this is not the sort of thing I want to deal with in 'a poem' and would never bother writing into a notebook. It's something maybe to be told to a lover. Or I might tell it to my mom, who is interested in such things. It makes sense to put it here, weird repository of dreams, fantasies, compulsions, aggressions, admissions....

I tried to write all the backstory but it's boring. I'll try to do it faster. I have been over the last seven months slowly reclaiming my life from horrible constant chronic pain, a weird thing for someone the very picture of confident Russian Polish American peasant health, glowing with California sun, produce and yoga. But then I did nothing but work for four years, it was the writing of 'a poem' called work and the writing of 'a poem' which is a book of work finally finally finished. Anyone knows writing just one will kill you, etc. So I really fucked myself up. I couldn't walk, sleep, or sit. Also, I had a successful worker's comp claim because of the bad ergonomics and constant pressure, sleeplessness, and overwork of the job. So I've been to physical therapy, and occupational therapy, and acupuncture, and the chiropractor, and the X-ray machine, and the spine doctor, and the MRI tube, and the gynecologist, and the general practitioner, and the takers of blood, and the pilates instructor, and the massage therapist.

It's the massage therapist I want to tell you about. I realize I can't tell this 'story' in the way I would like to, that is, with some kind of frame. I had a 90minute appointment, twice as long as I have been able to afford in the past. My mother helped me pay for this one, because we agreed something is necessary. I thought it would be mainly the same as before, rubbing, pressing, stretching, stroking, kneading etc, with special attention to this area of the right psoas, especially where it meets and attaches to groin, pelvis, because this seems to be---after all these months of gradually bringing the pain out of referral to thighs, hamstrings, back---where the pain originates. Last time I saw the massage therapist, he pressed on a part of my pelvis that shot electrical shocks down leg and into brain. Then I went home and slept for three hours. Two days later I cried a sort of sick deep form of weeping I don't think I've registered before. And two days after that again, registering grief of rejection, a lifetime's worth. I thought today it would be the same massage but different, longer. But instead, after massaging back, shoulders, registering and soothing legs, spirit--I was nearly asleep, very odd--he had me turn over on my back, made some moderate adjustments of each leg, attended briefly each psoas, and then pulled up a stool and sat down, and placed his hand over my abdomen, just below my belly button, just above the pubic bone. He just stayed there. It was very strange. No electrical shocks. I started to cry. It was very embarrassing. Embarrassment the strongest sensation, and surprise and the shame of --what? he just stayed there. Then he asked me a lot of questions about the shape and color and texture and sensation of my experience. I won't share this with you, it's embarrassing in the way of a very small child not wanting to tell you their favorite color. This went on a really long time. Then the next thing was to begin to let that energy move. He was very kind. He asked if he could put some crystals on my body, I said ok. No one has ever done that before. My eyes were closed or paying attention to the slowly shifting changing moving internal terrain of my abdomen, my pelvis, my groin, my ovaries, my thigh. Then he did some other things, I'm not sure what, but for awhile gently massaging my skull. My body felt so light three fourths of it disappeared, it was as if it wasn't there, it was light instead. White light, absence of substance, how embarrasing to relate. I can't remember the rest, this much is embarrassing and doesn't express. I came home and slept for three hours.