The hanging garden

I am a damaged musician with a dragon in my leg. A few weeks ago I was given the bottle label of ‘a large central and paracentral (right-sided) L5/S1 disc prolapse with thecal effacement and radiological caudal compression’. A label to wrap around one of the beautiful cobalt blue glass poison bottles I found in a market, ‘do not drink’. I am rendered unable to play for an unknown amount of time with possible surgery looming. I was supposed to play Knussen’s solo bassoon craziness this Saturday, a piece based on Kafka’s ‘Metamorphosis’ and became captivated by the story, a fairytale of sorts. It grotesquely portrays the somewhat fragile banality of life yet at the same time emphasizes its profoundity. I remember writing those exact words on a close, jasmine heavy night in Sicily a couple of weeks back. My dragon pain was roaring and the night was heavy. I lay outside at dawn, on a damp beach blanket Katy and I had bartered for on the beach the day before. The magic of that morning, it hurt. So hideously beautiful, laced with nausea. I wanted to feel the silent beauty yet my nerve pain banged like a nightclub. Words are medicine, magic, I need to write. I need to create. This is it. Today my boyfriend taught me a game, a somewhat lego vs barbie boy- game, but he taught me with such kindness that I nonetheless persevered. I could sit for an extended amount of time. One of the cards had a picture of a hanging garden. Something drew me to that card, an ancient old-world order. I almost think I’ve lived there before.