The Life Immobile

 Three weeks into the Life Immobile today. 

 Been thinking a bit about the perception of time - how it seems to fly and then crawl, or even to disappear either into endlessness or into the never-has-been.  What did Einstein say?  I can't re-intepret his notions of time and space and motion, but I do believe that with long hours alone in a small space, the inability to move much, and the help of oxycodone, I am experiencing a bit of the warp he talked about.  I wonder: will physical therapy include astro-physical therapy as well?

Here is the view from my bed:

This is a painting by Gay McCline, a Fresno artist whose work I love, hanging on the wall at the foot of our bed. Here is a piece of California where the golden foothills are just beginning their climb.  I can smell that dry, dusty, end of summer scent on the oaks, and scan the sky for long awaited rain.  The color of the landscape tells me that grapes in the vineyards are at their sweetest and the almonds are ready for harvest.  The rivers will be running low now, having drained the Sierra of melted snow.

Last year, my first end of summer in the mid-Atlantic, I was surprised at how quickly summer ended and autumn began.  The weather changed in two days and did not look back:  from buggy humidity to glorious light and long weeks of wonderful weather, right at the beginning of September.  Looks like the same turning is happening now.  In Central California summer hangs on into October. I miss those California foothills, but I embrace the early change of season here in my new home.

Here is the view of me in my bed:



This is where I spend most of my time.  Notice the computer in my lap, the bundle of baby naptime supplies at my side, the stack of books on the other side (Queen of America by Luis Alberto Urrea is my current novel).  I am showing off my newly acquired Handicap Parking Pass (shout out to George, the world's best neighbor for braving the Maryland DMV for me), and waiting for somebody to bring me dinner because I cannot yet travel up and down stairs to the main floor where the normal people eat. 

Here is me pretending to meditate but really just zoning out:



"There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone."

Oh my.  I need a project.