Big ol’ walrus of reckoning (didn’t know there was such a thing didja) slapped me down last Friday. Thwap. Sat on me hard. And it hurt. Lots of pain. And it was hot. Feverishly hot. Maybe it swallowed me, I don’t know. But Marty insists it wasn’t a whale of a reckoning. On Saturday, I found I was allotted just enough mobility to get to the bathroom and throw up. That lasted for a couple of days. “Zorba the Greek” played on the television somewhere along the way which is choice bleak viewing for the ill with its stonings and throat slittings and vulture crones looting the dead–and, yes, I know, Zorba shows us that we should live heartily, passionately, despite the horror, but look what happened to the widow, she wasn’t down dancing on the beach with Quinn and Bates at the end of the movie, was she. Nor was the courtesan. And I should read the book, instead, right, which I haven’t. Enough about that. All I know is the reckoning was ongoing and “Zorba the Greek” was playing in the background. Then some 50s teen angst movies (who knew those could be depressing) and eventually the glittering baubles of the Home Shopper’s Network (anything to distract from the pain and the nausea) because amazingly despite our having hundreds (so seems) of channels to pick and choose from there is quite often nothing on worth viewing, and if it is worth watching it’s quite often on the BBC and for some reason I only enjoy watching BBC with Marty because it’s a communal kind of appreciation and I was in no position to talk about anything or to really watch anything, just passing in and out of consciousness, and Marty and Aaron had the same crap but were several days ahead of me with it and weren’t feeling too sociable themselves.
An upchuck pot by every futon. That was our apartment.
For several days my head was all filled with the vulture crones of “Zorba the Greek”. Just the vulture crones eying me. I could think of nothing else, almost.
I hoped it wasn’t a little too late to be wondering what manuscripts of mine I haven’t yet destroyed that I should go ahead and trash as subpar.
As soon as I was able to sit up, the nausea having lifted, I began looking for my lost tastebuds. That walrus filled my head and lungs with a foul tasting ocean that is yes slowly drying up but there’s still plenty left to blow out of my nose and hack up and is just plain ever present and makes everything taste the same kind of gross.
I’m a big dairy product lover for protein and in order to cut down on mucous I’d not had any milk products since last Thursday (still haven’t had any coffee, tea, chocolate, cigarettes either, the walrus of reckoning not liking those things one bit) so I found myself dishing up for myself some really unappetizing hospital-like dietary soft serve foods such as poached eggs on toast and jello and more jello and more poached eggs and crackers and soup. So tasty!
I’ve had this bizarre craving for a fruit plate of pine apple, peaches and cottage cheese.
I watched Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon in “Wuthering Heights”. I was beyond unimpressed, Merle and Olivier just reminding me of too many fifteen-year-olds.
Finally, today, I broke the no dairy rule and had goat cheese for dinner. Real pasta and goat cheese. It was wonderful. And I could taste it.
H.o.p. was essentially good by last Sunday. Marty is still beaten up by this crud though not near as beaten up as I was and was taking care of H.o.p. all week while I lay comatose. He credits his not being hit as hard to his kombucha.
The walrus of reckoning hit me way too hard and in its reckoning said a lot of not very pleasant things to me.
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