Archive for January 26th, 2018
smoldering hillocks
One has never had the makings of a varsity athlete.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
My “flutastic” week is nearly over, wherein a vast and somewhat hallucinatory experience with a viral infection has nearly been completed. This year’s variant of the influenza virus is a doozie, as compared to the prior iterations which I’ve experienced. The worst part of it, to me at least, was the inability to achieve a lasting period of sleep. For a couple of days there, the longest interval I could muster was no more than a few hours at a pop. These brief junctures were typified by bizarre dreams, typified by one in which I was counting the forks found in my silverware drawer in the kitchen. Worst part of that was that it was a serial dream. I’d get to fork number 42 (I don’t have that many forks, incidentally) and wake up.
A couple of hours later, I’d manage to pass out and immediately resume counting with fork number 43.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
A doctor friend of mine, who often was concerned about my casual disobeyance of maintaining regular sleep patterns, advised me that you need a daily minimum of seven hours for your kidneys and liver to “turn over” your blood supply. She knew me well, and by supplying an actual scientific index and practical reason for surrendering to unconsciousness guided one towards a bit more of a sustainable lifestyle. Saying that, I’ve always hated the biological need for sleep, and resented the notion that one third of my total existence on this planet will be spent while unconscious.
I’ve never been a “tough guy” but as it has turned out, I’m fairly resilient from a physical point of view. I can drink like a Russian, endure physical pain and discomfort that would make others blanch, and there is not a single paper bag on this planet that I can’t punch my way out of. This particular physical fortitude has made me vainglorious, unfortunately, and when a minor event like an influenza infection occurs it makes one question – and more than question – my entire conception of self. Losing a few days of sleep used to be something that would roll off my back like rain, these days it’s a hammer blow to the cranium.
Also, my fork count got all the way to 764, but that was Wednesday night, which is also when I decided not to drink any more cough syrup. Fever dreams are just bizarre.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One is a bit short of content for this, your Newtown Pentacle, as a result of all this illness and hallucinatory counting. Accordingly, next week, expect a few posts of singular images which will act as placeholders while one resumes his wanderings.
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