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The Frozen Chosen
Oct. 27th, 2014 09:28 amEnded up getting dreadfully sick yesterday. An abbreviated bout of Ebola. Did you know you could catch Ebola from reading about it? Well, you can. I’m the proof.
Spent the day purging the virus in various body fluids, watching multiple episodes of Criminal Intent (hey! I was already braindead) and thinking about how, in the bad old days, I would often say, I wish I were dead! Never, I wish I would die. It’s the transition that frightens me, I guess. The end state – not thinking, not feeling, not being – seemed, still seems, oddly comforting. Something to strive for. In life.
Also drank a fair amount of a bottle of pear liquor that had been sitting on my shelf unopened since J gave it to me almost a year ago. It was the only thing that could settle my stomach.
In the evening, I was finally able to hold food down, and ate some scrambled eggs.
“This is really weird,” I told L. “I hardly ever get sick.”
“You’re very upset about your son,” she noted cozily.
I had the obvious Revelatory Moment then. Prepared myself to be cross-examined and debriefed more on the subject. But the interesting thing about L’s thought processes is that while she’s very observant about other people, she’s not given to intense psychoanalytic conversations. Plus she’s old, halfway to 80. She rambles. Instead of talking about me, she began talking about some Jesuit priest she’d once known and how Catholics are so much more emotional than Protestants –
“I don’t think that’s necessarily true, L,” I said. “I’ve known some very emotional Protestants in my time.”
“Well, the Pentecostals, sure,” she said. “But the rest of them. The Frozen Chosen!”
Called B who was visiting RTT in Syracuse. B said he’d put bar locks on all the windows in RTT’s house and that RTT seemed to be much better.
When I got off the phone, I felt better, too.
Still, I had bizarre dreams all night long in which Revolutionary War soldiers rose from their graves underneath the Fishkill strip malls, stared perplexedly at the Burger Kings and the Home Depots, and asked me: What the hell is this?
Like I would know, right?
Dream had some historical accuracy, at least. When I woke up this morning, I Googled "Fishkill" and "revolutionary war" and found out Fishkill had once been a major supply depot for the Continental Army.
Feeling positively healthy today.
Spent the day purging the virus in various body fluids, watching multiple episodes of Criminal Intent (hey! I was already braindead) and thinking about how, in the bad old days, I would often say, I wish I were dead! Never, I wish I would die. It’s the transition that frightens me, I guess. The end state – not thinking, not feeling, not being – seemed, still seems, oddly comforting. Something to strive for. In life.
Also drank a fair amount of a bottle of pear liquor that had been sitting on my shelf unopened since J gave it to me almost a year ago. It was the only thing that could settle my stomach.
In the evening, I was finally able to hold food down, and ate some scrambled eggs.
“This is really weird,” I told L. “I hardly ever get sick.”
“You’re very upset about your son,” she noted cozily.
I had the obvious Revelatory Moment then. Prepared myself to be cross-examined and debriefed more on the subject. But the interesting thing about L’s thought processes is that while she’s very observant about other people, she’s not given to intense psychoanalytic conversations. Plus she’s old, halfway to 80. She rambles. Instead of talking about me, she began talking about some Jesuit priest she’d once known and how Catholics are so much more emotional than Protestants –
“I don’t think that’s necessarily true, L,” I said. “I’ve known some very emotional Protestants in my time.”
“Well, the Pentecostals, sure,” she said. “But the rest of them. The Frozen Chosen!”
Called B who was visiting RTT in Syracuse. B said he’d put bar locks on all the windows in RTT’s house and that RTT seemed to be much better.
When I got off the phone, I felt better, too.
Still, I had bizarre dreams all night long in which Revolutionary War soldiers rose from their graves underneath the Fishkill strip malls, stared perplexedly at the Burger Kings and the Home Depots, and asked me: What the hell is this?
Like I would know, right?
Dream had some historical accuracy, at least. When I woke up this morning, I Googled "Fishkill" and "revolutionary war" and found out Fishkill had once been a major supply depot for the Continental Army.
Feeling positively healthy today.
