chamomile tea is spring in your cup
16 May 2013 / 11 notes
if I’m feeling Baudelaire’s spleen or my own.
13 May 2013 / 3 notes
12 May 2013 / 17 notes
The Sick Child, Edvard Munch, 1885-86
12 May 2013 / 11 notes
the flu the beginnings of mono for the past two weeks. At first I didn’t take it seriously, sort of like when you are babysitting a kid and he keeps yelling for a drink of water after he’s gone to bed and you’re just trying to watch Netflix, and you do what you remember your parents doing and what you have seen all parents doing on television: you yell, “You had one right before bed, sweetie, go to sleep!” Except that he keeps yelling and his voice gets louder and more tearful and you consider calling the parents because maybe he has a rare medical condition that requires a glass of water precisely after he’s been put to bed. And then he appears around the corner of the stairs with a machete and says, “Stop popping the Advil and get into bed, I’m going to make you pay for this.”
I don’t get sick very often so I’m not a good invalid: I get distracted from resting by all sorts of things, like needing to feel clean, needing to have a clean apartment, needing to have clean sheets. But what about the mail I haven’t checked the mail in days. The weather is so nice, taking a ten minute walk surely wouldn’t kill me. I don’t have any food in my refrigerator, I should pop over to the store. And then I’m on my way to work in the morning and I’m standing and feeling faint and it’s so hot and I just have to get out and lean over the railing of the platform and gulp the fresh air in-between trying to rid myself of my breakfast.
“Ma’am,” yells the train conductor, because I was in the first car and he watched me bolt out of it. “Is this a medical emergency?”
“No,” I said miserably, “I just need a drink of water.”
He handed me a bottle of water. “You should go home.”
Go home. Go home. But there is something about being sick that makes resting seem like the very last thing you want to do, because slowing down means you need to take yourself into account, puffy eyes and concave sour stomach and pale jutting cheekbones. You need to take your life into account, all the bits and pieces of pizza and late nights and wine and fun you’ve been having, and how you didn’t listen to your body when it said, Slow down, slow down, because slowing down would have meant a quiet you’re not sure you know how to handle anymore.
And you have to learn to ask for help.
I didn’t take it gracefully or quietly. I took it crying and thrashing, and when the doctor mentioned that if I couldn’t keep food down or if it didn’t get better I’d have to spend the night in the hospital just to be sure, I took a long look at the quiet I’d been avoiding for the past two months.
I’m stubborn, and it’s so easy to believe I’m the exception to a rule: I won’t get sick or injured or heartbroken. I’ve been okay for so long! And Advil! But as I listened to the fan swing overhead and the muffled traffic pass outside my apartment, I heard it: the quiet that says, all of these things will happen, and more, and knowing this will keep you peaceful, it will keep you humble, because you won’t live forever and you must be kind to yourself and others. You are weak, but weak in a way that makes you stronger because you can understand and empathize with others, and give them the benefit of the doubt when you don’t want to believe that they are as weak as you are.
10 May 2013 / 12 notes
Removing yourself from any place or thing feels like a betrayal at first, and then the wounds close and the guilt only flares up in rainy weather. After I threw a penny into the Fontana di Trevi, I knew I would eventually return to Rome. When I do it will not be returning home or to some ideal of a fixed state; it will be a revisiting of what once flourished and then crumbled. We are better off different than we were yesterday.
7 May 2013 / 3 notes
Wolf-Meyer refers to the practice of going to bed at around eleven o’clock at night and staying there until about seven in the morning as sleeping “in a consolidated fashion.” Nowadays, adults are expected to sleep in this manner; anything else—sleeping during the day, sleeping in bursts, waking up in the middle of the night—is taken to be unsound, even deviant. This didn’t use to be the case. Until a century and a half or so ago, Wolf-Meyer observes, “Americans, like other people around the world, used to sleep in an unconsolidated fashion, that is, in two or more periods throughout the day.” They went to bed not long after the sun went down. Four or five hours later, they woke from their “first sleep” and rattled around—praying, chatting, smoking, or making love. (Benjamin Franklin reportedly liked to spend this time reading naked in a chair.) Eventually, they went back to bed for their “second sleep.”
Wolf-Meyer blames capitalism in general and American capitalism in particular for transforming once perfectly ordinary behavior into conduct worthy of medication. “The consolidated model of sleep is predicated upon the solidification of other institutional times in American society, foremost among them work time,” he writes. It is “largely the by-product of the industrial workday, which began as a dawn-to-dusk twelve-to-sixteen hour stretch and shrank to an eight-hour period only at the turn of the twentieth century.” So many people have trouble getting enough sleep between eleven at night and seven in the morning because sleeping from eleven to seven isn’t what people were designed to do."
“Up All Night”, Elizabeth Kolbert, The New Yorker
6 May 2013 / 78 notes
I have been eating a great deal of peanut butter and jelly toast. My mother said a few weeks ago that she thinks it is my comfort food. And isn’t it amazing how quickly I revert back to child, when I’m tired and the mercury won’t sit still?
I suffered a small bout of insomnia when I attained double digits. I was afraid of going to bed because I knew that I would lie awake for hours, after the last lights had been turned off and my parents were sound asleep and the house settled into twilight folds. We lived in a cul-de-sac then, in Southern California, and I’d watch the coyotes make the rounds of our house outside our diamond-paned windows, sniffing the air, calling eerie to each other. The night is humming with sounds that we don’t take time to listen to during the day. I would dream up terrible scenarios: we were all going to die in a fire. I would never get to sleep. My parents weren’t going to come home from their night out. I would not be able to fall asleep.
I’ve never been fond of staying up, never wanted to be awake last or catch the sunrise still upright. I love sleep, I love the comfort of it and the warmth of it, the surety that when you wake up it is a new day and you haven’t done anything and the things you were afraid of disappeared into the general melee of buses and schoolchildren and breakfast bacon frying at the restaurant across the street.
I think that as we grow up we return to our childhood patterns, to fears that we never grew out of but only rationalized (and rationalization is never a good enough explanation for these shadows), and suddenly you’re eating peanut butter toast in your living room with all the lights off waiting to feel drowsy, breathing deep in your belly, soothing and being soothed…
2 May 2013 / 18 notes
No thank you, Thursday.
2 May 2013 / 101 notes