Still Life for a Spring Cold
Yesterday when I awoke, it felt like a truck hit me twice. It didn’t drag me, it just left me on the side of the road.
This morning it felt more like I’d been force fed a gallon of cold duck and then dragged by the aforementioned truck.
Yay, it’s spring!!!
In looking for an appropriate image to convey, I found this fabulous blog:
Jana’s Journal and Sketch Blog. You should visit and take a look at her work if you are curious about process.
Today’s image, “Still Life for a Spring Cold”, was created when she found herself in similar distress last year. The difference is that I took to my bed and played dead. She, on the other hand, took the opportunity to be creative about it.
For the last couple of years I have had this image of me sitting at the park, with a sandwich and a sketchbook. And I earnestly want to do it when I think about it, but I haven’t. Part of it is fear that by abandoning these pursuits so long ago, that I will not be as good as I used to be. What if it isn’t just like riding a bike? Not that I’d know about that as I was not allowed to ride a bike.
Intellectually I recognize the silliness; of course I will not be as good as I used to be! Practice makes beauty. Now, if I could make the rest of the brain and body follow that logic…
So say we all!
We just watched the finale of “Battlestar Galactica” last night – the “Daybreak” saga in one sitting.
There was a lot to digest there and things keep hitting me hours and a full night's sleep later. And yet I know there is more but I can't put it all into words. I certainly think that folks that ascribe to specific dogmas might be pissed as hell. I loved Baltar calling God "a force of nature" -- especially because I started reading "American Gods" and when a character posed the question, I actually thought it.
If you watched BSG and followed closely, it was the story of those characters on their journey and their connection to us. But at heart, it was very conventional in that it simply conveyed that we are all connected to something eternal and universal, we all have a purpose and a destiny, and we all have free will. Ultimately, it told us that in the story of humanity, history will repeat itself until we break the cycle by the choices we make. Live, learn, transcend!
My first thought this morning was that as a morality tale, the final conclusion (if you could call it that) is very conventional. You are your actions, life is a journey and your purpose in the larger universe may not be clear to you but it is there, yet you arrive at it one way or the other by the choices you make. Ultimate happiness, peace and acceptance comes from realizing that you've done all you can, as best you could, to do the right thing. Redemption is about reaching the point where you are true to your nature and your destiny, but the path is full of choices, and making the right one ends the journey but does not guarantee the eternal unless you held up your integrity. It's about growing up, owning up to your choices and choosing the path of beauty (to borrow from the Navajo) when given the opportunity to do so. Human nature takes that collective unconscious and makes it slightly predictable and highly unpredictable at the same time. It's not entirely a crap shoot, but what a game!
It was about our tendency to use technology as a lazy cop-out to not own up to our responsibilities to ourselves and the world at large. So, we start anew and try to make better choices. We will arrive at that same level of “progress” but we might approach it with compassion and integrity and then the results change as we have.
I don’t see death of the cylons or humanity. I see that they lived in their children and their children. Hera was just the first, the ultimate mulatto, and “we” are the current product of that adaptation. NOT the final result, just iteration.
Head Six and Head Baltar, to me, were nothing more than soul projections of our eternal conscience. They seduced, cajoled, terrified to illuminate the way, in so many ways.
Kara got exactly what she deserved. To paraphase Joss Whedon and First Slayer, death was her gift. She did what she had to, fulfilled her destiny, and now she can rest.
People (Laura Roslin, for one) die, but it is how they choose to make a stand to the end that defines their endurance in our collective souls.
Old soldiers die alone. This by necessity. In a world that is to have a chance to live in peace, those who deal in war need to step aside and let the product of their efforts take hold with that which brought them to the breaking point.
This was the allegorical equivalent of a degustation menu on history, politics and religion. Good sci-fi is an exercise in philosophical debate. It is not supposed to give you all the answers but help the intelligent observer pose the right questions. If you are not willing to make that journey yourself, the genre is lost on you and may I suggest sticking to procedurals. They’re easier to digest, like cotton candy.
