Paragraphs

A paragraph is a square. A state. A Colorado, a Utah, an Arizona, a New Mexico. A Montana. But when you put them all together it's not a continent, but instead, a log jam floating jostling all together loosely or tightly all going downriver. All going down down down to the sea. The primordial sea. The C. There, they break loose for an eonic second and form into their continental selves, rippling around the edges before sealing and conjoining into the essays and manifestos and books that create. They harden and sink, some cracking on the bottom, never to be seen under mud.

Yesterday was one of the worst days I have ever experienced on this planet. Every minute was a day and the day was pain 

"You know the day destroys the night 

Night divides the day 

Tried to run 

Tried to hide 

Break on through to the other side"

(The Doors)

and it was midnight and it was 11 AM. I never felt so I never felt so I never felt so bad. People came and went and I was prone. They asked if I wanted a lavender Epsom salt bath. They asked if I wanted soup. They asked if I wanted juice. I tried to say yes to everything but I wasn't listening at all to any words. 

"The days are bright and filled with pain" (The Doors)

This morning I'm afraid to get out of bed and afraid to stay in bed. Everything irritates. Kindness is a knife. Smeared.

My aunt sent me a tiny Bassett hound. When I was growing up we had two Bassett hounds named Molly and Mary Jane. They were horrible pets, low to the ground, crocodile-like to we three little kids, with short lizardly out-arching feet that scratched us with their long horny nails, and huge mean angry nursemaid mouths that barked lowly at us. They did not like us children. They were Ottomans. They were set pieces. They were my mother's idea of a joke, and a bit of antique furniture. Molly had 13 puppies and we made the front page of the Boulder Daily Camera in 1966. I was afraid of her. But looking back on it I now see how droll it was to have basset hounds and now this little Bassett now is comforting to me.

See how I've spread out into an amalgomous menace blob of bathrobe and hat and pillow and sickness and miasma and ooze? I am revolting I am revolting. I revolt I revolt I revolt. I result. Underneath that mountain of fuzz I'm melting.

The word nausea is based on the Greek nautia for "sailor" - and the feeling that comes with it. I'm in a chamber. Get me out please. 

A "miracle" drug failed me this weekend - the Sancuso patch - a dreadful sticky wicket of headache blur and cash that I ripped off after 16 hours of seasick royal. Where is my 21st century? 

God I've got to stop complaining. Burnyce would be mortified - actually at any of my public confession here. My mother the iconoclast - was secretly ravishingly private and would balk at this journal, but I have to express. Times had changed, have, and she didn't notice. I miss her so much. I want her to tuck me in. But I'm relieved that she can miss this worry - that's better I think.  

That generation of rose colored glasses - were they on to something? Maybe just a little bit? Shall I try? Ok here goes: I'm going to be ok, I have felt better but I'll be fine, not to worry. That does sound better I'll admit. For the public. And it's true but not the whole truth. Even I can't fathom this. Poison to cure?

And another piece sinks to mud.