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Saturday, Aug. 14, 2004 / 4:17 p.m. ~Battle as Metaphor for Illness Unexplained~ Sometimes I look at the stats for this diary, find that someone has cruised through several pages, usually in a short amount of time, someone looking for something, and often I know who it is, and I wonder what is thought as words are read, or skimmed, or scrolled through, and I can only see beginning page and ending page and wonder what pages were in between, so I come and read a bit too, trying to gauge what it was like, the brief visit, the four minutes, or six minutes, spent here, my diary. And as I'm reading I'm reading someone else's life, but I can remember the events, and I think it's good, surprisingly good, like this person, whoever she is, is good, she can write, she writes about nothing but turns it into something. This writer, of this diary, she's not bad at all. Of course there are other times in which I think it's all pure drivel and it should be purged. But then I just renewed my Gold Membership for another six months, which might indicate to some, myself and this writer included, that I want to stay here and stay here and leave all these words, and all these years of drivelous rantings and sometimes really good writing for anyone to drop in and skim. I'm feeling ill. I'm hot inside. My chest, my throat, they're hot. There is no explanation besides having worked around Veronica the past six to eight weeks, two cubicles away, knowing she has a dreaded illness, begging silently for her to stay home, for her to seek medical assistance, not to do this on her own, not to cough or clear that hot dry throat, like my own is now, not one more day. I worked two cubicles away and I fought it, and I took my echinacea when I thought my resistance was low, my insurgents fell back weak and defeated, and now talks have failed, the fighters on both sides have succumbed in great numbers and here I sit, ill. In an unexplainable way. The menses has finally begun mensesing as well. Finally the blood flows, and this I know, this I understand, for this I am prepared, always, but the other? I drink, I eat, I lie, I rest, I eat, I drink, it's all healthy and good, the best I've eaten in months, fresh and good, vegetables roasted, lots of garlic, onions, peppers, yogurt, sandwiches with whole wheat bread, filtered water, milk, fruit juice, apples, berries, cheeses, crackers, more vegetables, roasted, could it be better? Add herbs and spices and more garlic and echinacea in two doses a day, and the troops are weak and worn, tired from battle, constant battle in the bloodstream, fighting an unknown enemy. It's not easy, this. I 'need'. I need to get out, leave this place, go somewhere, see if I can drive, try at least, get the car's engine going, it's not good for it to sit so long, put on clothes that can be worn out and about and go, somewhere, anywhere, do any of the things on my list of 'things to do'. I hate this incapacitated feeling. It's some sort of 'just desserts', and it won't even take full hold of me, it's just teasing me with the hot dryness inside myself and the impending doom of illness that lasts weeks and weeks. I'm days away from ordering my first cell phone. Me, of the 'I hate cell phones' club. I can't wait. No, this is unrelated, I know, but one can't write about feeling ill all the time. I must really be fine. I can't really have this much trouble breathing, catching my breath, fending off nausea and trying in vain to wet some whistle which is dried and baking in the hot sun. No a/c, second day in a row. It's cool-ish. It's false hope not yet Autumn, nor even Indian Summer. But it's nice, and Olympic games are being played on the TV in the next room. We'll figure this all out, and a good throat clearing made it hotter and dryer. Cost of the War in Iraq
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