Feverish

There's nothing worse than being sick and not being home. It helps to have a friend with a guest room that's quiet and tucked away and keeps me from feeling like taking an extra day to rest is in my friends' way. But I'd like to be home in my bed with my dog with my blanky with my tea in my bathrobe. Free to cough out what I need to cough out and throw the kleenex on the floor. I wish I could sleep for 5 days. But I'm on tour and this is a good tour, a big tour and I can't afford to be sick. No one ever can, who WANTS to be sick? But now is a bad time, so I need this croup to flee my form. Tomorrow morn.

I'm writing in rhyme. I just noticed that. Maybe its the gunk in my head but I've been feeling a bit dull lately. I need to be reading better things than I am. I need to turn off the TV. I need to read poetry. Or learn French like I'd planned. I feel my days are passing by without me filling my head with important things and stories. I'd like to hold a vat of beauty in my brain, vast and wide like the plains, filled with phrases borrowed from Yeats or L. Cohen. I'd like to read something esoteric just for the knowingness of it. But I've been trolling the web, posting status updates like that would match what's in my head, but it fails to reach the thing I'm trying to reach beyond. Maybe its the aspirin tonight, makes my head spin and feel lighter than a balloon weighted with feathers where the feathers are soaked in wine, sticky like a brine...

That gathering of minds in Memphis was a tickler. I wish some of these great and wonderful musicians lived near me and we could gather each week at one of our houses and learn each other's music, or just read outloud Dante until it got boring. Break through something more than just the dithering around of refrains on my own here in this borrowed bed while I lay sick so sick I'd like to just play dead for a week and ignore the sunshine outside the window, the ocean so close by....