This week I have been suffering from a cold, and, despite the ailment's common status, it has really been fucking with my body and mind. Further, the meds I popped often left me covered in a thin membrane of sweat. Earlier this week I attempted an autumn bicycle ride, but after labouring through the first sector, I unzipped myself from my sleek neoprene uniform and discovered I was coated in the disgusting, mucusy interstitial fluid that made me feel like some sort of science-fiction pod-person. It was heartbreaking and then made worse upon vomiting blood in my neighbour's garden. I had hoped to put in a solid 40K time-trial and then a few heats at the velodrome. But I barely made it past the front gates.
But O Happy Day! This morning I awoke feeling vigourous as a devil. After performing a few powerful air-punches, my first thought was to celebrate by hitting the liquor cabinet, but I quickly decided to restrain myself. At least, that is, until nightfall. And then I shall howl.
Anyone up for a night on the town?
Friday, November 7, 2008
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3 comments:
There is no one at the entrance of November. It comes as if it were nothing. The door was open, and it entered, barely touching the ground. It didn't look at the bread, it didn't try the wine. It didn't untie the blind knot of the cold. Only in the light of the violets did it pause, smiling at the child of the house. That mouth, that gaze. That hand of no one. It's going away, it has its music, its rigor, its secret. First, however, it caresses the earth, as if it were its mother.
Yep, lets go.
Thank-you for the words, dear Kathy, though they remind me I am very much an amateur in the business of poetic truth.
I don't know Frances Elaine, in partying with me, there is always the risk of losing your soul. Are you willing to take that risk?
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