Some of it was more clearly finite than not, but it left me with the ultimate idea that hope and faith are like that line about whether the glass is half full or half empty: It depends of whether you're pouring or drinking.
To quote John Locke, “We’re going to have to watch that again.”
The stuff that sets you free...
I think it is awesome that on Leonard Nimoy’s birthday I was able to make a Michael Okuda reference that was understood.
While it was a really cool moment, it served to remind me that we’re not in Kansas anymore…
I miss having a conversation that may start with an off-handed movie reference that wasn’t meant as a mass-market, sophomoric buffoonery to philosophize about some current event. I miss having a conversation that may jump effortlessly from art to physics to fruit. Yes, fruit. It is absolutely fucking possible to have an intelligent conversation centered on nothing but damned fruit! And I may well cover history to poetry, religion to classic rock.
I have never been surrounded by such an insular collection of undereducated and unaware wankers. I wish I were exaggerating. It’s frustrating and disheartening, especially because of the nature of the work we do. We’re pedagogues! I thought this would be an excellent adventure but it is more akin to cruel and unusual punishment.
I enjoy my work – sans the ongoing drama that keeps creeping up – but the illusions get busted with astonishing brutality.
There are glimmers of brilliance and I relish them like manna from heaven, yet I hunger.
Argh!
I’m tired of feeling like a piece in somebody else’s mediocre chess game. Actually, if it was even a mediocre chess game it’d be a bigger honor. What I am living is more like a rigged game of checkers! Just plain checkers, not even the Chinese kind.
Whatever…
Hell has frozen over!
Spring is going to have to wait until Mother Nature lets out this prolonged sigh. Today it manifested as a shockingly cool breeze that made it feel like it was in the teens. So we had moderate pollen counts for the allergy sufferers, below freezing chills for the asthmatics and a whole lot of traumatized folks wondering if hell actually froze over.
Hey, maybe Gaia is an OSU fan…
Maybe hell did freeze over! I mean Letterman tied the knot. That’s one of the signs, right?
The only reasonable thing to do, in my opinion, was to roast a chicken in a tangy orange marinade with potatoes and onions.
In the meantime, I have finally started reading Neil Gaiman’s “American Gods.” I haven’t written in a while, but I am very pleased that I have hit a lovely stride in my reading. I really missed the words!
I am trapped in a malignant relationship with someone who suffers diarrhea of the mouth; so I actually get a daily avalanche of words, most irrelevant. What I need is words that deliver charm, entertain, educate, and transport me.
Irish Spring
I awoke to the sounds of Irish drums and bagpipes. It quickly registered that it must be the Bay Ridge St. Patrick’s Day parade that runs south on Fifth Avenue, past our home, and ends at the Basilica.
When I left the house to buy the Sunday papers for a still recovering Mom, I crossed the street and found myself walking behind a gentleman in a kilt. His bagpipes hung from his shoulder and he carried a biggie cup full of cold, delicious Guinness. And this seemed perfectly normal to me.
(We have a kilt-wearing neighbor so the dress itself is an everyday image around here…)
He stopped outisde the condo across the street and starting yelling up to "Jimmy" -- whom appeared to be having a party. I said, “Give him a blow so he knows it’s you.” He laughed and was about to follow my suggestion when a head leaned down and yelled back, “It’s the eleventh floor!”
Shame, I wanted to see how he manuevered the giant cup of sudsy ale and the bagpipe.
Although it was overcast, the temperatures were pleasant enough for a parade. Unfortunately, in the time it took me to walk four blocks, pick up the paper and a couple of rolls for a late lunch, and I started heading back home, the winds were picking up and it was getting rather nippy. As I hit the church at the foot of Leif Ericson Park, a massive fireman rounded the corner. He was a good 6’5” and fair, with saffron hair and a thick mustache. He wore his ruddy kilt with a cape, which lifted as the wind swept past us.
I gasped and remarked, “Wow, you’re like a Celtic superhero!”
