I am lying in bed, sipping Langer's Winter Blend (100% orange, pineapple, and passionfruit juice), recovering from the flu and from a terminated-rather-than-letting-it-get-terminal romantic involvement, listening to Zeppelin IV, pondering the perfidy of men and virii, and being bored out of my bloody skull. Not necessarily in that order, of course.
I cannot, in fact, decide what to think about men and romance (humans in general, really, only I'm straight, and so musing on romance tends to center around the male of the species), except that the situation seems to cause pendulation between abject buffoonery and exalted self-deception, though living in this particular greenhouse (the one containing the human race, I mean) I'm in no position to hurl any sort of stone.
And I've pretty much resolved my views on virii, Orson Scott Card aside (if you haven't read Speaker for the Dead, get off your duff and do so- it's one of the best meditations on sentience, xenobiology, scientific detachment in anthropology, and relative speciesism ever written, and also happens to be a very, very good science fiction novel). Ender Wiggin and pequeninos notwithstanding, I don't like 'em.
Boredom, however… I'm almost never bored, and I'm unused to it. I like being alone in a number of ways, and when I'm tired of being alone I can always call a friend or three and go someplace or do something, even if that something is only to call Dave, or Kristina, and tell either one that I'm bringing over a pot of tea and ginger thins or rum or coffee or whatever.
The aforementioned virii have, however, closed off that and all other options involving other people's presence- I've always had very strong views about not being around others while infectious- and so here am I, all the books in my house read, head too weak to sit up properly, eyes too glazed to watch an entire movie. Things have really burrowed through the bottom of the barrel when writing becomes a court of last resort…
What I am, in fact, doing is looking for something to ponder, and in the process writing a letter rather than an essay- though perhaps the only one of my readers who is likely to recognize this as such is Maria, Muina Colinda, wise woman and bearer of secrets. The characteristic neverending-and-yet-grammatically-correct-by-the-skin-of-their-teeth sentences, in particular, are a hallmark of our long correspondence- though, given my Bioethics' professor's comments on our most recent essay, perhaps no longer exclusive to our correspondence.
Ack. There are so many things running through my mind at the moment, any one of which would make an interesting essay topic- masculine ovoviviparity in seahorses, exploration of the Rub al'Khali, Anna Sui's bizarre 40's-and-glam-rock fall collection, the anomalous expansion of water at freezing, Maurice Bejart's choreography… but I can't settle down to any of it. Writing an essay means thinking of only one thing, and I honestly don't think my brain will tolerate that right now; if this is how people who genuinely have ADDHD feel all the time, then it's a wonder they ever get anything done at all, though I imagine with practice it might be easier to isolate and slow a particular train of thought. Then again, perhaps not, trains being notoriously unwieldy machines- and many of mine have all the weight and momentum of a Union Pacific Big Boy.
Sigh. Enough of this. My eyes are glazing and my fingers are missing key after key and maybe my body is telling me it's time to stop.
