plagues
I always used to find a certain poetry in sickness, in writing little vignettes about fever dreams and that particular way the mind races when it's feverish. I'm not sure I understand the impulse, any more than I understand why I'm drawn to weather disasters--there is something powerful, I suppose, about those reminders of our relative powerlessness and fragility.
One of the things I've written less about, though, is settling into that ritual of returning to the world of the living after a while spent in a haze of sickness. Of shaving and getting dressed and stepping out into the summer sun and feeling the wind on your face again. Going out and getting something real to eat. They're the same rituals that make us feel coherent in the morning, but imbued with more significance after some time away.
Anyway, I was out sick last week, if you were wondering about the radio silence here on the popular internet website "the vaudeville ghost house." I didn't get a whole lot done. We'll get there, though.