I'm amazed, but I've already developed an attachment to this space, and its four or five readers (hi guys!). In fact, I feel guilty leaving it sit for the better part of a week. I do, though, have a good reason.
I've resisted the impulse and common trend to make this an open diary -- though I am beginning to understand it. James already leads our lives in public, so you can always check with him to know what's up with me. But I want to tell you anyway; to tell the blog in a way, as if I owe it. What's up with me? My temperature--reaching 41' at one point. Fortunately a hospitalized point. Being packed in ice is a miserable thing. Makes you feel like a fish on the way to market. At root, it seems to be a strep infection. There's a deeper root, too, but that's private. Lots of antibiotics, lots of rest, feeling better.
Though, also, feeling a small resentment that, like my flowers and
herb patch, my blog does just fine without me. It is a sadness, isn't it -- the thought of the garden going on without us? Do parents feel this way? Or other writers? Though it's not writing, either: I'd be happy to see Ghost Maps, for instance, live after me. But this little plot of a notebook that I scratch in every day--what happens to it, without me?
When I die I want them burned. And it's not all about privacy.
Pat--
A little belated reflection on past events.
Erin
I agree. When I die, I want to be burned. Perhaps it's random thoughts about ice. Perhaps it's my nightmares about falling off of high stairs. Don't take fever thoughts too seriously. Whether they be demonic red rabbits or squirrels haunting the fevered, the mind is not itself.
"When I was a child, I had a fever, my hands felt just like two balloons."
Erin, what's all this about dying?