Skin Rash Irritant Convalescent Vacuum
My first full poetry collection furnish, entrap is up for preorder here. Released April 30th, 142 pages.
Itchiness had slowly crept up on me; across my torso, along the arms and folds reddened bumps grew. It was irritating, but not wholly worrying as no correlating symptoms appeared. There was no fever, and it didn't seem to be contagious.
Eventually I went to the dermatologist, the rash refusing to subside and slowly eating away at my sleep time such was the urge to scratch. Immediately, upon seeing my torso, she asked for the oldest affected region, where the “mother” was situated. In my left armpit. Her countenance instantly acquired a whiff of satisfaction as she informed me I had pityriasis rosea, a largely harmless condition whose cycle would last a few further weeks as my body sought to fight it. She bemoaned the fact her students were not present to witness this positively delightful diagnosis in the flesh.
She explained that this was a product of the many viruses and bacterias our bodies fight constantly, and that in a moment of weakened immunity it is not uncommon for it to manifest as such. I was to avoid histamines, take antihistamines and dry out the rash with talcum powder. Nothing overly onerous.
This latest ailment hit me a little over a year on from my bout with vertigo, and came at the back-end of a reacquaintance with a drinking culture that the Christmas-New Years period inevitably spurs. It was also four years on from my first bout of Covid, and ten years on from contracting meningitis; an illness which left me depleted; immuno-compromised no doubt as I proceeded to contract mild colds and flus at an almost monthly basis for years, something rather more common now in our (post-)Covid era.
The period I spent living and working in London was probably the most tiresome and depleting, juggling various commitments across this wide and decentred net of that urban maelstrom, where desire and the everyday was constantly being scrutinised and calculated.
I shot back to the big smoke for a week, mainly for work. I tried to take in the ambiance of the commute, open to the vibes and atmosphere of the tram, in this case, only to find a total silence. A silence not restful, but tense, ready to reel whenever the next breaking of the social contract came, as it inevitably did, if those viral tram videos are anything to go by. Assimilation, a withdrawal into interiority, politeness; these were respectable attributes. Actual connection or communication left wanting. You know, the gristle. Of course this is punctuated, and augmented, by a revelry and cantankerous ribaldry which typifies an Anglo idea of a good time. Misshapen, irruptive, and yet still rooted in the silent tension of the public, if in opposition to. I partook, naturally, finding my leisure time dire without the lure of excess and organised fun. It is compulsive of course, and I brought back illness for my troubles on the return back. My nervous system jerked from its resting centre.
Illness always brings out the existential, uncovers it deep beneath. Slowing down, taking stock, slightly bitter and rudderless. In any case, it is interesting to think about slowing down as also grabbing life, as also somehow affirmative and vital. Grounding oneself, becoming more particular and esoteric as a function of more carefully mediating culture, the social, the world whilst also abjuring the monastic drive… You know – the tough stuff. More soon.