Friday, May 8, 2015

Illness Be Gone

For ye past week I have been confined to bed with a wretched case in bronchitis. I used to suffer from it every October/November in my dusty, drafty old apartment in ye Central Area; but since coming to live in my parents' clean & cozy house, I've been fine. I wasn't feeling in top-form when at S. T. and Mary's for my scrumptious birthday din-din--and they were both recovering from colds--but the day after returning from that birthday affair, my illness struck with merciless swiftness. I was in a state of denial because I had always suffer'd from it in winter--never in spring-time. The constant coughing continually trigger'd the worst asthma I've had in years, and the pathetic inhaler that I was given through my doctor, never truly effective, ran out of spray. The headaches were wretched, the fever and chills never ending. I was so ill that I could not even sit up in bed to read, whut wou'd have made ye situation a wee bit better. Of course, I've lost a week of work, & I have so much writing to do--gobs & gobs.

Ye least activity made things worse, as I discover'd when I went a few days ago to get some nice Pho noodle soup--by ye time I got home ye sweat was pouring from my brow. So I've been staying as inactive as possible, and it has been a torment. This morning the fever seems a little less, so I made an experiment and drove to ye poft office to mail ye sign'd signature sheets for the deluxe edition of my new book, sending yem to ye bindery outfit where ye books are to be assembled. Fever has escalated a wee bit, and breathing is still very difficult; yet I feel "energetic" enough to sit and read in bed instead of trying to sleep.  So I will, after typing this, return to bed, snuggle beneath my red silk sheets with ye Donald Thomas book on Swinburne, and then drink some of ye brilliant poetry by Hilda Doolittle (1886-1961). I shall then try a wee mid-day meal of cheese & crackers, and then return to my rereading of Hugh Kenner's brilliant THE POUND ERA.  Then, to-night, if I haven't worn meself out, I want to try and work on a new poem to be submitted to S. T. for Spectral Realms #4. Although I can never, these days, work on fiction in longhand as once I always did (writing all rough drafts into a lined notebook), I cannot work on rough drafts of poetry on ye keyboard, needing to write it out in longhand--so that is something I can do in bed.

How wonderful it will be, however, to return to writing fiction. I have been dreaming of a new characters based on Henry James--for a new series of weird tales set in urban life. I wanted to call the character "James Noble," but there are too many named thus is reality. So he will be named James --something--. 

Be well, my sweets.


  1. Get well soon, my friend!

  2. I hope you are soon feeling better. Urban life? James Urbane? Interesting idea, that. Look after yourself and keep smiling. G. ;-)=