He laughed, and I suspect the boys at the firehouse are going to have to start referring to my man as SuperCelt from now on.
Dancing and a steak dinner
The new grill makes its debut tonight. As I type, a beautiful steak sits in a garlic-pepper marinade to tenderize and season it. There’s a bit of the Italian slaw left, which seems like just a natural side dish.
Earlier today I made potato salad. I used red potatoes that I like for their firm consistency, I prefer my taters waxy. I sliced some salad olives and mixed some leftover green sauce into the mayo.
The green sauce is the result of slow cooked chicken thighs, with slivers of garlic (lots of it), parsley and scallions. The garlic and herbs are processed and mixed with the liquid to form a thick, green sauce. We’ve used the leftover sauce as a base for soups and pasta.
In the mayo for the salad, it adds color and a subtle seasoning that gives the potatoes a little bite and freshness.
It has to remain simple because Coach K and I are going to have our hands full tonight!
New Yorkers love clarity
Overheard in Court Street station, Brooklyn:
Put upon female straphanger – “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“What?!” – the defiant response.
“Lady said you an asshole!” – helpful New Yorker translates for the hearing-impaired ungentleman.
Life B&W and Surreal
Today, shortly before I awoke this morning, Spring arrived. Herewith is my internal monologue on this fateful moment:
“SHUT UP! Stoopidalarmclock…
“Wow, it’s still really dark. Look at that, the sky is really white. Hmm, the sky is . . . moving? [squint to adjust myopic eyes] What the frak is that?! Ohmygawd, is that SNOW? WTF!
[At kitchen window, watching snow fall furiously blocking all visibility to the houses across the alley]
“You didn’t sleep well last night. You could be hallucinating. Of course, there’s always the
question whether you could reason that you are hallucinating when you are actually hallucinating. I mean, is there a place for introspection during hallucination?”
My Mother helpfully explained altered states of the Castaneda kind, “I’m not sure you’d be able to articulate ‘introspection’ if you were hallucinating…”
Tradition
Mom had mentioned several times how much she loved the idea of a George Foreman grill with removable plates. Our little grill has been very good to us, but this is bigger and better. So I took note and decided to get it for her for Easter.
It is a beautiful Chinese red that just sparkles in the sexiest way…
I also got her the extra plates – for eggs or quiche, waffles and a baking pan. Did you know you could make cookies with this thing? Cookies. Yes, cookies! That was the selling point for me. It was worth it on that point alone. I can have cookies in the summer! Homemade, Mommy cookies. Year round, dude!
I was not expecting it to arrive today, because I took the cheapest and slowest shipping and I ordered the thing this weekend. But that’s okay. She’s very happy with her new toy.
Of course, right now she cannot play with it because it was her turn to take a tumble and she fell down the stairs. Another tradition comes home to roost: the annual spring crisis! She twisted her ankle and it hurts a bit, but I think she’ll be okay in a few days. I told her, “Jeez, that’s a little extreme, doncha think? It’s not like you had to take days off to watch the NCAA tournament!”
She was able to laugh at my lame joke, especially because she laid back to enjoy the games this afternoon but instead, “UConn watched me sleep while they were beating Chattanooga.”
Overall, she is in good spirits though the foot hurts a bit. I know she’ll be out of circulation for a few days, but she will be alright. That’s all that matters to me.
I generally don’t cook during the tournament, but that changed today. That’s okay too. Our first menu for day one of the first round? Buttermilk chicken and oven fries with cole slaw. Tomorrow? I’ll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. Right now, I have nursing, entertaining, cooking, cleaning and coaching to do.
To sleep, perchance to dream...
Last night was like a comedy of errors with a demented god pushing a button to drive me insane. I awoke, like clockwork, every hour on the hour. Power surges galore—either that or someone turned out the heat in the middle of the night. Besides annoying, it was just torture! Each time I looked at the alarm clock – the numbers staring back at me like the beady, red menacing eyes of a dragon – just mocking me. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
I fell asleep while drinking my cup of coffee this morning. Keeping my eyes open was virtually impossible. I went back to bed, and then suddenly, I was more alert than I’ve been in weeks.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” That was my mantra.
