Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

August 31, 2004

weird soliloquy: a fog, a film, an itch

Borage.jpg

Somewhere a while ago I hit the ground running. Backwards, with my eyes half-shut. I don't know what I have woken up from, or what I have woken up to. I'm still tired. This is my mood of late. For all the unknowns I've taken the bumps in stride (in stumble?); it's summer, after all, and living in a state of abstraction comes as easily as watching the clouds.

The esoteric ramblings of a fine-arts post-undergrad, still wet behind the ears, purposeless, and scenting the fall with Pavlovian angst? Maybe a bit, but cut me some slack the past seven days have had real grounds for baselessness.

I'll tell you the story. Last Wednesday evening, a visiting friend had a fever. I went to the garden and came back with a bunch of borage, a traditional diaphoretic meaning it induces the body to cool itself and brewed it into a pot of tea.

We drank tea as we watched Luna Papa , set in the twilight-green-and-camel toned reality of the Caspian region. With an admirable heroine, socio-political edginess, and spells of humanity, whimsy, otherwordliness, and the Shakespearean tragedies all balanced spinning like the plates of Massimiliano Truzzi, the film carries off a spellbinding yet engaging plot (unlike other absurdist E. European films). It renews one's feeling of childish wonder, and that's wonderful.

After that, my fevered friend had cooled and went home. I was itchy. Through the credits I'd been scratching my shins. There I had red bumps. Within the hour my legs and arms had bumps, and by morning, that's all there was to me: from sole to scalp, eyelids included, I was made of sore itchy bumps. Incapacitatingly tchy bumps; chicken pox with moxie. Blaine took me in to the doctor's, I got an antihistamine injection and a bottle of pills, and with that I crawled dizzy under the covers of my bed until Sunday.

So I'm allergic to borage. I've been sedated. I have the sense of not knowing where the dreams began or ended. In my delirium I scattered resumes and silk shirts out like a dandelion gone to seed, or a puffball mushroom coughing spores, lapsed into survival by the fog. Now, as the swelling subsides from my eyes, it is all I can do to gather all of this guileless productivity around me like a nest, to pour a cup of coffee, to try and figure out how the hell, as a fully functional human being, I should function.


Posted by delire at August 31, 2004 08:05 PM
Comments

isn't it bizarre, the dreams one has when medicated... probably the only positive part of my highly medicated poison oak treatment was the dreams that came with it. And, being on sedatives, I slept A LOT.

Posted by: xstala at July 10, 2006 12:03 PM
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