kinetically epitome of incomprehensibility This adjective came to mind because my mother is on antibiotics, which took me to church yesterday and made me want to hit people. I'll explain. A test revealed Mom had a particular bacteria that's was preventing her from absorbing iron properly, so instead of continually taking iron supplements, she decided she was better off taking a two-week round of antibiotics. Ah, antibiotics. A couple of years ago, when I was prescribed one after puppy Shiloh bit my hand - the nurse explained that an infection in one's hand could fuck up finicky little joints and muscles, though not in those words - the medicine gave me flaky poop and thus an itchy asshole, no matter how many probiotics I also popped. But that was merely annoying and undignified, not alarming, and Dad was alarmed that Mom couldn't play piano that morning. Her hands trembled and she couldn't remember the notes, she said. Dad wondered if she'd had a stroke, so I tried to calm people down, reasoning with my tiny bit of first-aid training that this would cause one side of the body to be affected more than the other, and she'd already been experiencing more tiredness and arthritis pain after she started taking the medication. Anyway, that meant me playing the hymns, which were more complicated than I thought. In return, Dad would drive me straight from Park Ex to my choir's mini-concert in Pointe Claire, which was happening that afternoon. So, in less than an hour, I was seated at the piano at Livingstone, in the front and to the side of the people gathering in the seats...absolutely terrified. I mean, I was terrified. The other people were probably less terrified, except maybe the student minister, since it was his turn to preach. (Mom has a point: he's objectively beautiful. I'm just in love with someone else and I miss a different someone else and would L.M. Montgomery think me a proper minister's wife? No, and she had a sense of humour. Case closed.) Anyway, Dad came up to me, saying little things to try being helpful. So I frowned and played the first few notes of Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl," because they fit the words "This wasn't quite the way I planned, not my intention" (something like that - it's been a while). I don't think he knew the song at all, let alone enough to appreciate and/or be annoyed by the reference. So I used my words. "Do I have to do this?" "Yes." He looked stern. I wanted to slap him in the face. Not him, necessarily, but someone. Mom? No, she wasn't feeling well. The student minister? No, he was already stressed out. The main minister? Not *again*, that wouldn't be fair. Plus, I knew such an action would be illogical, disruptive, and just plain bad, but at the moment, it felt like it'd be so satisfying - emotionally, acoustically, kinetically. "Use your words" means explaining hypothetical violence with adverbs, right? No? Anyway, afterwards, I felt guilty for even *wanting* to hit someone, so this showed up in an unexpected place - dream_Poland, leading to war-dogged Ukraine. ... It's not just antibiotics. Plain nervousness can also make unrehearsed hands freeze up and the brain muddle, befuddled. Kinetically, my fingers worked. I was only supposed to play the tunes to the songs, and I'd gone quickly through each, but vain pride compelled me to put chords to them. Even though I can pretty much only sight-read one note at a time, not chords, I can play stuff by ear and improvise accompaniment...but I was so angry-nervous that I could barely see the quick chord cues I'd penciled in. The first hymn? I started playing a completely different tune. Dad stopped me to tell me. Sink me into the dream_floor where I can be preserved in amber, please. Okay, right tune. Mostly. Then, later, in a metrical psalm, I started playing the right notes, but ended the last verse with the tune of a different metrical psalm. In my defense, although the chords are models of classical four-part harmony, many of the tunes have a samey-boring flavour... The raised Presbyterians will relate. Raised, leavened: see, you get annoyed when you see they've changed the communion bread cubes to crackers, because that feels too Catholic. You need leavening. But not a yeast infection, another undignified itch, although the time I had one and was gearing up to call the doctor the next day, it started going away on its own. No antibiotics to give me an itchy behind as well. Anyway, there wasn't communion that day. Neither was there a yeast infection - which, past self, is NOT caused by someone eating bread before going down on you. It's just that sexual contact can move germs around. E.g. with UTIs, too - not just one way to get one. Preach sex education from this pulpit, kinetically... Ahem. The values of the Presbyterian Church of Improvisation: safer sex, no violence, flowery language. And metrical psalms with swappable endings. ...Oh god, but my piano playing *was* embarrassing and then afterwards Selena came up to me and put her hand on my shoulder. "Don't look sad! You did a good job!" Well, I played *some* right notes. But even if she wasn't altogether honest, the piano-playing wasn't a big deal after all. It was just a lot of stress to have right before a choir concert. Stewart Hall. We clamored onto the creaking risers, and, singing, faced the falling snow. 251201 ... e_o_i (Pah, selfishness. The main point is, my mother finally reached the doctor's office today and got an appointment for Thursday, so they can check why she's having so many side effects.) 251201 what's it to you? who go blather from