Happy New Year
I've been sick as a dog for three days, I can't find any ginger, I'm out of clean socks, and the mouse is going spastic on me. I don't know which is worse - obviously three days of delusional vomiting is the likely candidate, but the fever is going down and the whole thing doesn't seem so bad in retrospect. The sock thing has happened before and, believe you me, will happen again. The ginger thing is nagging at me - rice soup with garlic and ginger, that always gets me on my feet again. Some chicken or other kind of dead animal helps, but the garlic and the ginger are what do it for me and I can't find any ginger anywhere. A mouse with cerebral palsy is the kind of thing I would have shrugged off just a few short years ago, but now nags at me incessantly.
Okay, the little fucker goes up and down on the screen, but doesn't go side to side. Ordinarily, I would attempt to find some greater meaning in all of this, but, right now, I say to myself that the fucker is broken and I can't get passed that. It nags at me, pressed down on me, like the veins in my forehead, shrivelling and contracting, tighter and tighter as I get more and more dehydrated and the light from the front porch bounces of my window when I wake up in a coughing fit at three in the morning in a hallucinatory daze and watch the light flickering through the condensation, through the moisture, into the moisture and leaves me wondering just how much moisture is left in my sorry little brain - haven't kept anything even water down in a day and a half but somehow that loses all significance as I stare at the little red lines on the clock radio 3:11 the little lines all come together to say and exactly what in my short circuited Sahara desert of a brain gives such numeric significance to an arrangement of little red lines that seem to last so absolutely perfectly together at 3:11 and then I seem to glance at it again at it says ... 3:12. I drift off to sleep and when I wake up the sun is coming through the bedroom window and baking my flesh under a hundred blankets and do I still have a fever or what? Anyway I get up and stagger around and try to read and can't and walk up to the pond and back and have a coughing fit and then consider myself to have had a big day because I made it all the way through "Bob the Builder" without throwing up.
You see, I had intended on doing an elaborate New Year's Day post, setting up a smashing coming year, both agriculturally and literarily, but I ended up throwing up instead. So I sat down now to try to put a positive spin on things, maybe gloss things over a bit, and this is about all I could come up with. Nevermind. I'm sick.
Okay, the little fucker goes up and down on the screen, but doesn't go side to side. Ordinarily, I would attempt to find some greater meaning in all of this, but, right now, I say to myself that the fucker is broken and I can't get passed that. It nags at me, pressed down on me, like the veins in my forehead, shrivelling and contracting, tighter and tighter as I get more and more dehydrated and the light from the front porch bounces of my window when I wake up in a coughing fit at three in the morning in a hallucinatory daze and watch the light flickering through the condensation, through the moisture, into the moisture and leaves me wondering just how much moisture is left in my sorry little brain - haven't kept anything even water down in a day and a half but somehow that loses all significance as I stare at the little red lines on the clock radio 3:11 the little lines all come together to say and exactly what in my short circuited Sahara desert of a brain gives such numeric significance to an arrangement of little red lines that seem to last so absolutely perfectly together at 3:11 and then I seem to glance at it again at it says ... 3:12. I drift off to sleep and when I wake up the sun is coming through the bedroom window and baking my flesh under a hundred blankets and do I still have a fever or what? Anyway I get up and stagger around and try to read and can't and walk up to the pond and back and have a coughing fit and then consider myself to have had a big day because I made it all the way through "Bob the Builder" without throwing up.
You see, I had intended on doing an elaborate New Year's Day post, setting up a smashing coming year, both agriculturally and literarily, but I ended up throwing up instead. So I sat down now to try to put a positive spin on things, maybe gloss things over a bit, and this is about all I could come up with. Nevermind. I'm sick.
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