It didn’t last long; soon I was out and remained so until this afternoon. Of course, now I wonder if I’ll be able to sleep at all tonight… If I don’t sleep, at least I’ll be rested. The trick is not to succumb to panic, if you remain relaxed and conserve your energy, you’ll still be a little tired, but sugar and caffeine can carry you through the day and then you can restart your routine.
Err and go braless
Today it is exactly 5 years since I started getting paid to do the job I had already been doing for 2 months. Pi Day was my one year anniversary of being hired to do the job I’d been doing for over 4 years… This is not an easy thing to explain to civilians, but somehow this makes perfect sense. It fits perfectly to the organic puzzle that is my existence.
A lot has changed in this past year. Some of it having to do with evil trolls moving my cheese, but that’s kinda dated and irrelevant.
The truly important thing, of course is that this past weekend was Selection Sunday and I have a bracket to fill out. I’ve yet to convince anyone that I should be allowed to take Thursday and Friday off because Round One of the NCAA Tourney is a religious holiday for me. Heathens!
I listened but did not fill out a bracket of my own. I heard Morehouse and was probably as shocked as the team itself. The region escaped me and my first thought was, “Wouldn’t it be freaking hilarious if Morehouse took out Pitt in the First Round?”
The bracket sits there, waiting for me to start taking guesses. That’s all we do, really. There are no sure things in the Tournament… The God of Basketball is a fickle bitch and fortunes can change in less than 2 minutes, even in .2 seconds. And therein lies the beauty, the dance – she dances best who feels the music deeply, passionately, to the drumming of dribbling.
Go to Geek Alerts for more on the basketball mouse.
Ball Envy
I sat here last night, exhausted from a day spent largely unconscious. Between the irritant that had been sprayed in the office and the ambient temperature reaching the 80s, I simply fell into a condition that I have not yet learned to identify early enough to nip it in the bud.
FTW, we don't need no steenkin' ventilation...I don’t experience wheezing, which is awfully distressing but would make it easier to identify and act upon. Instead, one of two things will happen and it is the inflammation of the airways that gets me. I have no obvious physical way to recognize it. My breathing becomes a little labored, but not in a palpable way. I get less oxygen than is necessary and just as if a giant wrestler put me in a headlock and I pass out.
(There is a very disturbing story to go with that, but I think I’ll keep it close to my heart – in my journal – and whip it out for litigation.)I was keenly aware that there were a host of college tournaments taking place and I had no access to any of them! Oh, the torture… Worse yet, I started to follow the scoreboard for the Syracuse-UConn Big East game. It was close. It went into overtime. It went into overtime again. It went into a third overtime.
I kept a tab opened to the NCAA website and went I logged off for the evening; it gave me a final (FINAL) score on the 3OT with UConn on top. I wished I could have watched, but I was happy to watch the little numbers change every few minutes – knowing I’d have a few games to feast on this weekend. I went to bed with the certainty that the Huskies had it in the bag.
I awoke this morning and turned on my radio to find that not only did they play past my bedtime and into a 6OT, the Orange won the game by 10 points.
Lying NCAA bastards!
Really, now I’m getting more reliable news from the radio rather than my computer? That is so freaking retro for a basketball loving geek.
Dude, I need ESPN.
NEED it! I just can’t live like this…
Give me strength...
I desperately want to be kind. Not because I lust after a Nobel Prize, but because quite simply it is nice to be nice. I like nice. I like it a lot.
I go through great pains not to go over to the dark side. Not because I dislike it, the dark side is very sexy! The dark side is fun. But it also is soul crunching because, at heart, I am not a total bitch. I have the innate talent, all the skills necessary and creativity to boot, so I am a very dangerous bitch. Plus, I’m vindictive. I will hold a grudge. To the death.
