The Lost Week

It feels like a week anyway. I am upright for the first time in 24 hours. Some unknown malaise gave me a bad night's sleep Thursday with alternating fever and chills. I also ran up and down the stairs at work more times than my back would tolerate and so I wasted all of Friday in bed. I couldn't read, do handwork or even websurf with my laptop. Changing the channel became too demanding so I dozed and made imaginary pieces in my head where they don't generate a lot of enthusiasm or sweat. I have to thank Frieda for reminding me why I have a button linking to Danny Gregory's blog and this post in particular. I'd like it if he would expound on those "rare, apparent exceptions who don't give a good god-damn what anyone else says" but wouldn't that just be confirming his first notion that "Creative people care so very much what others think of them." It's a great article and it confirms my thinking lately about voicing my opinion in public places. Who cares what I think or have to say? If it wasn't for the fact that I am prone to talking to myself and listening intently, I wouldn't write anything, ever. Here's a true story. Jim told me that once I woke him in the dead of the night because I was laughing in my sleep. He asked me "what was so damn funny?". I said "I told myself a joke" and turned over and went back to sleep. The headache is gone, the fog is lifting and maybe I can get a start on the imaginary pieces I've been working on in my head. So instead of talking or writing about the work, I will be doing for a while.