ten icy minutes
yesterday marked the thankful return to semi-normalcy. after a month of an utter lack of schedule, i've found myself drifting into habits that really aren't habits at all: waking at erratic times, falling asleep to movies, and sporadic vegetable consumption.
it's funny, because in yogic philosophy there's a lot of talk about observing patterns, combating samskara, and dissolving the habit centers in the mind. paradoxically, this is done primarily through the establishment of new routines and behaviors that counteract the effects of the previous ones.
a structuralist would be severely dissatisfied, but this is beside the point.
the point is that some routines are good for you, some habits are the very things that keep us sane and healthy. my half-Canadian friend, for example, prides himself as much as anyone i know on his ability to steer clear of patterns, to spot them as soon as they arise and respond effortlessly to the dangers they pose. and yet, just try to interrupt his penchant for minimalism with a porcelain dog:
the dog is beside the point.
the point is that habits, like everything else, are neither intrinsically good nor bad. it's our relationship to them that matters, whether we're using them to provide a sense of security (bad yogi!) or balance (Sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog).
i suppose all this is on my mind because over the past months i've managed to inflame the muscles and tendons in my forearms through countless hours at this keyboard. while my thesis progresses admirably, my physical being has paid the price. the concentration required to stay focused on the project becomes like a Mobius strip, turning back in on itself and resulting in motionless expanses of time that mirror, ironically, one of the films upon which i'm writing:
sometimes when i'm working the thought pops into my head: human beings were not designed to do this. we were not meant to spend hours on end staring at abstraction and pontificating about two-dimensional images.
harm-reduction becomes the order of the day, and for the modern intellectual worker, a good massage therapist is the equivalent of a needle exchange program. so yesterday i went to see my yin's colleague, who specializes in myofascial release:
he proceeded mush and rub and torture my right forearm for twenty minutes, using everything from bamboo sticks to a rolling pin. all of it was uncomfortable, and some portions were actually downright painful. at the end he pulled out ice packs, telling me that after inflaming the tissue, we needed to ice it down. 'how long?' i asked.
it's funny, because in yogic philosophy there's a lot of talk about observing patterns, combating samskara, and dissolving the habit centers in the mind. paradoxically, this is done primarily through the establishment of new routines and behaviors that counteract the effects of the previous ones.
a structuralist would be severely dissatisfied, but this is beside the point.
the point is that some routines are good for you, some habits are the very things that keep us sane and healthy. my half-Canadian friend, for example, prides himself as much as anyone i know on his ability to steer clear of patterns, to spot them as soon as they arise and respond effortlessly to the dangers they pose. and yet, just try to interrupt his penchant for minimalism with a porcelain dog:
this is not the dog in question
the dog is beside the point.
the point is that habits, like everything else, are neither intrinsically good nor bad. it's our relationship to them that matters, whether we're using them to provide a sense of security (bad yogi!) or balance (Sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog).
also not the dog in question
i suppose all this is on my mind because over the past months i've managed to inflame the muscles and tendons in my forearms through countless hours at this keyboard. while my thesis progresses admirably, my physical being has paid the price. the concentration required to stay focused on the project becomes like a Mobius strip, turning back in on itself and resulting in motionless expanses of time that mirror, ironically, one of the films upon which i'm writing:
sometimes when i'm working the thought pops into my head: human beings were not designed to do this. we were not meant to spend hours on end staring at abstraction and pontificating about two-dimensional images.
and yet we do.
you're doing it now.
you're doing it now.
harm-reduction becomes the order of the day, and for the modern intellectual worker, a good massage therapist is the equivalent of a needle exchange program. so yesterday i went to see my yin's colleague, who specializes in myofascial release:
Fascia Man
he proceeded mush and rub and torture my right forearm for twenty minutes, using everything from bamboo sticks to a rolling pin. all of it was uncomfortable, and some portions were actually downright painful. at the end he pulled out ice packs, telling me that after inflaming the tissue, we needed to ice it down. 'how long?' i asked.
"ten minutes."
thus concluded the tenth day of Christmas.
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