Through the years, I have become very disciplined in that regard. I forget the offense because all that does is add fuel to the fire. Instead, I never forget on an almost semi-conscious, somewhat instinctive level that the offender is to be kept at a distance – mistrusted and unloved.
I exist in a very laissez-faire fashion. Live and let die… So it makes me extremely unhappy when uncivil cows try to knock me off that stand. Really, it infuriates me and I try to find ways to vent it out of my system before it takes over and I go all cat-like and swipe my claw. It takes a lot of you, especially when you start dreaming the violence you’d like to inflict. Ugh! Nobody needs that sort of ugliness to invade their subconscious.
It strains me and it taints my soul when I am dragged to a level of pure fury that transforms me into the personification of the love child of Eris and Loki. And when we start mixing mythology, the shit hits the fan in unexpected ways, what with all the cultural relativism involved.
Look, all I’m saying is that I won’t dance to amuse you. I just want to be let alone, do my thing, live my way. I don’t intrude on your lunacy and I expect you to respect my own boundaries as I steer clear of yours. But if you insist on meeting the bitch, I will comply. Invest in some Aleve, because this is going to sting a little.
I will dance, but just remember what happened the last time a bitch named Kali did a little dance…
Funny story I may repeat here someday, that head on her left hand looks just like my father.
Dr Feelgood!
Good day. My doctor is very happy with our visit. My blood pressure is back to normal. My lungs are clear. I’ll stay on the disk until the end of spring and then give it a rest until next winter, if need be. I’ve also maintained my weight, despite going back on the water pills – which tend to cause a sudden, slight and altogether temporary weight loss followed by the inevitable ballooning. My mind just gave it a virtual, “Meh!”
I’m still plagued with a daily, late afternoon fatigue. I can add more sleep a night or try to work in a nap mid-afternoon during lunch. The fact is it will take my body as long as it takes it to snap back into normalcy. I had a pretty pervasive bronchitis that knocked me off my feet. My mind needs to simply accept that the body is at a slower pace right now. But it keeps sending me mixed messages. There’s no coughing, no fighting for a breath, I can walk fast without pain… But if I do too much, I just collapse into a heap of mud!
It’s getting better, but I’m only about 75% right now. I didn’t accept that sort of crap academically and it is hell trying to live with it. And there is just no escaping this carapace! But at least I know I am recuperating. It just takes a little longer these days.
As I rant and whine, I keep hearing Joe Locke and Bobby Hutcherson in my head. Playing “
Old Folks” (of course)!
Then I think of Joe often because my scarf of choice is actually his. Was his. I just ripped the poor man off his lovely silk scarf… I did offer to give it back, but he said I carried it better than he did and would probably would take better care of it than he would. I’ve had it with me for about 19 years. It gives me daily comfort. Even when I feel crappy. I just slip it over my neck and it’s like instant love and groovy memories.
Lunacy!
The last two days have been decidedly odd. I think my fellow New Yorkers, after experiencing the first winter in years that has included all sorts of especially wintry treats – as opposed to the mild seasons we’ve enjoyed for a better part of half a decade – have completely lost their minds. They’ve begun to confuse humidity with warmth.
These lunatics were running around today in the most psychotic, disparate states of dress and undress you could imagine. During my lunch hour, I stood outside for a few minutes, just watching the crowd. There was a woman who looked like a living snowperson, with her quilted coat and boots, gloves, a hat… Right behind her, a young man wore shorts and a hoodie. Both looked perfectly comfortable in their fashion choices.
As long as they are happy, it’s none of my business. I’m happy to let the hours slip by until I can just get back to living life. Part of that includes reading “
The Color of a Dog Running Away.” I really love that title! I have been carrying it with me for almost a week, and finally started it yesterday. It flows fast in the beginning, which is fantastic. And I already found the answer to my first (obvious) question. It’s woosh.
