My piglet flu is "over" but I think it might have doubled as an alien lobotomy. Or maybe it's just that the cough medicine I was prescribed was the heaviest duty drugs I have taken in a decade. Except for the muscle relaxers they gave me at the hospital in Berlin, those were kind of magical, but they did not make me half-drunk half-stupid. I feel mega dumb since getting sick. I also combined the tale end of a dose with 1/3 of a pack of night time Theraflu one night and got scared I was en route to OD-ing on nasal decongestant and made Matt bring me my computer to google what I should do because "Isn't this how Heath Ledger died?" In my less floaty sober-state the next morning I realized it was a bit more than a tablespoon of coughsyrup and a kid-dosage of Theraflu that did him in. I made Matt fix me a peanut butter sandwich and then insisted on sleeping sitting up--I thought it would keep me breathing, though all the medicine seemed to indicate I would be breathing clearer than ever. I was loaded and my tragic death due to nasal decongestant seemed immediate and pending and all I was working on was bad imaginary science and sad little instincts.
Meanwhile, I am upright and hacking, back to work and trying to write. My cough sounds like I spent the last 57 years smoking Pall Malls in the backroom bar at the Elks. My brain is like tar and writing feels slow and impossible, and every draft is shamefully on par with say, a freshman entertainment reporter for The Daily Appletonian. Maybe all the bad but so wonderful TV time I had last week just rotted my brain out. Real life and workable theories about capitalism as pop's idiom is not working. I just wanna get back in bed and keep watching Jean Painleve's life cycle of the French Seahorses movie:
Here someone synched it with a Current 93 song. Normally the Painleve movies have hot jazz soundtracks and subtitles and excited French narration. They are so pretty and magical, it makes me wish I was an octopus zygote.