Friday, April 1, 2011

The Work of W. B. Yeats

Today, the peach is all

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky


What shall I do with this absurdity---
O heart, O troubled heart---this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?


Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

In other words, my peach is all about Yeats.

Yeast, I mean. Yeast. My peach is all about yeast.

What I didn't anticipate about a five-alarm yeast infection plus vulvodynia is that the dancing a yeast infection makes anyone do turns into the dancing you do to avoid a cackling outlaw's gunshots.

I also didn't anticipate that the sparks around my urethra would echo back to my tailbone, where clearly there are no yeasties assembling. Do you have sensitive knuckles? When I pet between the tops of my knuckles very lightly, it's almost unbearably ticklish. That's what it feels like at my tailbone today.

Such strangeness this vulvodynia brings!

I think the yeasties are in retreat, but meanwhile, gravity + Monistat = more gunshot avoidance. Finally it occurred to me that Neurontin, or perhaps Naproxen, might make the itch more manageable. Waiting to see.

Thanks for your support following my last post. I've leveled out but still feel a great ship of karma headed my way in the form of, I don't know, thousands of people not showing up when I need them to. I won't be assembling any marches anytime soon.

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