The man with a crack in his back likes green eggs and ham.

The Newest Book from Larry L. Franklin
Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

It has been so long since I last wrote a blog.  What seemed so smooth and effortless has become herky-jerky as I stutter through broken words.  I have lost my rhythm.  In a rut, that’s where I am, where life is sustained more by the involuntary movements of my heart and diaphragm; unable to feel the gentle rhythmic flow of life’s changing meters.  Younger people might say that I have lost my “mojo.”  But for me, it’s all about rhythm.

I think that I’ll try writing about this man called “me:”  A musician/financial planner/writer, a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, who had a crack in his back and just happened to love green eggs and ham.  He is a complicated man with complicated ways, and yes, a bit strange, that’s what his friends might say.  Even through difficult times, he managed to maintain a primitive rhythm, more of a “boom-chick-boom-chick,” but not the hypnotic, sensual feeling that he had grown accustomed to.  How can I explain the concept to those who have never danced like a child, placed a piece of popcorn between their lips and transferred it to their dog, or became — even for a few seconds — part of the moment?  Oh the rhythmic sound of a childhood story that makes you want to dance in circles as you read to a child.  Slide into the feel of “Green eggs and ham,” as you say Sam, I am, Oh Sam, I am, I don’t like those green eggs and ham.  But in truth, I do like green eggs and ham, even with some toast and jam.

Back pain, yes that God-awful mother-fucking back pain turned off the metronome in my life.  Two years ago I began the quarterly trips to pain management where an injection of goodies were shot into my back.  Good while it lasted, that’s what I say, I say to Dr. Sam who knew my ways, but said that he will no longer play.  Then the pain, pain, pain that lasted for three weeks until the surgeon repaired two herniated disks in my lower back.  It was like magic, the pain was gone and I began to write again.  I’ve got rhythm, I’ve got rhythm, who could ask for anything more?  Then as if God had decided to tease me a bit, the pain began in another place, my sacroiliac joint to be exact.  The writing stopped. In order to avoid another trip to the operating table, my surgeon suggested that I go to a chiropractor whom he believed might reduce my pain.  Well, four weeks later the pain is decreasing and I’m beginning to feel the rhythm.  No boom-chick, boom-chick, for me.  It’s more of an effortless changing of meters from 2/4 to 5/8 to 3//2 to 13/8.  Words are beginning to fly off of the keyboard, my mind feels all blurry and good and a bit goofy.  Sam I am, I am, don’t let me down said the man with a crack in his back who just happens to like green eggs and ham.

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