Sick & Delirious

Hello again. Been awhile, no?

Haven't blogged since Sun, and I was briefly reminded what life was like before I committed to this damn thing. Not to say that I spent the week smelling roses, watching hummingbirds flit while drinking a rich Cabernet. If only. No, the first part of the week I was burned out by this wretched samsara world, a sphere where people seem only able to connect through physical pain and personal corruption. One of the last sights I saw before unplugging was that the military was preying on Katrina's refugees, taking advantage of lives ripped apart in order to finish the job by sending these poor people to Iraq. Reminiscent of the instant military drafts of Irish immigrants during the Civil War (beautifully captured in Martin Scorsese's lush but uneven "Gangs of New York"). Squalid. I mean, really no fucking shame.

"Hey, we were woefully negligent after the hurricane hit. But sign up with us anyway and see what a real human meatgrinder looks like up close. You'll forget all about this flood the second you hit the sand. Promise!"

It was then I realized that I don't have the stuff to be a Real Blogger: someone like Steve Gilliard or Billmon of Whiskey Bar who can crank out post after post after post about the same topic for days on end, and do it well. (I won't bother to link here -- go to my blogroll and check for yourselves if you haven't already.) I simply lack the blog gland necessary for such continuous output. As I've threatened so many times before, but have never really done, allowing headlines and breaking news to guide my tapping hands, I want to pull back from the immediacy of the carnage and meditate on deeper topics, or at least topics that move me. Here's to those of you out there not holding their breath.

The latter part of this week was spent splayed on my couch, in front of the TV, sick as a dying pig. Some viral bug infested me and put me out. My entire body ached as if dealt a thorough beating, and my head felt as though squeezed in a vise, my teeth screaming in pain from the extreme headaches and psycho-sinus congestion that was barely relieved by a steady diet of antihistamines and pain killers. Trying to sleep under these conditions is nearly impossible, and all the toxic sludge in your body and brain bubbles up to maximum intensity before mercifully evaporating, leaving you spent but somewhat cleansed. But it was in the maximum intensity stage where darkest pain and strangest hallucination met. There were moments this week where I was far far away from everything I knew and cared about. Tough to blog under those conditions, though had I the energy to sit at my desk, you would have been treated to some pretty wild images.

In my more semi-lucid stages I flicked through all 10 of my HBOs, catching parts of movies I've already seen or saw long ago, the familiar noise providing mild graven comfort. I also watched entire films I heretofore missed, like Mike Leigh's "Topsy-Turvey," about Gilbert and Sullivan's conception and staging of "The Mikado." A lovely film it is, too. Jim Broadbent is marvelous as Gilbert, as is Allan Corduner as Sullivan. Nothing like a dramatization of the English musical theater of the 1880s to perk one up as the used tissue pile steadily rises from the carpet.

But now I'm back among the living, if I may use so loaded a word to define our present state. I fear going back to the blogs, for I know the madness and sorrow that awaits. Please bear with me as I slowly plug back into the Matrix to see what fresh horrors the Machines have programmed for our amusement.

MISERY LOVES COMPANY: After hailing Billmon's stamina above, I see today that he's hit the wall and needs time off. I bet he does. What an eloquent workhorse he is. Yes, Bill, rest, read and don't get sick.

And Riverbend has returned. She says that she hasn't felt like blogging of late, which is understandable, although unlike us stateside, she has a pretty good reason, considering where she lives.