The weather has been unusual for a Canadian November: Sunshine! Humidity! Warmth!
My stomache has been back in the state of queasiness that's dogged me since I went on the Side-effex-or earlier this year: Don't! Eat! You! Might! Barf!
I have not barfed. But my chaps are loose again. I'd like to say that's a good thing but it's never good to lose weight because you could not eat.
In the last week, my special email inbox has been mysteriously quiet. Literary Agents! Preoccupied! Publishing company disasters! Elections! Honestly it's not because they don't like my query letter!!!!
All night I have vivid detailed dreams. I wake up in the dark with my flannel jammies soaked with sweat, drops running down my neck, shivering as I pull the blankets back over my shoulders and sink back down into a world of dark rooms with pictures of people I never wanted to see again, while the red horse I miss so much stands outside, ears pointed in my direction, and long lost loved ones speak to me as though we just saw each other yesterday. The moonlight is in the wrong place. It shouldn't be coming in the north windows. He offers me something to eat and I cry softly because I can't, and I can't cry either, only in dreams, and his chest is warm and big and solid. No matter how I stretch my arms I can't reach around his back. I'll never hold him tight enough. I want to stop walking down wet sidewalks and sit under the trees, the branches thinning out until only one yellow dry leaf dangles, swaying in a breeze I can't feel. I don't know why I can't see the plowed field in real life. It should be there.
I wake up with a struggle and the sharp pains still shoot under my skin, up through my neck and across my scalp into my eyes. My lips are in shock. I have to eat, I have to take that big red capsule. Move slowly! Blink softly!
Despite my muddy brain and gurgling guts, I've been somewhat functional. I got to that riding lesson and rode the big old horse with his giant bouncing trot. I had to sit out a few times to let the nausea pass. But I got through it. I slowly raked a few clouds of leaves into the flower gardens, I swept floors, I hung the rag rugs up to dry after washing them. I cooked a meal during a break in the queasiness. I have managed to hold things together just enough to keep it from all falling apart, and today I'm not going anywhere. I'm home, on the couch, with a dog on my feet and a cat balanced between my arm and the computer. I am blinking slowly! Typing slowly!
This will pass because it has to.
It's been a weird week.
Like, even for me. Weirder than my usual form of weird.
I'm confused but what else is new?
This week's visual representation of my state of mind will be brought to you by my favourite actor, not not Daffy Duck, the other one. Although come to think of it, I believe Brad made an appearance again last night, wearing that funny little tweed cap, while I was sitting on a hammock, invisible, in an explosives warehouse, watching him fill a burlap sack with fireworks. Brad you sneaky thief. He had about 14 kids with him. I may or may not have been one of them.
Take it away, Johnny.