wildcat

The updates keep coming today, as I waver in and out of something called a homework miasma with my head full to the brim with paperweights made out of expensive glasses but really, they're still just paperweights making my brain feel heavy and my eyes twitch. I've booked the week off work because I'm steadily on the track to mucky mucus-land with its capacity to induce delirious screams of terror in Joy, but pretty much everyone I've talked to is getting sick with something. Except Michelle because she's on antibiotics for that nasty cut, enough to seal her hermetically from the woes of the Bacterial Culture. Truly, she's a member of the Germ Free Generation. Shrieking. I don't want to go into to work for fear of pushing myself into getting even worse or spreading the infection to all those older ladies that work there and seem terrified of getting sick in any context.

Where was I going?

Bill Gaston's Novel Techniques class, hip-deep in Patchett's Bel Canto and the crowds of adoring men scraping at Roxanne Cross the amazing opera diva and professing their love and blah-blah-blah. The rest of the book is nice but what the hell? Shut the hell up, willis. I have to do the journal assignments before I collapse into dust clouds of Ben-particles later. Ben as particulate matter, a viper mist seeping into your pores and orifices and settling at the base of your lungs, piling up into heaps of dust.

Ended up on the bus with my cousin Sheena, whose father is dying in the hospital up in Prince George. He's her estranged father, and he went up to see him again, she hadn't been to P.G. in nine years and he's gaunt and jaundiced and all the rest. Now she's in pieces, broken up and incapable of dealing whenever she's alone. She's going to see a counsellor soon, if she can get scheduling conflicts ironed out. It feels like everybody's in distress of some kind. We're going to meet up for lunch next weekend.

Time seems to be moving faster, but they tell me that's a byproduct of getting older--