Three days after my Moderna booster shot I am finally ready to get out of bed. I slept the dreamless fugue of Lazarus during most of the first and second days, and I slept late today. I never sleep in. And every old injury awoke to remind me of its halcyon days, including my knee and back. My hands ached and every old injury joined in on the choral litany of pain. The night sweats were like an atmospheric river. I was drenched, couldn’t move my right arm, and the shot, a large angry welt. Getting out of bed required extreme balancing acts. I got dressed, navigating an errant foot through the leg of my knickers took finesse, like threading a needle, as I had pulled my lower back again, this time, the left side, while digging ditches for the coming storm, but I managed, and ventured downstairs for my morning coffee. Only by now it’s late afternoon. I will pay for that late cuppa tonight when I cannot sleep. But when one is in the throes of a boostershot altered state, all time bets are off. And so is time itself, for today is the solstice, the shortest day of the year. My first activity of domestic violence was to vacuum a portion of the carpet where I had spilled my morning oatmeal and perhaps a little brown sugar as well. But that act left me deaf and breathless, as did navigating the stairs, and making the coffee and all the myriad errands it entailed. So, before I even had a sip, I was done and spun for the day. Listening to Billy Collins read Christmas Sparrow I am moved back in time to when my grandmother said to let a bird into the house was to let death enter. In Irish tradition, a wild bird was a harbinger of death. That traitorous wren. Only in Billy‘s case, the cat did it. And it was a house sparrow. And today is the death of the old year. So, letting that small feathered poem in, and then letting it go again, was an act of releasing the old year, with a sliver of a chance for renewal. I am amazed by how short his poem is. There’s something about when a poet reads, how time suspends itself on a meat hook, in the hurt locker, where all manner of things are hidden, and yet are only alluded to in poetry. Ex tenebris lux. The dark and the light together as one thing. Is it because I had the vaccine, and because I knew I would have some downtime? I bought expensive desserts, tiramisu, and macarons for my coffee. Not macaroons but macarons, the French ones, as expensive as a box of See’s Candy. They are small meringue dreams that melt on the tongue like sweet clouds. I am having trouble remembering sequentially. So everything I do requires retraced steps and I am in and out of breath, piffing like a steam train, which only exacerbates the memory problem. Today is not a good day for multitasking. I can’t even remember what it was that I forgot to remember. I have to retrace my steps, making sure I don’t trip and reinjure my back, to find those orphaned trains of thought. They lazily float about the rooms like ghosts cobwebs. Today is a fresh pajama day. Time to shed my clothes and greet my pillow once more. At least the bedsheets are clean. It could be worse.
12/21/21
Three days after my booster shot I am ready to get out of bed, I put on some clothes and ventured downstairs for my morning coffee. Only it’s afternoon, late afternoon. I will pay for this tonight when I cannot sleep. But when one is in boostershotLandia all time bets are off. And so is time itself, for today is the solstice, the shortest day of the year. For my first actively of domestic violence was to vacuum a portion of the carpet where I had spilled my morning oatmeal and perhaps a little brown sugar as well. But that left me out of breath, as did navigating the stairs and making the coffee and all its little errands entailed. Listening to Billy Collins read Christmas sparrow I am moved back in time to when my grandmother said to let a bird enter the house was a harbinger of death. only in Billy‘s case, the cat did it. And today is the death of the old year. So letting that small poem in and then letting it go again was an act of letting go, and a renewal. I am amazed by how short his poem is. There’s something about when a poet reads, how time suspends itself on a meat hook, in the hurt locker, where all manner of things are hidden, and yet are only alluded to in poetry. The dark and the light together as one thing. hi because I had the vaccine, and because I knew I would lose downtime, I bought desserts, Macarons with my coffee. Not macaroons but Macarons the French ones as expensive as a box of sees candy. I am having trouble remembering sequentially. So everything I do requires multiple steps and I am out of breath which exacerbates the problem today its a pajama day. Time to takeoff my clothes again and greet my pillow once more
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