February 20, 2002 08:04 AM


Got ribs and muscles oblique. Know because they hurt. Hurt because the crazy virus, a nasty nanny, shook them till they stopped crying. Or until they started crying, I guess.

Got eyes. Know because they're all hazed over. They're windshields and I've been driving about in a melted snowstorm. Do windshields ache from looking at the shine bouncing off old snow?


I'm tired in a deep way. In a this is my body, it hurts, let's lie right here way. It's the baby in me, brought up by sickness and likely a need for more sleep. Define need, though. Because I also need to work, need money, need many other things besides tissues and a nap.

Being sick in any way that makes you fuzzy (mentally) distances you from the rest of the world. It's like the feeling of falling asleep against your will and better judgement. Talking and noise and movement become these faded, wandering off into the sunset things.

A friend called me from the beach in Hawaii yesterday as I woke in the middle of the afternoon. If you must call someone in the chilly winter world like that, post-nap is probably the best time. Post my nap, that is, not hers. You wake from naps so satisfied and warm that a change of locale, of climate, seems completely unnecessary.

I've been reading, in tandem, essays on physics (theoretical) and life (actual). I've been reading Barbara Kingsolver and Alan Lightman, who have ways with words that are more and less than what they are. Mostly my head has been swelled shut, but sometimes words sneak in. More often than not, the words sneak in. What happens sometimes is the meanings make it past the guard, too.

I've been reading these two books that turn out to be perfect counterparts. Collectively, they're a whole world. I envy anything that exists in that world. Anything that gets to be so well and truly described.

People talk a lot about the why of writing. Specifically the why of personal media like this. I know what my answer is.

I want to be described.

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