- Sick on a Tuesday morning....
- November 17th, 2009
I'm sick. I don't like being sick. I especially don't like being sick nights. Now this type of sickness is not a fever sickness as with a fever sickness I am usually unable to sleep, or, have to force myself to sleep only to experience the monotony of 2 minute dreams in which I perform a basic, boring task and somehow have my attention horribly focused upon it. i.e. the putting on of socks. I'd be forcing myself to remain in the sleep state only to wake up in hot sweat.And going back to sleep again. And the socks again. And waking up. Each period lasting seemingly a couple of minutes.
No, I'm sick with a different sickness. Some sort of infection but no fever. My lymph nodes are enlarged, swollen. This started on Saturday the 7th. Maybe it was building up earlier. Recently my throat started to hurt. Maybe I should take up singing while sick. I lost my voice due to a cold once and had to force air through it to make loud noises that came out as high pitched squeaks. I could finally sing like a castrato with my balls intact. It was actually a good time knowing that I can do this for a while until my regular voice returned.
When I went back to Moscow with my family in the summer of '02 I spent a whole day talking in my Stephen Hawking voice. That is that while we normally talk while exhaling I was talking while inhaling. My vocal chords, not being used to this, take upon a sort of vibratory machine/voice synthesis sound and I walk around sounding like the old English cosmologist himself. But after of about half a day of this humorous endeavor something clicked and I started to sound normal while talking while inhaling. However, to my amusement, I discovered that now talking "normally" (as in when exhaling) I now sounded like a machine. This lasted for a bit. I think a few minutes because I didn't want my regular voice to remain that way so I stopped the inhale-talking and kept quiet for most of the rest of that day.
I still remember a specific aspect of that summer. Sitting in the kitchen in the middle of a summer Moscow night, drinking tea, trying to write (pen on paper) and looking out the window at the boulevard below. It was the apartment of a family friend and he had not used it since his mother had died. If memory serves it was, like most Russian apartments, filled with books. With books placed perpendicularly behind the regular stacks in order to save shelf space. There is something inspiring about the written word and something magically weird. Two people can glance at the same written symbols and get a general meaning out of it with their heads, and personal experiences providing the more exact details. This hasn't been fully developed with films yet however a lot of good directors have mastered the half-revealing allure of books thus allowing their moving picture creations to hold enough vagueness to remain entertaining through many viewings. No, I'm not going to list those movies here. Well, maybe not yet.
Drinking black tea ("English Breakfast".) 2 bags with a slice of lemon (lemon juice in tea is just awesome) and a spoon, stainless steel, inside a plastic blue mug with "Southwestern Bell" plastered on the side in gold lettering to the right of the Bell symbol.
The sun has come up. It is now Tuesday. I'm semi-wrapped in a blanket and am slightly cold. My throat still hurts. The tea is helping.
Paalam, you noobs. I'm out!