Fever-induced post, which is new for me. Usually they're alcohol-induced.
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Fever, stomach pain and the inability to speak or swallow kept me under house arrest for three days. But I think the stomach pain was just a reaction to not having McNuggets for dinner.
I realize that being sick and being me has its similarities. The powerlessness, the idea/truth that there's very little one can do to make things better except let them run their course. And while it's overly dramatic (and wrong) when I say that it hurts more than the sickness itself, it sure doesn't make things any easier.
Another thing that sucks about being sick is that it doesn't even distract me from that.
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Two things I wish I had more time to do:
One is draw. I have probably stopped developing this around the time I started working. Sometimes I think that that has something to do with everything that is wrong with me. As in everything. I just can't put my finger on it. (Or maybe I can, a little bit too easily, and of course to me the simplest solution has to be wrong. A riddle for another day.)
The other is to play around with my Echo Park, set here to Pride setting. That's easy enough to remedy. Thank God.
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I actually have an officemate that I met previously on a beach trip me and my friends made in 2003. And I didn't remember until I saw the pictures again. I rationalize that I was so fucked up on that trip so I probably don't remember anything. There's a big chance that I was there getting over someone, which is like, 90% of the time.
Oh, to live forever in that other 10 %.
I'm back.
I need to write; I think I know that now. Even if it's the same story over and over again. Even if all it does it make things worse inside, and reveals weaknesses. Even if there's no one who answers. I'm reminded of Rilke:
"Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."
I know quoting Letters to a Young Poet in a blog is like a band covering, uh, Black, but that's one more habit I need to get rid of: caring about what other people think.
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I also need to post pictures. Especially when words fail, as they are beginning to.
It's father's day today (but the picture is a couple of weeks old). I don't talk about my family much, maybe because I don't think it's/we're interesting enough. The picture is pretty neat, though, because we all looked stuffed. And tired. Except for my brother who always looks like that.
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Today I went to a high school classmate's daughter's first birthday. An expensive affair I'd imagine, as the setup included a giant inflatable slide in the shape of the Titanic. (Writing that just now made me think now that would make a better blog photo than my family in Baguio.) The party was rounded out by a magician, and suddenly but predictably I became sad again. Or sadder, if you know me.
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There are going to be some changes around here. There has to.
