flemmings | (no subject)

Reading the later stories in Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio which I either never got around to or have totally forgotten-- the latter, I think, since the earlier ones ring no bells either. And am struck again at how un-unheimlich Chinese ghost stories are. Ghosts, fox spirits, corpses: all domestic as a sock, in Auden's phrase, if that's what he said- my text is downstairs and Auden's estate have kept most of his poems off the net. And I mean domestic quite literally, because all these ghosts and foxes and even corpses seem to want is the love of a good man and a household to look after. A world away from the creeping menace of M.R. James, this.

Those spasming hip flexors or glute muscles or god forbid sacroiliac joints had a spectacular flare-up this morning. Being inclined to blame shortened ligaments for this, I've spent the day with foam rollers and tennis balls, trying to soften up all the owie areas of my left leg, of which there are still many many. I hope to avoid a reoccurrence, since nothing is more debilitating first thing on waking. Far more painful than anything surgery related, for sure.