In bed for two days with a sinus infection. I hit the point where my whole body rebels – as restless as a shaken bottle of coke – and then there is a cascade of emotions that turn inward.
Caustic.
Reminding myself that the emotions are nothing more than my mind trying to make narrative sense of all the lymph poisoning my system.
I remind myself it is lymph. I remind myself that this self-disgust will pass.
I think of a tree in a violent wind – shaking its branches like an evil monster.
It’s not the nature of the tree.
It’s not the nature of the wind.
The Santa Ana winds could cup me like God’s own hand. (A children’s bible’s illustration of God’s writing finger is burned in my mind – not remembering the story at all, just the context of bedtime.)
I am not this angry.
All right, having looked up the story: I am a little angry.
Geeeeez. Bedtime story? That? Seriously?
No wonder I’m praying psilocybin will become legal soon.
What crawls up the walls our unconscious has built… If you’ll excuse me.
