Monday November 20, 2006
Do you remember how it was, being ill, when you were younger? When you’d fall back on your pillow one day, convinced you were about to die and then, next day, say “Oh, I’m better now!”, leap out of bed and demand to be part of the action again?
Well, in my experience, it ain’t like that as you get older. It’s a there and back again kind of thing, better one day, bad again the next. And so utterly tiring that when the conviction of your imminent encounter with mortality comes along in the really bad bits you’re rather inclined to say: “Good. Let’s get it over with, then.”
Hey ho. Not a particularly good day again today. Some of it’s been fine but far too much of it has been a matter of waiting for things to improve. Sleep-dreaming, and half-awake-dreaming, living in a Hieronymus Bosch garden of rather alarming delights.
Things will improve, of course. In spite of the odd setback I am improving day by day. It’s a horrid bug, though, and needs to be treated with respect.
For the moment, I’ve lost my grip on poetry, both reading and writing.