Swallow, Socrates: visuals . . . february

{2/ 29/ 12} Having been reluctantly spat from the MRI tube like Jonah from his gastric jail, here slumps Socrates waiting for the results.

{2/ 28/ 12} Upsy-daisy

{2/ 28/ 12} Downsy-daisy.

{2/ 26/ 12} I think BC/BS will cover 80% of my hospital sticky-pad socks. So my part will probably come out to be around $9000.

{2/ 22/ 12} Though it's hard to tell with my drooping shirt, this is all elbows and toes, people. Hold for a ten count, repeat. It might also be hard to see that I am smiling and giving a thumbs up. Look a little closer and you'll see the clock indicating that my session had only barely begun. [See attitude change below.]

{2/ 22/ 12} Quick nap while my therapist is distracted.

{2/ 22/ 12} Now for a little Q & A. Yes, you there rolling your eyes, growing tired of my nonsense . . . Q: Um, yeah, is that a dead guy's head on the far right, midway down? A: Don't be ridiculous, he's only mostly dead. Next, in the back, yes, you, bouncing on the edge of your seat waving your hand like a know-it-all 5th grader. Q: Thank you, sir, I was afraid you might not see me . . . A: Is that your question? Q: On no, sorry . . . Is that trampoline for Hobbits? A: Not exclusively, no. Anything else . . . any more questions . . . OK, you there, blushing lady not making eye-contact . . . Q: Wh-wh-who is that ma-ma-magnif-nif-nificent man going no-handsies on the bike? A: That's a good question, best question yet, actually. That's me. Mixing things up a bit. Working my posture, working my core. You know, just your basic above and beyond sort of thing.

{2/ 20/ 12} The ol' Tandem Cone-Weave Wedgie routine. Later came the freestyle Frisbee catch and then the duck-decoy, long-dive competitions.

{2/ 20/ 12} Here I come, rounding the last curve of the five-cone, fifteen-foot course, on track to set my personal record of 3hrs and 97mins.

{2/ 20/ 12} Two more obstacles added to the side-step exercise for hip and knee flexion. This is the highest I've raised my left leg and left foot while standing in many, many moons.

{2/ 13/ 12} Some of my college friends may have seen me in a similar predicament on some roadside or another. Put it this way, if that dude up there was the dude from back then . . . do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, and watch your head, son. I mean, I might as well be twelve deep and hollering for a store-run. [Do not drink and drive, kids. It's not cool and it may cause brain tumors. But seriously, don't do it.]

{2/ 13/ 12} I am neither bouncing on that trampoline nor getting a shoulder massage. Essentially, she's just shoving me around from all sides, trying to make me fall and shatter my skull against that column. True story.

{2/ 13/ 12 } I am neither being molested nor patted down for shanks. In this instance, she caught me cheating by unlocking my left knee. She's re-locking it for me. No harm, no foul. All was forgiven.

{2/ 13/ 12} The ol' Lopsided Granny-walker, Weak-side Step-Up, Wedgie and Balance routine.

{2/ 9/ 12} Here sulks a defeated man. It seems he could not balance and raise alternating knees toward his chest. No, not on this day. Look at him--alone in his corner, his therapist shamed, his big ball half-deflated beneath his sloppy posture.

{2/ 8/ 12} The 36 Dollar Man. We can rebuild him, we have the technol . . . fine, we have the plastic and his foot keeps dragging the ground.

{2/ 8/ 12} A crippled's-eye-view of a grocery store aisle. It's like when Peter Jackson's Frodo feels the pull of the ring after the shortcut to mushrooms, sensing the Nazgûl, and looks down the morphing, elongated trail. If that allusion eludes you, I'm sorry, but I won't mess with perfection.