a fever

I was getting chills even though the heater was on, struggling to maintain warmth in the apartment against the cold outside trying to work its way in at the seams. My stomach was swimming. There was a dull ache in my head that hurt at the corners of my eyes when I tried to look around. I stayed on the couch for about three days.

Fevers always make me consider my body too much. Laid up and trying to increase your fluid intake while getting some rest, there's not much to do but watch television shows you've seen a hundred times and become uncomfortably aware of yourself. Just the difference of a few internal degrees changes the entire world, calls to mind the real fragility with which we're all hanging on to existence. It's something marvelous and terrifying to remember how perfect the conditions have to be to support the weight of just this one consciousness. I slipped in and out of sleep those three days, fevered dreams bleeding into reality when I woke up coughing and needing more water.

I don't like the doctor. Sometimes you end up having to go whether you like it or not. He looked me over quickly, asked what was wrong, prescribed antibiotics, and then a nurse gave me a shot that almost made me faint.

blacker than black

Winter's short days always catch me off guard. It was only 5:30 and the last rays of the sun streamed through the blinds behind me, highlighting thin strips of my monitor in a kingly golden orange. Was the day over already? I stretched and rubbed my eyes, my body seeming to suddenly catch up with my mind's realization. A whole day spent here, singing in my head and passing the time, working and waiting. I spend a lot of time doing those things these days.

Pressing my hands against the almost icy glass, I leaned toward the outside, the 13-story plummet to the ground looming up behind the barrier of the window. One of the things I love about Texas is the spectacular sunsets. The north of the state is flat and flat and flat as far as you'd like, and 13 stories up you never miss the sun setting. Today a line of clouds caught and manipulated the dying light, rich orange rippling over the upside-down ocean of its underside, playing deep blue shadows and bright shocks of pink through the waves. I imagined I could see tiny ships sailing through, their sun fading steadily upward into the horizon to reveal the starry sky of Dallas city lights above. I thought of them steering by those stars, navigating to some unknown continent in the sky by the positions of the Reunion Tower and the clusters of outlying suburbs.

Before I knew it the sun was gone. I could hardly see the clouds at all, but by the absence of stars could tell the were still there. I wished the little upside-down ships and their crews safe passage through those dark waves and shut the office door behind me.

ones and zeros

Comforting someone who has suffered a loss is the hardest thing to do. They've come to you seeking some sense of understanding, but all you can give is a sympathetic nod while you search around inside trying to remember the last loss you suffered and if anything could have helped you then. When it comes down to it, the closest you can come to helping is just listening, since what words of encouragement you may speak ring hollow even to yourself.

It's even harder over the wire. A message popped up on my screen two nights ago that put me into that kind of situation. Just a frowning emoticon sat there, prompting my inquiry, probing to discover if anyone was actually there on my side to listen. Snagged by the hook and somewhat bored, I responded with the awaited inquiry. His friend of 18 years had passed on the night before, bowing out quietly and without complaint .

The internet widens the gulf that is already so daunting between human beings. For all the connections available, sometimes it only barely suffices the minimum conditions of interaction. The range of options is just a false front.

I read his messages, which came broken with large silences in-between. The chat window prompted responses, some way to know that his words didn't just pass through unseen, so I did what I could to be there.

a cartoon character's fiery demise

A new year snuck in this week.

Without cable or any sort of reception for local channels, we just waited until the neighbors cheered to ring in another 365 day trip around the sun. There was champagne (or just sparkling wine because it was not manufactured in Champagne) and we stood on the porch while I smoked three cigarettes first thing on New Year's. I don't make those quitting kinds of resolutions.

Inside we reflected on the past several years, eating the kind of potato chips that have a rippled surface with French onion dip - exceptional when your tastebuds are being affected by just enough sparkling wine and beers. What a fantastic thing for us to be able to sit there at the table, drinking and talking and eating. What a marvel in the first place that we ever all met and still know each other. Out of all the billions of people in the world, there we all were, people all over the city and state and timezone celebrating with their own groups.

When we were done and everyone had left, I went to bed to stare at the ceiling and allowed my mind to wander.

reckoning

At 4:30 this morning, I couldn't breathe. I sat up in bed, mind foggy with the tail end of a dream, and coughed for what seemed like an hour. Then I struggled to find myself in the comfort of sleep again, trying to ignore whatever was wrong. It didn't work. In my restlessness, I ended up on the couch. I laid there the rest of the night, listening to crickets and cars driving past in the world outside the window. The trash collector came by at some point, breaking the relative city quiet with the subdued thunder of the large metal garbage bin. My cat sang a song to something I couldn't see, clicking and chirping with the intensity that only a crepuscular animal can have that early in the morning. Richard came downstairs ready for work and left the house. I just stayed on the couch.

Today a friend sent me a song about loneliness and working on and on until you're old and wasted and used up and your body just stops. Almost everyone I know is hashing out this problem right now - I guess we're just that age. Why does the future seem so bleak when our lives are really just beginning? The longer I'm alive the more I feel trapped, the more it seems like the most enjoyable times are already behind me, the more restless I get. I think growing up is unfortunately sad.

I've been on the couch all day. The cats have been sleeping, curled up, lazily stretching and purring. If they can find happiness within the tight confines of this apartment, then it can't be too much of a stretch for us to find it in the confines of a job, a few nights at the bar, and a few good friends, can it? I try to take the comforts where I find them and remind myself that I'm only as trapped as I'm willing to be.

grey and grey and grey

For the last two days, everything has been grey. The fog closed in around our building yesterday, truncating the world and containing it within a half-mile dome. I imagined the block an island, cars below me on the highway disappearing into unknown waters, our building the only beacon of a small civilization. When it got dark, UFOs hovered next to the roadways, orange otherworldly light illuminating the fog around them. It was almost eerie how still the fog made everything. When day gave way to evening (much earlier than it felt it should), the world felt even smaller. Driving home I could hardly see the usually bright neon signs on building tops and brake lights in front of me appeared disembodied.

mix CD

On Tuesday, a song found me. The melody crept in on the periphery of my mind, the profound and soaring horns caught me unaware and carried me off from my work. When a song finds me, it often happens like this.

It followed me this week, chasing after my car in traffic early in the morning, haunting me as I tried to focus on writing documents and e-mails. When I went home, it was there from dinner until it echoed through the slumberous halls of my mind as I tried to sleep. Every now and then, a song comes along like this and stirs you.

Last night I got in the car at 11, sitting in the emptiness of the parking lot with a CD in hand. With the keys in the ignition, I sat for a while in the inadequate fluorescent light and still air inside the car. Everything seemed to anticipate the sound of the engine, some dynamic event, the start of some grand adventure. I never turned it over. I took the CD I had made and trudged back inside the apartment. I put it down on the counter with the spam mail and went to bed.