Awoke with a sore throat today. Because I do not snore, I worry that this is the first singular trumpet of an impending war with Illness. My defenses are weak, my systems failing. Allies are miles away, growing more foreign and more indifferent by the second.
There is nothing more fetching than a swift rain shower after an endless string of dry, sunny weather. The grass was becoming stiff and brown; the flowers wilting and bowing under the tyrannical day star—so I was glad, overjoyed really, to see it covered up by thick, billowing blankets of moisture and electricity. All the sudden anger above our heads released some pent up drabness in me; I couldn’t wait for the wind and the rain.
My sleep schedule is unforgivably awry, and while I know how to fix the problem (I could, for instance, make attempts to go to sleep before midnight and then valiantly set the alarm clock for nine in the morning), I never seem to want to. Night electrifies me. It is the best time of the 24 hour day, the night, and I don’t wish to miss a moment of it. The morning, however, is simultaneously my favorite time of the 24 hour day. It is all the stuff in between that I hate. Every day I feel the drabness of mid-afternoon sink down upon the lazy city, heavy and inescapable, and suddenly there is no point to anything and life is as two-dimensional as a comic strip.
Before I left for this surreal Vancouver getaway, I met one of my former teachers and two of my former classmates (gorgeous twins who perpetually create the illusion of perfection) for lunch at our town’s standard Yuppie Mexican Restaurant. The lunch was a success, socially speaking, though the twins did most of the entertaining. They are equally interesting in separate ways, and they finished each other’s sentences, which might’ve been annoying had I not been so charmed by them. The teacher constantly posed questions to me; a steady flow to get me to speak my thoughts. It worked, to a degree. But the Bower twins always had a story scratching just underneath every topic, itching to find its way into lapidary, intelligent sentences. They’re born for the limelight; one must let them have it lest they shrivel up and die of withdrawals.
The crickets will be deafening again tonight, rivaled only by the cicadas. Lying here with this infant cold in my throat, I try to coax myself into appreciating the symphony of nature, but I remain apathetic. I am sick of things here. I want her with me, and that is the raw truth of the matter under every depressed sigh and every slow conversation with these relatives of mine. Love is so goddamn draining, and coupled with secrecy, it evolves into a kind of sweet and private hell. But I believe Thoreau when he said there is no remedy for love but to love more, and so I am here, heart bursting, still collecting and collecting, from the memories and the static-y cross-country phone calls after everyone else has gone to bed.