Planet Fitness, The Succubae of Balzac, MRI Fantasies and Mosquitos

It has been quite along time since I’ve spent my mornings – well, not the entire morning, merely the first hour or so of it – at a local gym, because, let’s be honest, since the accident, I haven’t really been in any shape to tackle any exercise equipment.  That has been slowly changing.  The physical therapy, the exercise ball and the leg weights, all of it combined made me suspect I might be ready to visit a gym again.  This was morning #4 – and I feel absolutely wonderful.  I’ve been restricting myself to the equipment I know I can use without regretting it desperately the following day, and so far I haven’t regretted it at all.  If anything, I feel more energized and mobile, which is a huge step forward.  Thank you, Planet Fitness!

(Now my only issue of concern is that all of my gym clothes are too big ... before things start falling off of me, I think I might want to look into buying a few things in smaller sizes ...)

Yet another classic procurement from the Used Book Superstore:  The Droll Stories of Balzac (Honoré de Balzac).  This was the Book League of America edition, 1940, with Steele Savage’s illustrations.

Balzac is an author (Charles Dickens is another) whose prose is so densely elegant, I regret the story or novel coming to a conclusion ... this was no different.  In this case (and you all know why this caught my attention), he had written a short story called The Succubus.  And while it’s true I have zero use for one of THOSE (sorry, succubae!), I wondered if he had done any research into the history of the topic before writing it.  I still suspect that the belief in the demonic nature of the incubus/succubus originated with Enoch and the Watchers.  Haven’t been able to find the smoking gun, so to speak, but I do whatever research I can with what little unbiased material there is out there.  And Balzac – who knows what his exact influences were?  I’m sure I’ll find out, soon enough, so stay tuned for the Honoré de Balzac succubus analysis!

So far, we’re back to the deus ex machina (translation for those who need it:  “an unexpected power or event saving a seemingly hopeless situation, especially as a contrived plot device in a play or novel”) of the time period, which inevitably reads something as follows: 

“ ... and then he handed me a sheaf of ancient documents which had never seen the light of day – until now!”

It’s always ancient scrolls or parchments or dusty packets of ancient correspondences tied in a neat bundle by a faded ribbon, or ... whatever ... that the author just HAS to reveal to his or her eager, drooling public – primarily because the entire plot depends on it.  So yes, I started out the story rolling my eyes and muttering, “Oh, PULEEZE.”  Then you need to wade through a distasteful barrage of “pious” christian anti-semitism and other nonsense ... before getting to the inquest contained in these long-hidden ancient documents ... which I can’t quite bring myself to tackle at the moment, as it seems to be a catalogue more of the idiocy of rural French townsfolk than the history of the succubus “demon” herself, who appears to be “Moorish”.  Well, that would figure.  I can tell you that she seems to be leaving a lot of French rural farmers and tradesmen exhausted to the point of near-death, and we haven’t even met her yet!  Only christians would see sex as something to be feared to the point where it stands a good chance of killing you off.

The last of the MRI’s were done this week, two of them, back to back.  MRIs don’t really bother me ... I’ve been known to come close to taking a nap in them, actually:  the banging and whirring and other noises that might bother most people sound like white noise to me, and I come close to drifting off peacefully.  In this case, I enjoyed the most delicious fantasy ... as opposed to falling asleep ... maybe one of these days I will go into more detail – but on second thought, I probably won’t.  Consider yourselves fortunately spared the embarrassment of it. 

Unfortunately, all peaceful 90 minutes in the machine were almost immediately offset by a long line of really annoying women:  the one who let her annoying little toddler run rampant in the Lahey cafeteria, nearly upending some elderly people in walkers; the elderly driver who decided to take a meandering and leisurely drive up Route 1 at a nerve wracking 35 miles per hour (the speed limit varied between 45 and 55), oblivious to line of seriously irritated drivers behind her, none of whom could pass her or believe me, we would have; the MRI tech who proceeded to lose the velcro buckle to my leg brace, now requiring me to call the brace guy and order a new one; the list went on and on.  This seemed to be, “Annoying Women Day” because ... damn!  They seemed to be out and about in droves.

I was looking for a July poem, and found nothing but, “I walked beneath the dense canopy of lush trees and enjoyed the drone of mosquitos” sorts of things ... I don’t know why, but I wasn’t in the mood for any of that.  Particularly the drone of mosquitos as I seem to have attracted a particularly hungry one, judging by the rapacious chomping he did on my lower legs while I slept the other night.

Instead, the closest anyone will ever get to my MRI fantasy: 

July 18th
Silence between us stretched into ribbon’d
paths, footless and still; if I could track new
passage through these trees, follow moribund
rue clusters touched as you slipped by, askew

and disturbed by your passing; following,
I would know your destination, suspect
your wary avoidance of my winnowing
your irresistible scent, raw aspect

now trailing behind you, anguish so sweet
even the birds are stilled in reverence,
your last endearment, brief as a heartbeat,
my only melodious recompense.

© Me, 18 July 2015, Snake’s Trail