In the Absence of Sanity

What a day.

No exclamation point.

With an infection that has gone from my constantly puffed sinuses into my sad, little eardrums, I spent the day in bed occasionally get up so I could walk into a wall, bounce over to the kettle, fill a fat mug with hot water so I could take a giant, expensive yellow pill.

I read about a woman in Beijing who survived a fall from the sixth story of her apartment building by landing on a pile of shit. "Workers happened to be emptying the building's septic tank, which had not been tended for a long time and had regularly blocked sewage pipes," the reporting paper person said. "She probably stretched out too far and fell ... right on to a 20 cm-thick heap of excrement."

I read that Michael Dibdin died, which makes my brain and heart very sad. His books, in particular THE DYING OF THE LIGHT, had a strong voice that could convey more humanity and sense of place than just about any author out while still twining humor throughout lightly and skillfully. He was only 60! Too young! Oh, all of the Aurelio Zen books that with that brilliant man!

I read about the coyote who became a temporary wild fixture in an urban food spot. Such empathy I had when I saw they lost look, the confused look, the 'how do I get out of this mess?' look in his eyes.

I read about Djuna Barnes, the author of THE BOOK OF REPULSIVE WRITING has an title the inveterate feminist in me can't resist. I'd been led to the work of Barnes after devouring all the Anais Nin I could get my hands on. Strong, fucked up, wandering woman who, unsure of their power, used their sexuality to give themselves a sense of control in a universe ruled by chaos. I love Nin's writing but think she was an awful person. But Barnes who explored her issues out loud, for all the world to read (and after her, thankfully, Angela Carter- BURNING YOUR BRIDGES is a must read) I love. From there, it was on to HERLAND after "The Yellow Wallpaper" played with my brain.

I listened to The Eels (do you know the song "Fucker?") and The Yeah Yeah Yeahs (Black Tongue) far too many times.

I watched M*A*S*H*. Yes. It's true. Alan Alda gets self-righteous, it has a shitty laugh track and the humor is obvious, but it's like comfort food for my fevered brain. Oh, and the photo above that I found after entering Jen-ish words into Google image search.

Oh, and the next time you see me, if I am well lubed on beer or G&T's, maybe ask me to do an impression of Elvis Presely doing and impression of Monty Python doing impression of English biddies.

And I've done about a million crossword puzzles in purple ink while the world spins around me. Where do the creators of these things find all these obscure, short, strange words?

The world could end tomorrow and all I have to show for it is a bizarre vocabulary, a wastebasket full of used tissue, a brain full of disquiet and this post.

Helpless, helpless, helpless.