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It's everything I want to tell people when they make small talk and profound talk, but I often can't. Sickness, sex, and the process of dealing with aging parents feel unspeakable and sometimes unreachable, but they sure aren't here.

Monday, January 02, 2006

Eyelids

Keep Lids Closed Originally uploaded by filmgoerjuan.

I can't keep my lids closed anymore.

I have to wake up, even if it feels like parts of my body are missing in action and my eyes are going in different directions. Which they are, at the moment. During these long, druggy sleeps, I dream. I drool copiously. There's a map of my mouth's locations all over my dark pillow cases. I remember two things from these dreams. First, that I was living in my old home where someone said, "We are still alone," at which point I gagged on something and pulled a stone out of my mouth (I can only imagine the quantities of droolage that oozed like party strings from my mouth at this point). Second, I recall saying with the force of a general to this person, "That's my quiche, dipshit!"

I didn't say they were profound dreams. I said they were drooly and druggy.

It's already dark now, possibly after midnight, but I'm not sure of that. It's quiet here in front of the monitor. I can feel the humming vibrations of the computer against my calf. It's better to sit here, suspended beyond time, and keep tapping away at letters to see if they reach you. If I lean over at a 55 degree angle to see the digital clock on the floor, I may very well baptize it with the French toast I just crammed in my mouth. First food, then drugs. Well, okay - more drugs. I've slept through the day. First it was 50 mg of painkiller, and then another 50 mg, because I was allowed and because I was not going to hang over a toilet cajoling the deities to save my sorry ass as I tried to keep my hair clean. I tied gel ice packs to my body with bands from my physical therapist that are supposed to offer resistance in the "baby-level" exercises I started so long ago.

Resistance is coming from other sources. I went to the gym last night and realized that my ulnar nerves were singing. There were two fifteen-pound dumbbells not in use and singing back. I will not have my ass whooped by fifteen-pounders, for fuck's sake. I picked them up and curled. And again. I didn't care that some guy was giving me "hint, hint" looks in the mirror because he wanted them. Miss Confuckinggeniality I am not. In time, the spasms through my arms stopped, and I finally shared.

Does work still happen in between the times when time is suspended? Yes. It does. I will not have my ass whooped by tasks I know I can do, even if I can't do them successively or quickly. The contacts were contacted, and the writing was written. I am four hours into a nine-hour project and will finish before 6 a.m. Clock-bound I am not.

There is a pacing that seeps into the air at these times. My body wants to keep the lids closed. I know the only answer is to initiate the chemistry experiment of chemicals with strange names (if I didn't know what Arava actually was, I would think it's a great name for my first-born -- yes, I would be one of THOSE cringe-inducing parents), get food, hydrate like a mofo, start stretches, and not lie there like I am a dumpster full of toxins. Even when I am.

Photo credit: "Keep Lids Closed" by flimgoerjuan on flickr (click on photo for more work by this artist). His blog is The Calm Dreariness, where you can see more of his work. Permission obtained for use.

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