Oblivious

Took me half the day to figure out that I was coming down with something. Rarely sick and I forget the symptoms. Running a fever, but finally it's the running nose, knowing I've never suffered from pollen, that clues me in. Cranky. Actually a boat-building term, usually from getting the center of gravity a bit too high and the boat would tend to wallow, a nightmare for the helmsman. Samuel Pepys had a great library for the day, mid seventeenth century, 3,000 volumes in 9 and then 12 free-standing "presses", glass-fronted bookcases. Had his books uniformly bound (books usually sold then as unbound sheets) and arranged them by size. Though to his credit, he had a complete list, chart, and number system. Doesn't matter what your system is, as long as you can find the book. I have a half-assed system, as most of us do, I imagine, with large private libraries. I have several thousand Small Press items, I keep them together. I keep an author together whether fiction or non-fiction or poetry, there are various sub-systems which, frankly, don't make much sense. A lot depends on the way the boxes were unloaded the last time I moved, and before that they had been several times shuffled, into and out of storage, while I built yet another set of bookcases, in yet another house I had built from whole cloth on some cheap piece of land somewhere. I begin to see a pattern here, but it doesn't help with the books. Glenn called, said the movie about the Wrack Show was almost done, we needed to schedule a screening; said he thought that late night piece I wrote to other night was really strong. I had no idea what he meant, since my printer is down, I have to go to the blogspot he posts, to see what I wrote. Then I remember listening to the radio, grabbing names and phrases. It's a sense of rhythm. Late at night, I can occasionally fall into an almost fugue state, where things make a provisional sense, if you post them in the correct position, flip through the cards at an even rate of speed, it seems to make sense. Almost a movie. Things move. Didn't Send, came down with the crud, nose leaking onto my shirt, splitting headache. Not much better today, but I had to go in, get some things done, the main gallery show comes down Thursday. Museum, through Latin from the Greek mouseion, in the third century B.C. mouseion referred speciffically to Ptolemy Socor,s place at Alexandria, the Library and Cultural Center. Knew there was a reason I was reading about bookshelves. Arena, by contrast, comes from the Latin harena, or sand, which was spread around the lion pit to soak the blood of victims. Gamut means all the notes of the scale. Orchestra pit, may come from the fact that the Old Drury Lane Theater was built on the sight of a famous cockpit. Slapstick was the two pieces of lath that clacked when Clown hit Harlequin on the ass. Talent, is, of course, the Greek name for a unit of money. I came home early to take a nap, but my head was exploding and I needed to eat something. A can of beans, bread and butter, sweet tea, took some antihistamine, which D had advised. I don't know how to be sick. Retired to the sofa with several dictionaries and a list of words I needed to check. When I read, or am seriously researching something, I forget my body. It's a good way to escape pain, but I get up to roll a smoke or splash a drink, and I remember I'm sick, or damaged in some way, and I pour a small libation in the sink, address the household gods directly, tell my immune system that I'll hold the pass, they just need to get to work on the wounded, take care of business. Acute is the way to go, chronic is a can of worms. One medicine I do keep around is a nice thick root of ginseng that's been floating around in an ounce of very good whiskey, 100 proof, for several years. I sip it through the evening. Teeny sips, I drink maybe a quarter of it, in the course of an evening; of course I'm drinking cheap whiskey and toking on the side, because I really want to feel better. And I do feel better, indulging myself, like anyone, I need stroking, fuck, it's the human condition. What we want is to be stroked. I mentioned this to three crows on the way home, they were dining of some carcass in the road. I understood clearly that I was the fifth wheel, left as quickly as possible, maybe I didn't wipe all of my prints, but I was certainly gone. This road-kill was under control. Let me be clear on that. You, it, whatever; crows dining on a flattened thing, a strange parchment of carp skin. Nodded into a stupor. Not great this morning but no longer leaking clear fluid. I'd best Send this and eat some dinner.