20181123.0430

With the change in weather that heralds the approaching winter, or so much of it as the Texas Hill Country is accustomed to getting, has come a change in what pollens are in the air. (As I've noted in another place entirely, certain plants 'round here like to get freaky in the cooler weather; that it's been wet this year ain't helpin'.) With that change has come an assault upon my sinuses, which do not bleed but spill out what has been in them nonetheless. I am well otherwise, but the persistent flow from my nostrils, which no amount of blowing clears, as I no sooner blow than I flow again, is damned distracting, as well as occupying my hands no less than the pressure behind my nose and eyes occupies more of my thoughts and attention than I would prefer to give it.
But amid all the blowing comes once again a song common to the men of my family, and I am adding my strains to it once again. For it is a commonplace among the men of my family that their noses honk--and at different pitches--when they are blown. My late grandfather would clear his snoot with a mighty rumbling; my dad's nose blows with a clear tenor to counterpoint his lower voice. Mine has previously sounded in a baritone not unlike my awkward singing voice or the throaty bellow of my saxophone; this time around, though, it is octaves above it, speaking in a soprillo's range through ululations I could never articulate with my inept hands and blunted fingers.
Time was, I could play a strange song on my septum, squeezing my nose to change pitch subtly, blowing less or more to amend my volume (though never to such a pianissimo as most around me would care to hear). This time, though, I but shriek shrilly into tissue and handkerchief. My darling daughter still delights in the din that my dripping occasions, and to hear Ms. 8 laugh is a lilting counterpoint that fits to any melodic line that might be thought or heard. But I still worry about my diminished capacity; I worry that my nose will not be the only thing I play less well than once I did.
While I will leave the details of what things I worry about handling less well than previously to my readers' imaginations--they will come up with better answers than ever I could--I will note that I am working to maintain myself, at least. I am resting as I can, drinking juice to fortify me, taking what medications actually seem to do me any good. (They are few enough, particularly against the threats I see in them in the people with whom I work day by day.) And I practice my arts as much as time allows--more than I used to, certainly, but probably less than most of them deserve. I can hope thereby to stave off for a while the decline that eventually claims all.