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Heather and I at Caribou Coffee in Owings Mills. Great show - great photographs by Justin Lloyd. We had begun the evening playing outside, competing with the fountain and the traffic and the strip-mall speakers spouting disco tunes and easy listening favourites. Half-way through the night, dodging wind-tossed umberellas, we moved the gig inside - and then the storm struck, with rivers of water pouring through out of the sky, sending parking lot wanderers scurrying.

May 17th, 2004.
First day of physical therapy. I'm sitting in the waiting room, waiting. Heather will be due out momentarily, I suppose - in the meantime, my brain is probing my body - like a tongue looking for a missing tooth (half-remembered memories of being... eight?)... I'm looking for what? Pain? Relaxation? For the tingling to stop?

The skies have turned glowery while I was in the dark, contemplating the electrodes on my back. It looks like we'll be driving home in a storm - perhaps more electricity for us.

 

After the gig, Heather displayed her spectacular slug-wrangling skills and caught me about five of the beasts. I'd been wanting to get photographs of them, and had been calling them for days, but I guess it was the cool night and low-lying fog that brought them forth.

the moment after the doctor retreats past the receptionist, back into the inner-sanctum. And I hate the way that all the questions you want to ask the doctor occur to you

I wonder what impressions I leave with these medical professionals who see me so nervous, so vulnerable. Does a doctor realize how nervous we are when we come in? Everything everyone has told me about "physical therapy" is that it'll probably hurt later... so I'm wary in approaching.

"Rehab At Work" is a dingy sort of looking suite - more akin at first glance to the clinics I would visit back in Baltimore, or an office basement gym. A lot of towels are used here, and there's even a washer-dryer in constant use just outside of the reception

 
 
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