Wednesday, August 29, 2007 12:23 PM Subject: Sick I
Ah fuck it, I feel shit and remembering a book where a good man spoke about the denial of instant self-gratification is not helping. Occasionally this principle becomes a mantra, when I’m trying to get my shit together and not drink, smoke, eat or anything else nice. But I’m day 5 now, fever all but gone, sore throat sorer then it ever was (bastard) and curled up floating on a wave of nausea. You see, there’s a bug in the house and when that happens well, you gotta sit it out and hope the fucker doesn’t re-infect you when he’s finished the first go around. And “the denial of instant self-gratification” thing, well if you and I are fortunate to have come from well balanced and nurturing homes, we understand deep within our core that bad things pass and pain goes away without having to tell everyone about it, or extrapolate tiny details into near death, or moan and blog about it. The awful needy graspy thing.
Sore throat sniffle?
Yeah brother, how’d ju know?
Read it in the Leader. Sickest person on the planet, experimental drugs, touch and go.
Tanks, tanks, for your kind understanding and tell everyone you meet that I’m nearly OK. Nearly that is, not better yet, no, nowhere near better.
Buzz got it first, he’s an eleven-year-old boy, he gets everything first and coincidentally gets rid of disease like hot snot, and gives it to the most vulnerable and sensitive, the person least able to cope, the neediest…. So, day 5, and we’re making progress. But Daughter Darla has it now,
Indeterminate a.m., it’s dark, warm, snug, and restful.
Rave, rave, rave, Dad………………, rave, rave, cry, cry, cry.
What DD, you sick? You know I’m sick too.
Puke, puke, rave, rave…………. Dad, I’m sick
But before the projectile vomit completed back splash, every shred of sympathy and nurturing was torn from my frail and still recovering body. Cast out to the box-room, banished to a lonely recovery of occasional easy singles slipped under the door by the still healthy Omar Sharif. If you’re considering a family, best of luck, but remember one fucking thing, love goes out the door when you AND the child are sick together. You’re in the way and consuming scarce resources. Hint; keep money near at hand for bribes.
Monday, Sept 3, 2007 12:23 PM
Subject: Sick II
Don’t read existential books when you’re sick. They add to the uncertainty of not getting better. Thought it might be a good idea to finish “Dharma Bums”, it’s been sitting there looking at me for years now and it seemed an opportune time, once the hallucinations had passed. But no, Jack’s mad as four short planks and even though the freedom appeals, I should have got this stuff out of the way in my teens when the mind was elastic enough to take in the beingness of everything. DD got sicker then a small hospital and freaked us out totally. Missed start of big school and moaned like fuck, well beyond the normal fucking moaning. My drugs, her drugs and alcohol got us to today when we re-joined the world.
Hurling, Luimneach, what joy! Seven games pulled us through a lousy summer when God showed her hand and pissed down on everyone, but we had the hurling from June to September and we had chances! Omar Sharif, Buzz, DD, Squeeze and I hopped up and down and cursed like we shouldn’t have for the duration of the final, but couldn’t make a difference as Cody’s cats put Bennis’s babes to the sword. They owe us nothing and left nothing behind. Get those clichés out there lively.