Musashi Mix Inq

Palliativity 207: Que Sera

Posted on September 5, 2013

"The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources."

— Albert Einstein —

Remember: everything is a remix

Wax Tailor | Everything is a Remix

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Palliativity 206: The Homesick Cabaret

Posted on August 29, 2013

You are here, on some level, because you too are fascinated with the retelling of the epic rock-opera that is

the 20th century.

And I your host, this contemporary creative, am tirelessly fetishizing the fetishization of the exotic,

and dissecting the legends of everyday people who lived with a genuineness that makes my teeth hurt.

A colonial march of good and evil, might and right, Axis and Ally, freedom blues and commie red.

A time built on accepting unknowns while furiously scribbling in the empty spaces on the map.

A time when we hadn't yet reached the depths of space or the seas outside of our dreams,

Until we chose to claim them.

When questions were more important than answers, but flags more important still.

And we humble apes huddled around the embers of spilt oil and split atoms.

A terrifying epoch indeed.

The only thing scarier still is that this story arc isn't over.

We are currently tearing thru Act 4 and, "something wicked this way comes."

Alas, we still live in an age of post-colonial world culture adolescence.

This is my heartbreaking nostalgia. This curse of memory. This march of time.

The beat goes on, but instead, I choose to dance.

The Burning Beat - Audio-Curio-Cabaret from The Roustabouts on Vimeo.

Ω

<< Fringe Fest showcase opens TONIGHT! >>

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Palliativity 205: Postmodern Jukebox

Posted on August 15, 2013

These guys get me.

An appreciation for history is one thing, but I'd rather just dive right in.

There's something humbling and pleasantly subversive about reopening a sealed piece of the past,

remixing it with the present and making it dance again.

Want more?

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Palliativity 204: reconfigure

Posted on August 8, 2013

In terms of pain as well as outlook, I'm doing much better than my last entry. I am still experiencing chronic pain, but I've been given better tools to combat it.

When my pain doc referred me to a rolfing masseuse out in the burbs a couple weeks ago, I was a bit skeptical. A massage? Really?

The first thing the masseuse did was have me take inventory of my 15 over years of treatment thus far. It's a long list of dead ends and temporary fixes highlighted by recent breakthroughs: acupuncture, chiropractor, shiatsu, meds, years of rehab and surgeries.

At the moment, I am going thru what I am beginning to think of as stage 2 of post RFA recovery. My spinal nerves have been shut off, but now the years of muscle damage layered with all the physiological crutches I had to invent just to keep hobbling along are starting to catch up with me.

The good news is that this particular rolfer is awesome. First he used what amounts to a padded jackhammer to break up the knots in my neck. I could feel my insides shake like a jar of paint. Luckily my tolerance for such experiences are rather high. I tend to enjoy them actually. Then he used a very powerful and exotic for of muscle stim combined with rehab movements to retrain the muscle tissue. The idea was to break me down then build me back up all in one visit.

I left the office feeling like very content jello. I don't know how much broken scar-tissue toxin got dumped into my system, but I felt rather off for the rest of the day. The benefits though were immediate and have served to lessen my daily pain by a margin for an entire week at this point. Although not completely cured, this course of treatment has proved good enough to go back for more.

With nerve pain, the best I could do was avoid certain movements or positions that would trigger a higher level of pain. If I was lucky enough to wake up in the morning in a pain free moment, I knew that as soon as I moved to begin my day the pain would return. This cycle was endless and healing was impossible.

My current muscle spasm situation works the opposite. Now, the more I stretch, lift and massage, the more healing takes place. It's like driving on the left side of the road.

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Palliativity 203: Flying Aces

Posted on August 1, 2013

I've always been a little obsessed with flight, the WWI era to be specific. Humans have been dreaming of soaring thru the skies for all of history.

It's no surprise that it only took about a decade to go from dirigibles and Kitty Hawk to bombing runs and dogfighting.

I recommend this entire series, which can be found on Youtube, but here is the portion of the bloody fight in the skies:

WWI Flying Ace Lafayette Escadrille Mess Song, 1916

"We meet ’neath the sounding rafters,

The walls around us are bare;

They echo the peal of laughter;

It seems that the dead are there.

 

"So stand by your glasses steady,

This world is a web of lies.

Here’s a toast to the dead already;

Hurrah for the next man who dies.

 

"Cut off from the land that bore us,

Betrayed by the land that we find,

The good men have gone before us,

And only the dull left behind.

 

"So stand by your glasses steady,

The world is a web of lies.

Then here’s to the dead already,

And hurrah for the next man who dies."

Fly-by, ©MMXII

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Palliativity 202: I’ve come to far to go back now

Posted on July 25, 2013

It's been 6 weeks since my second RFA and I'm still a bit of a mess. This isn't easy to write. I feel like a fucking loser.

My pain isn't as bad as it was before my initial treatment back in January, but I had 4 months made of seasoned-curly fried gold. No limits to activity. No vicodin. Minimal injections. I even stopped taking all of my daily meds. I was free.

In May things started to backslide. I had RFA a second time. It worked so well before, but my recovery has not yielded the same immediate and miraculous result. At six weeks out, I'm still in pain. The nerves are dead but the muscles are aching, burning and tight. I've been struggling to keep things together. New meds. Vicodin every night. Having to pace myself… again. Counting spoons and tracking every detail of my day. The stressful and sad minutes deciding whether it's really worth it to go for a walk, see friends, try to go back to sleep or just count the hours.

My doc asked today if I'm depressed—

Before, when the chronic pain was at its worst, the act of living really came down to this: I couldn't let myself feel. There is a place for emotional self-assessment with chronic pain, but it must be done carefully and at a distance. Merely an observation, like checking gauges on the dashboard while cruising down the highway. Eyes on the road. On rough days, all that kept me going was momentum. If I stopped, everything stopped. I would just clutch my knees on the floor and rock and cry and babble and pound my head against the wall until my partner or meds or the cold light of early dawn would draw me out of it. I first believed in the soul because I was trapped inside of body inside of pain inside of a world that couldn't see me.

I exist in here. I promise…

And then this year, I was set free thru might and magic and research and lasers and compassion and tenacity and health insurance. Those four months were real and I'm going to get myself back.

So no, I'm not cured and I never was. I was merely in remission. This is a temporary falter in a lifelong struggle. Every morning I rally strength and every night I toast to the long night and a better tomorrow.

— I'm not depressed. I'm on a mission.

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