Yesterday got all done. The concert was charming (though I’m not certain the lead singer would prefer that description), time with my friend more charming still, and I didn’t run myself into the ground. So all’s we’ll that ends well… . To make certain, however, I am tackling this day as a modified pajama day. […]
First day back. Since I left off working routine hours, that hasn’t meant much—one can ramp back up by adding and subtracting whatever’s needed. It’s an effective way to operate, really; no need for my earlier rhythms of waiting until I was desperately bored in recuperation, then parachuting back in to the stream of work. […]
I woke up yesterday wondering whether I was All Better. My Sweetie, in a five-minute kiss-out-the-door assessment, looked perturbed, and when I later texted him that I’d told my professors I wouldn’t be in for my midterms replied, “Good.” -!! So yesterday I did the thing one is supposed to when ill—nothing. Well, not quite […]
The data are winning; I am ill. Now that I’m running a fever, I can no longer push off my vague sense of not-right-ness… I am genuinely Not Right. The ripples that chase across my body like sun and cloud reflected in a swift stream belong to a purpose—that of burning off whatever’s ailing me. […]
I am taking the tops off my mosquito bites, under the magical delusion that they will itch less then… because I’ve let the humors out? Can’t say. It’s working for the big one on my right knee, though. I haven’t felt ill, but as I mentioned to Sara, all the observable data pointed that direction […]
And here’s another toast to you who are reading this, because you still can: May your coffin be made of the finest wood of a 100-year-old tree that I’ll go plant tomorrow.
I’m barely out of the breakfast zone, and my day is already moving in shards. Cleaned the print heads so I could print one page clearly; folded and stacked some shirts; frothed soap in the water-bottle and left it to soak because I don’t want to use the brush, booted my laptop so I can […]
Christopher Robin Had wheezles And sneezles, They bundled him Into His bed. They gave him what goes With a cold in the nose, And some more for a cold In the head. They wondered If wheezles Could turn Into measles, If sneezles Would turn Into mumps; They examined his chest For a rash, And the […]
Not that you have a lot of opportunity to judge here, but one of the poem-things that I work hard on is to describe things exactly. This is more challenging than you might think, because part of what I want you-as-poem-reader to do is to Pay Attention, and not gloss over what I’ve put into […]
Sleep still clogged my ears as I listened to Tom Hanks talk about his typewriters. About how his cutting and pasting involves scissors, and glue. I remember doing this. I am not nostalgic for this, even if one can make interesting cases for finger-strength and percussion, for the feel of type-indented paper. What I delightedly […]