I’ve discovered lately that a healthy dose of apathy and taking myself entirely out of the equation makes for a less stressful existence. It is not a huge breakthrough, but it gets me through the day.
All things being Indian...
We spent part of our Saturday evening watching Nina Paley’s wondrous “
Sita Sings the Blues” – an independent film that can be best described as a flash animation version of the Ramayana set to jazz. Of course, that is an awfully simplistic explanation.
It recalls the best of classic cinema and marries it to the best of Bollywood and then it animates it. The artwork combines classic Indian art and a more childlike line drawing as it moves between the Ramayana and the director’s semi-autobiographical story of a disintegrating marriage. It is an upbeat story, despite the thematic background…
What is truly remarkable about it is that the director has released it under a creative commons license, allowing the audience free to distribute, copy, share, archive, and show the film. Not only that, but it also proudly declares and asserts that any derivative works must contain no DRM!
Welcome to the 21st century!
Is George Lucas writing this crap?
Let’s switch gears for a moment and look at politics today. The Republicans have been to hell and back in the last few weeks. The last 8 years notwithstanding. And that’s what it really boils down to: the last 8 years do not count. It’s not their fault, dammit!
They are pro-America! They are pro the people; but not in a sissy, socialist way. Dammit!
God knows they are trying to fix all the evils that have befallen us since January 20 – because every thing was just peachy on January 19.
I think it is very noble that the entire GOP is collectively willing to throw themselves on Bobby Jindal’s
daada’s
Kirpan – which he refers to as a “Yay-die stick” – in some sort of desperate attempt to divert attention from the fact that they too may share culpability for the current state of affairs.
I guess they’ve come to regret not throwing their full support behind Ron Paul . . . especially now that
Rush Limbaugh is positioning himself to a patrician role while impersonating a middle-aged, recovering meth-head Darth Vader.
El wiken*
There was a point today when I just surrendered to fatigue and was completely useless. I was, in fact, The Blob. It is not a state of affairs that I enjoy and, frankly, it is starting to get on my fucking nerves.
I wanted to take advantage of the mild weather and take a stroll over to the Trader Joe’s. I looked over the couple of blocks but the very idea was overwhelming.
Can you imagine the horror? There’s
stuff there.
Good stuff! Waiting for
me. It wants me to come over and take it home. It really, really does…
They have these beautiful pork chops stuffed with apple and sage.
Apple and sage, man! They beg to be broiled, and served with a side of sautéed cauliflower in a lemon and oil caper sauce.
It’s the weekend and my thoughts turn to fun and exciting ways to enjoy food. It doesn’t have to be heavy, rich or lathered in cholesterol. It must, however, entice the senses – not just taste. It has to be pleasurable in a tactile sense. It has to be visually alluring. It should smell delicious. Audio clues enter into the picture as well – from preparation to ingestion. Food is an all immersion experience that should engage all your senses and release all sorts of happy hormonal activity in your central nervous system.
Some of my contemporaries are planning all sorts of activities to achieve the very same thing I try to do in my kitchen, from sexy dates to solo candle-lit hot tub relaxation. Trader Joe’s, as a partner in crime, will have to wait a little bit – but it will happen soon and that makes me happy, and it gives me something exhilarating to look forward to! I seek nothing less than magic.
So yes, my weekends might seem like a one-note party, but it is designed to conjure memories, desires, images, and sweet combinations of sensations. It was art and drama, operatic and sensual. It is meant to be awesome on a plate.
It might seem like a rather simple lifestyle, maybe even a little boring. Trust me, there is nothing further from the truth. Cooking fuels a whole lot of stimulation! So while it may sound like a broken record, it is quite literally the variety of life around here.
*That's Spanglish for "the weekend"
Playmate reunion
I was moribund most of the day, just dragging my carcass around like that proverbial albatross. My tummy ached, my head hurt, I was nauseous and clammy, sleepy, tired, exhausted and mentally numb. I don’t know if it’s the weather, the new meds, the body still not quite up to inspection standards or a combination of these and more heinous causes. It just wasn’t pretty. I mean, I was able to do my job, but dang!
