August 31, 2004
weird soliloquy: a fog, a film, an itch
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