Well. Today? Spent most of it in bed. Mostly because I've been under the proverbial weather and my body's not letting me ignore it.
The truth is, this being under the weather is something I've been devotedly trying to ignore. For this reason: my mind gets so goddamn bored when I'm forced to lay around. If I'm tired or sleepy and I choose to flop for a while, that's one thing. That's by choice, that's fun. If I have to lay down (and stay down), after a short while my little brain starts nudging and nudging and nudging. "Hey, come on," it says, "get up. Get up, wouldja? Jeez, get the hell up. Pleeeeeeeeze, please, please, please. I'm so BORED. Look at it outside -- it's beautiful! It's beautiful out there! And here you are in this amazing city with so much going on and you're frickin' LAYING there. GET UP!!! Quick, come on, you can do it! That's it, prop your little corpse up and swing those legs over the side of the bed. Good boy, now put your feet down, there you go, you can do it... YAAAAAYYYYY!!! You did it!! Now let's go! Let's go get something to eat or turn on the radio or go to the gym or write something or we could take a walk or go to a movie or go sit in a plaza and watch the people (especially the wimmen! nudge, nudge)." Kind of like a hyperactive chimp on amphetamines. And while all that's going on, my body is saying, "No........ no, no......... mustn't....... ignore me........ must......... get........... rest.........."
The general truth is that if I feel halfway decent, I get up. Even if that means I simply putz around with no real direction -- on the computer, off the computer, get something to eat, look outside, make a phone call, on the computer, go online, check e-mail, try to beat the computer at hearts, get off the computer, sit down, try to read for a while, get up, turn on some music. Anything, pretty much, except rest.
I didn't used to be like this. Back in the States, especially in Vermont, I was way chilled. After a while, though, I came to feel like that Woody Allen line, "If I get too mellow, I have a tendency to ripen and rot." Ultimately, there wasn't enough input out there in the middle of nowhere. Maybe if I'd been part of a couple or a family it would have been different. But it was me.
My body's been tired for a while now and I haven't given it the time it needs to truly fill up the tank. 'Cause every time I start to chill and I take enough time that the tank begins to get anywhere near, say, half-full, that little brain of mine goes, "Hey, great, look at that! Half-full! Woo-hoo!! Hot damn! Let's go!" And I go.
I may have to take some real time and pay real attention to my body, 'cause it's a good body, an adorable body that's treated me well. I'm tired of living on the edge of a cold, of having a cough that starts up every time my energy goes below a certain level. It would be nice to get truly rested up. It's been a while.
Within the last few days I've had headaches. Man, I *never* get headaches!! Time to listen up before this bod of mine has to hit me harder to get my attention.
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In observance of St. Valentine's Day (tomorrow -- yikes!!), more love letters from this last Sunday's El País Sunday magazine, translated into English:
For my girl, Marga When Marga is not here, everything is Marga. The paste in my toothpaste tube is Marga. Marga is the bags under my eyes and the little desire I have to get up today. And also my neighbor, who greets me and seems to say, "Marga." Today more than ever Marga is Argentina. And salad with roast chicken breast. Today Marga is not my nap because thinking, thinking so much left me unable to sleep today. This afternoon Marga is my legs that take me little by little as if they were alone, without considering the rest of my body useful, which also is Marga. And the agreeable sound of my steps on the floor. And my breathing. Marga is Dostoesvki. And also Mario Benedetti and Miguel Hernández. And my Daniel Pennac. And coffee with milk and nutcake and raisins. Marga is 9:30 and 9:45 and 10:20. And it's then, at 10:30, when Marga is here and all the rest don't exist. And only Marga exists. Only Marga. -- Martín Civera López
In a drawer I put your letter away in a drawer. And I have sworn not to return to open it until seven years pass, the time necessary for the indifference to swallow the pain I feel and digest this love that's just ended. – Pedro José de Pablo
Love in reverse You say that ours has no remedy because we planned it meticulously and it never ended well. For once, if you want, we're going to do it all in reverse. I've started to read the word AMOR in reverse, and... I have in my hands two airline tickets for ROMA. A final opportunity?.... – Guillermo Merayo Bello
Dream I dream of you as the father of my children. It's you or no one. – M.A.S.