The bus ride is a haze now. The interesting part came after I reached Bay Ridge and I saw a family of three – mom, boy and girl. The girl was wide eyed, looking at me, and giving me a toothless smile. She was very pretty and eager to make herself visible.
It was a few minutes before the mother took me by the arm and said, “Oh my god, it’s so good to see you!” and this was after the little girl battered her arm, the child’s international gesture for “Mommy, lookit!”
When I started working downtown, she’d get on the bus as I got off. If it was my last ride on an unlimited card, I’d let her have it. I was struggling and I knew that with a small child and a baby, she was probably in the same boat. Saving her two bucks wasn’t that much, but it was greatly appreciated. I got to play with the baby and the little girl.
I have barely seen them since the bus was rerouted.
The little girl waited her turn and approached me and playfully asked, “Do you remember my name?”
And this sums up my day, “Honey, I am so old, some days I don’t remember my own name!”
She thought that was really funny. I’m still golden with her…
That's hot!
It was below zero outside when I awoke and I believe we were matching it indoors! The trip down the hallway must have looked rather comical, with me hopping and skipping my way to the other side of the apartment. I started piling on the layers until I realized, “Jesus, how is this different from getting dressed to go outside?!”
I did some writing, but today it was a lot harder to concentrate what with all the shivering… Seriously, I wrote a sentence I can’t read now for all the seismic activity going on with that mechanical pencil!
I spent a better part of the day under sheets, a quilt and an Army blanket (yes, I own an Army blanket). My knee hurt, my shoulder hurt and I lay quietly trying not to let any chill under there with me. I fantasized of sand and sea, but what I seemed to keep coming back to were fireplaces. Their lines, different materials, textures and colors!
I’ve always thought the height of living large was to have a house in the mountains with a poolside fireplace. How cool would that be? Or a fireplace in the kitchen. That’d be awesome. A little one in my bedroom.
Of course, all this would be impractical because of the asthma, but a girl can dream.
There is no place for any kind of illness in my fantasies – except that I am so hot I burn myself sometimes.
Pancake Day!
I awoke this morning and moved through the chilly apartment, down the hall towards the kitchen. I turned the radio on and the first words I heard were, “The snow has finally tapered off…” I opened the curtains and saw ribbons of snow, carried from the rooftops by an infernal wind that made my windows rattle. Falling from the sky were large snowflakes, followed by a wall of smaller ones that made visibility across the alleyway virtually impossible.
I honestly did not buy into the hysteria from the local weathermen because they’ve burned me a lot this season. “Biggest and worst storm of the season” meant nothing to me. I expected a couple of inches, which would delay car service because I knew it would be too cold for me to attempt trekking to the train station in the morning – especially if I had to maneuver through snow.
I went downstairs for a more accurate look at the damage and was left with my jaw around my clavicle. The cars in the parking lot across the street were not visible, just tiny mountains of white. Our stoop had about half a foot of snow on them and the landlady was vigorously cleaning them. I assured her I was not going out there. Outside scared me. In fact, I shouldn’t have gone downstairs – but I wanted to drop my rent check because I forgot to do it yesterday.
After calling the office (half expecting my boss to be there already), I grabbed a cup of coffee and my notebook and wrote for about 2 hours. I was in the zone! The radio news served as background, though I ignored the words. The strong winds scraped across the roof above me, but this too I could ignore because I felt safe inside. The landlady took a break from shoveling and turned on Regis and Kelly, but she is hard of hearing so I could hear their annoying voices upstairs. That was too distracting and I stopped writing and took a nap.
When I awoke, I did a little research and a few more pages – for a total of 15! That is quite an accomplishment considering I really don’t know where the story is going.
Mom made an apple pancake with sausage patties – she calls it “snow day” food. And that has been our day, pretty much.
Yesterday when I awoke, it felt like a truck hit me twice. It didn’t drag me, it just left me on the side of the road.
