Chrisonomicon

Friday, April 11, 2003

Maybe this inlaw of a cold, having outstayed its welcome by a good three weeks, has confounded my internal clock, or perhaps I simply haven't adjusted to this year's daylight savings program ( outdated and superfluous , no matter how enjoyable the extra hour or so of daylight is), but it's been a week of Tylenol-PM nights and 6-cup-of-coffee mornings, a week of beautifully-sounding, yet nonetheless unfavorable states such as languor and torpor and indolence and inertia, rolling off the tongue like opiated bodies and landing on goosedown pillows to stare, glassy-eyed, at the ceiling, while dishes and clothes and newspapers accumulate on various other resting places around the apartment. I miss the bleach clarity that comes with health and resent being a fair-weather friend to life -- only enjoying or appreciating, with abandon, things that go my way -- but I feel mired in mediocrity and inactivity. Fortunate for me, it's Friday and I have a good two days to relax and reharvest myself. (I can feel the emergence of spring; it's breaking through my bones.)