"I'm not a lady. I wouldn't be a lady even if I were a woman."
(Re: that subject line, if you haven't read Think of England yet, you can find it here or here and then fall in love with it like I did and come squee about it with me. Deal?)
UGH, must do a bit of health whining. This is officially week 3 (three!) of me feeling like crap, sounding like it too, and needing to spend a day in bed after every attempt at an outing. I'm beginning to forget a time in which I DIDN'T suffer from sinus headaches, sleeplessness caused by congestion, sore throat, cough and sniffles. It's as if I'd started to get better, but along the way to recovery got hung up on some merry-go-round of viral infection/s that won't let me live. The weather is not helping: New York is encased in ice, the air hurts (I've officially switched to moisturizing with seaberry oil - lotions just don't cut it), and the wind basically translates to awful AWFUL sharp stabs of pain behind my eyes as I walk through the minus whatever windchill to/from the subway, with barely 2 inches of my face left uncovered so I can see where I'm going... but apparently, no protection really works against this brutal winter. Grrr arrgghhh.
I have PLANS for the weekend. This state of continuous illness is NOT ACCEPTABLE. *makes herself another hot toddy*
***
This was supposed to be a post, but I'm achy and useless. Meh. Have a poem:
The Breach of Or
by Molly Peacock
Broken lines continue, you know, way past
their breaks, as medians in roads do, or
the dot tracings in kids' books, where the last
point is the first point. But it's the breach of or,
the breach a break makes when it skids into
nothingness that I'm panicked will undo
me into an enervated void.
That's why I love you; it's how I avoid
the blank or between the black lines. That's why
I love my friends. Taking a pencil with
a heavy lead that will leave a line, wide
and black in its wake, connects given lines with
something almost equal to them. Imagine
a little boat trying to connect two
shores with its wake. It's futile. Now look in
the boat at the picnickers, those two
lovers crowded among pears, cantaloupes, fried
squid and fluttering, flaglike, paper napkins-
watch them wipe their lips, open their arms wide,
embracing each other, laughing about their sins.
A pencil made this. Black lines tried
to equal them. The void was a matter of my pride.
UGH, must do a bit of health whining. This is officially week 3 (three!) of me feeling like crap, sounding like it too, and needing to spend a day in bed after every attempt at an outing. I'm beginning to forget a time in which I DIDN'T suffer from sinus headaches, sleeplessness caused by congestion, sore throat, cough and sniffles. It's as if I'd started to get better, but along the way to recovery got hung up on some merry-go-round of viral infection/s that won't let me live. The weather is not helping: New York is encased in ice, the air hurts (I've officially switched to moisturizing with seaberry oil - lotions just don't cut it), and the wind basically translates to awful AWFUL sharp stabs of pain behind my eyes as I walk through the minus whatever windchill to/from the subway, with barely 2 inches of my face left uncovered so I can see where I'm going... but apparently, no protection really works against this brutal winter. Grrr arrgghhh.
I have PLANS for the weekend. This state of continuous illness is NOT ACCEPTABLE. *makes herself another hot toddy*
***
This was supposed to be a post, but I'm achy and useless. Meh. Have a poem:
The Breach of Or
by Molly Peacock
Broken lines continue, you know, way past
their breaks, as medians in roads do, or
the dot tracings in kids' books, where the last
point is the first point. But it's the breach of or,
the breach a break makes when it skids into
nothingness that I'm panicked will undo
me into an enervated void.
That's why I love you; it's how I avoid
the blank or between the black lines. That's why
I love my friends. Taking a pencil with
a heavy lead that will leave a line, wide
and black in its wake, connects given lines with
something almost equal to them. Imagine
a little boat trying to connect two
shores with its wake. It's futile. Now look in
the boat at the picnickers, those two
lovers crowded among pears, cantaloupes, fried
squid and fluttering, flaglike, paper napkins-
watch them wipe their lips, open their arms wide,
embracing each other, laughing about their sins.
A pencil made this. Black lines tried
to equal them. The void was a matter of my pride.