So I saw my old rheumatologist today who seems to have a bead on what's causing my health troubles. Phew. He even gave me medicine to take down the swelling and pain in my neck. It's only been a few hours and the problem's reduced by about half. Amazing.

In other news, I was looking back through all my writing and poetry, and I'm realizing that I haven't written anything good (I'm talking prose, now, and poems, not reportage or my articles) since I quit drinking.

I remember Paul and Jaylinn and I hanging out, all reading a poem by Bukowski. We'd been going through his books. There was this one poem he wrote sober. As he wrote it, he analyzed it. He noted it had no soul. That he doubted anyone'd really want to read it. It didn't suck, it just...dissappeared into the ether. It wasn't anything. No substance.

I wonder if some day, far in the future, I will dose myself methodically with whiskey, four ounces per two hours, perhaps, to let the words come out.