Tag: cold

Thursday’s Theme Music

Today’s is an odd song choice, driven by weather and reverie.

Opening the blinds this morning revealed a pearl gray cold world, fog and drizzle that hid the streets and played peek-a-boo with the mountains and forests.

Although dismaying, the weather captured my inner weariness. Not much to do in our little town, and gets boring. Although I then thought of “Ramble On” by Zeppelin, “Life In A Northern Town” by the Dream Adademy (1985) soon asserted its presence in my stream.

It’s an odd song to me, not my preferred listening genre, a song I know mostly from being in a car or store and hearing it. After seeing their video and its cold fog, I thought it was right for the day.

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Writing Interrupted

Ready for a rant of self-pity and exasperation? It’s all about me. Yeah, you’ve been warned.

So, sick. Nothing threatening like a terminal disease, just a trifecta of irritations, a head cold, the flu, and then a kidney stone. With each, I thought, this will pass, and then I prayed that the last one, the kidney stone, passed fast (which it seems to have done).

Three weeks mostly killed except for a few days when I caved to the obligation to defy my body, throwing ripples of confusion and discontinuity into my carefully constructed writing existence. I could little practice the rituals of writing, of  walking to clear my mind, establishing a mental framework for walling myself into a solitary zone where I coexist with word storms, of ordering coffee and sitting down to tap, tap, tap, forwards and backwards, creating and correcting, of staring out windows and trying to understand WTF the muses are trying to tell me.

Illness didn’t slow my inner writer and army of muses. Death might slow them down, but not minor illnesses. They came in waves, expecting to be released or entertained. That doing nothing routine was unacceptable, a position strengthened because my illness habits called for me to read, sleep, dream, awaken, and read, punctuated by episodes of eating, drinking tea, and the sickness processes that my body demanded in which it hurled things out. Nothing like reading to calm the writer, right? Wrong.

Perhaps, worse of all, was the limited coffee. My taste buds warred with the coffee’s flavor. Variations failed. Spiced herbal teas were substituted, but they’re not coffee, ya know?

All of that seems cleared away today. Did my walk. Got my coffee. It still doesn’t taste right, but I’ll work through it. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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The Sick Dream

I love how my mind works through my dreams. It often surprises me, and frequently amuses me.

This was a few days ago. I was sick and feverish. My head throbbed. I couldn’t breath through my nose. My lips were dry and cracked, and my nostrils were peeling and raw from tissues. Light hurt, and tears frequently blinded me as the cold hunkered down in my eyes.

Falling into a fitful sleep, I dreamed I was in a computer video game. While most details are sketchy, I recall that I was shooting things. The things were about eight feet tall. They had short legs, arms, and torsos, but a huge head with a plain, blank face. Black hair sprouted from the crown of their head.

Running across open fields, laughing as I went under a sunny but cloudy day, I would see those things and shoot, and keep going. Upon awakening, I thought, yeah, I was fighting my illness through a video game in my dream.

Not quite The Illearth War, but what a trip.

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Six Days, Seven Nights

I’m feeling so much better today. The cold seemed to have taken a cruise of my body for six days and seven nights. They really seemed to party in my eyes, for that was the worse day and lasted almost two days. The cold briefly ported in my chest at the end, and barely visited my throat in the beginning. Although I didn’t walk and exercise as much as desired, I wrote every day. There was no vomiting, and bowel movements were normal. Severe coughing only struck the last two days. As illnesses go, it was pretty mild and short, and I consider myself fortunate that I feel almost completely well today.

Thanks for indulging me as I complained about it. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. Cheers

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Winter Skin

I go outside each morning to breath the air, take in the weather, and look around. My wardrobe is bare feet, gym shorts, and a tee shirt.

In today’s moment, accompanied by Quinn the Black Paw and Papi of the Ginger, I said, “It’s not bad out here, guys.” Quinn responded by rolling around on the patio while Papi scanned the perimeter for intruders.

After a few minutes, I returned inside and checked the temp on my small weather system. Thirty-one degrees F.

My winter skin is coming along well.

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Not Writing

It’s a bummer of a day.

You don’t need to read this. I just need to write it out. Therapy.

I’m sick, and it’s encouraging depression.

It’s mostly a chest cold. Nothing major. I can sometimes hear my breathing in my chest, particularly on my left side. Other symptoms are arising in my head and joints.

Bummer. I wrestled a long time about not going out to walk and write. I wrestled for a long time about whether I should wash up. A compromise was reached that I would shower. Then the question was, hot or cold? I haven’t taken a hot shower since March 20. I really didn’t want to break that streak just because I’m under the weather.

Another compromise was extended and accepted that I would take a short warm shower.  Then, scorning myself, I took the cold shower. It was probably a stupid decision. It felt freezing. Then, though, no shaving.

What about deodorant? Debating that for a few minutes helped convince me not to go write. I didn’t understand what the debate was about. Why was it a question?

I’d lost my boxer shorts somewhere between the master bedroom and the attached master bath. I knew I’d gotten some out of the drawer; where the hell did they go? Well, I must have put them somewhere strange. No kidding. They certainly didn’t develop legs and walk out on their own, did they, as Mom would ask.

The missing boxers were found after a few minutes, hiding in plain sight on the bench at the foot of the bed. After dressing and enduring a coughing fit, I agreed with myself, don’t go out.

Then came the guilt.

Why is it that I feel guilty about being sick? Why do I feel like I’m a malingerer?

I guess it’s something about being told to work hard and be disciplined. That’s the mantra drilled into me. “Work hard. Be disciplined.” I also feel resentment because women like to mock men when they get sick. Oh, men don’t know what it’s like to suffer or experience pain. “Poor man, he has a cold. Aw.” It’s one of their standard jokes, as regular as men mocking women for getting lost or being consumed with shopping and buying shoes and clothes. So now, I’m like, validating their joke of a stereotype. Bah.

I’m also angry about being sick. I feel like I’ve betrayed myself. I feel like I’m betraying myself by accepting that I’m sick and indulging in not going out, writing and doing the things I normally do. I had plans, damn it.

Well, screw all of that. I want to go to bed.

Maybe some tea and toast first. Maybe some hot soup.

My head feels like the large granite rock in my front yard. My neck is tired of holding it up. Why the hell must I have such a large, heavy head?

Maybe just bed.

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