I was sick all night, some stomach bug that kept me awake until about 4 a.m., and has left me with the worst of hangovers, my body brittle and dehydrated and still not ready to even look at food. I've had a cup of peppermint tea (always darker than I imagine it will be) and now some decaf tea with soy milk and honey. I read parts of Cryptonomicon all night, marveling at Stephenson's intelligence, pacing. Also thought (oddly) of the herbalist Susun Weed, a comfort.
Another brown day, rain, more of the yard visible, the snow mostly hanging on where it was piled all winter during shoveling. Some toys - a green sand bucket, a white frisbee - lay on the dead leaves. I didn't rake last Fall, feeling crazy though I can't for the life of me recall what was so intense that it stopped me from doing yard work. So I'll be doing it this Spring. Sophia needs to fly her pigeons soon, they've been cooped up all winter.
Yesterday was a day of sadness, warm pockets of it billowing around me. Phone call from an old friend, news on the internet of another old friend's childhood trauma, and how she thinks about it now. I thought mostly of how much time has passed, and how easy it is to think about how bone-headed I have been through the years. Not mean so much as self-obsessed, to the point where other people's problems or concerns become little more than foils for my own psychological drama. Well, maybe that's too harsh. I was gentle with J., talking on the phone while the wet snow fell all around me in Plainfield, feeling the lovingkindness I picture as altogether missing from my early twenties.
It's mostly a matter of paying attention, I think. Why kvetch about days gone by when my life is full of family and friends and - although these entries might suggest otherwise - the aforementioned psychological drama is considerably lessened. When I woke up with my first bout of illness last night, the bedroom seemed to be filled with a pale mist, like gauze, and I was cold. I'm still cold. Though it's satisfying to be here writing.