That’s how I felt when I woke up at 4 a.m. this morning, and how I continued to feel until about five minutes ago. I’ve recently upgraded to bleh, with no additional melodramatic letters.
My first thought was, Am I strong enough to pick up the phone to call in sick to work? My second was, Since I’m not going to work, maybe I can do some yoga, work on chapter one of my novel and redesign my MySpace page.
My body was doing a fine job of being sick, but my brain was in denial. Between naps, I did finish Lisa Glatt’s A Girl Becomes a Comma Like That, a sharply written book that took me a few steps closer to understanding girls who sleep with lots of guys. But mostly I wished I had a TV so I could raise the remote and feebly click between Jenny Jones and General Hospital and behave like a proper sick person.
I tried to determine the origin of my illness. There were three culprits:
1) The fish burrito I ate yesterday at Señor Fish, where AK and I wrote and sketched and discussed the prospect of Hillary for president (she’s pro; I need to read the New Yorker article she read). But the burrito was so good to me. I didn’t want to hate it.
2) The smell and the Razzles at The Smell, where Jamie, Lee-Roy and I went to a reading sponsored by Les Figues Press last night. My eyeballs love The Smell’s grit: It’s a windowless downtown dive—possibly a former Mexican restaurant judging by the cactus-and-tile-roofed-houses murals on the wall—that now serves as a venue for music and poetry of the art school variety.
But the place is aptly named. It could also be called Old Punk Rock Pee. I think a rat ran into my foot, and the snack Lee-Roy purchased (“Razzles: First it’s candy…then it’s gum!”) tasted, in Jamie’s words, like sweet drywall.
3) The flu.
Yeah, that’s my guess too.
Anyway, speaking of poetry, I encourage you to check out my writing teacher Terry Wolverton’s new collection, Shadow and Praise. She held her book party Saturday night at Golden Bridge Yoga, a nice-smelling glamorous yoga hangar. Terry read her shadow poems and her whimsical, spiritual poems praising such unsung forces as supermarkets, waste and traffic. A shadow dancer oozed down the stairs in a manner reminiscent of the days when I turned my entire house into a gymnasium. Five more poets read for five short, sweet minutes each. Terry closed with a gong meditation and chocolate cupcakes.
I am going to think about that—I’m going to praise lying on a blanket with a slow, low noise filling my head, inching closer to both Zen-ish nothingness and cupcakes. I’m starting to feel better already.