on Saturday.)

If I stay away from highly populated areas, like the street in front of Mile End Station or the Stratford mall, a walk can be a useful respite from the tension of staying home to reduce tension. Better, I think, to embark upon multiple outings of lesser length than to go on one long walk which could lose its potency, mid-excursion.

Additionally, more frequent egressions help break up those lengthy, in-home detensification sessions, which also suffer from diminishing effects. (In fact, both can become a cause of that which they seek to cure.)

Anyway, I'm happy to report that my morning walk was nigh on perfect, proving without a shadow of a doubt that I could get to the big supermarket and back in time to watch the +1 rebroadcast of Ironside. My afternoon walk, however, (somehow) found me at that damned Stratford mall and its pain-inducing hubbub of low-income shopping frenzy.

Meanwhile, I desperately had to go to the bathroom due to all the water I drink to make sure my tensed muscles are protectively lubricated. I almost didn't make it to Morrisons in time!

By the time I got to the men's room door, I forgot to be calm and, leaping toward the piss outlet, I self-jostled my eyelid into what eventually became an almost full-forehead cramp.

Note to self:
Shorter afternoon walks.

Man, I try hard to recuperate but those long, regenerative sleeps sometimes feel (at least) as potentially fatal as they do regenerative. Fortunately, I also try hard not to completely ignore beautiful days.

So, I walked.

Outside!

And found a big supermarket. (Joy.)

Ate my sardine sandwich beside a beautiful waterway that led eventually -- though there were no guarantees -- right back home to me.

And the warm, frequent showers that relax my vibrating lids.

Feeling much better, I reintroduced masturbation and the gym into my life -- in both cases, gently.

Unfortunately, to go to the gym, I was forced to leave the house. (I've got a professionally-installed masturbation parlor at home, so I never have to leave to go to the masturbatoreum as most others do.)

The problem with leaving the house is that, on the verge of recovery, I get restressed to the point of near-crippling upper facial tightness by the invariably loathsome behavior of the others in the London street.

To remain calm, I found I had to repeat over and over in my head, "Let them win, let them win, let them wi . . . "

Seeing as how my quest for pure and perfect love -- or at least someone to have a donut with -- has thus far consisted mostly of me saying, "I'm on a quest for love," I don't see why it actually has to take a back seat to the warm showers and culinary asceticism of face pain mitigation that now comprise the majority of my oh, so cluttered existence. Therefore, I am declaring the quest back on!

I am, if you will, a man on a mission.

Now, should I lie down, take a another shower, make some more coffee or eat my leafy greens?

My quest for love has taken a back seat to my quest for a pain-free face.

I combatted the stress in a house of cruciferous vegetables, carrots, fish, wholegrains and eggs, on a foundation of strawberries and bananas, accompanied by refreshing glasses of soda with citrus fruit.

And 4/5 of a bottle of wine.

It seems when I page down with my right thumb, it causes my eyelid to go into a spasm. Fortunately, I have eaten about 10 eggs in about 40 hours.

Eggs, as we know, contain everything necessary to nurture a chicken to birthability from nothing. The egg came first. It is essentially the chicken's creator -- God in a shell. A wise congregation would pray to the egg.

Of course, I need more than one egg to regenerate as I am larger than a chicken. But I still have at least 2 left. So, when my body asks itself for the basic stuff of life in order to reknit my eyelid into a tear-shrouding model of "just born" stability. everything it needs will be as available as Yoo-Hoo in a well-stocked motel fridge.

I guess, in theory, by eating enough eggs, you could regrow a limb.

Or a wing.

I only hope I haven't eaten too many. I don't want to wake up covered with feathers.

That could only be bad as I sleep with a synthetic pillow.

A combination of manual labor and stress has created a situation where even typing makes my face hurt. Turning a newspaper's pages tugs at my face in painful ways.

Even turning at all.

Makes it hard to go out.

Thus, I am still not in love.

However, I have had chocolate. I read somewhere that doctors have successfully treated brain injuries with dark chocolate.

Well, I at least glanced at something that seemed to say that. So, I figured, when faced with the choice of fruit and 100 grams of dark chocolate, that it would work for face injuries too. After all, the face is close to the brain. Though they don't always get along.

And the body, as we know, perceives chocolate as love. (I have a great interest in the burgeoning field of chocolate science.)

So, this face thing is really a win-win situation.

The story is told of a guy who comes up to a Muslim man in the street and tells him, "You gotta help me. I've lost everything looking for a woman to call my own -- my house, my job . . .   I've lost my life's savings trying to woo and to please, but to no avail. Can you spare me any money? Any amount, large or small, I'm begging you. I'm alone and I need to survive." (He breaks down and cries.)

Well, the Muslim man is sensitive to the other man's plight but he is wise to the ways of humanity and he says to the beggar, "I'd like to help but if I give you the money you need to survive, how do I know you won't spend it on a woman?"

And the beggar says, "Oh, I got goat money."

Walked through the Orthodox Jewish part of Hackney on my way back from the disappointing Uprise and Punch and Judy festivals. (Uprise referred to was not, sadly, Judy's revenge against the abusive Punch.) Musta been evening prayer time, as the men were in their black finery, with beards and hats at peak of perfection.

Every so often, I would find a clump of Muslim men instead, congregating outside their houses of worship in finest whites, with beards and caps at peak of their perfection.

Due to the stark monochrome iconography, yet fundamental similarity, walking this Godly gauntlet was like being inside a devout version of Spy vs. Spy (from MAD magazine, silly). But then I saw a group of not-yet-bearded older boys in their finery and was momentarily unable to determine if they were Muslims or Jews.

Apparently, they had not yet fully differentiated. (It's science!)

Be that as it may, I'm still not in love. But I was probably close to several Yiddishe matchmakers. And some Muslim fathers willing to sell their daughters for a goat.

Unfortunately, I cannot afford a goat.

If I had that kind of cash, I wouldn't be lonely.

Still, perhaps I should return to the neighborhood soon.

I just gotta get me some goat money.

As if in answer to my query, while out I met an absolutely beautiful research scientist, so there are, obviously, ever more brilliant women in the world just waiting to be found and known.

On the other hand, I knew that already. My question was whether I would find someone who is intellectually extraordinary to love me. And there was no particular reason to believe this woman had any undue interest in me. So, I guess the encounter was just a partial answer to my query.

The useless part.

The part I already knew.

Gave me hope, though.

That's how stupid I am.

I feel capable of being in love.

Which has put me in mind of the impressive number of extraordinarily intelligent women I've known. Few (if any) of whom are likely to again be accessible to me in any significant way.

Will I find that again in someone? Have I? What if I don't?

Is good enough good enough?

What does good enough even mean?