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Sagebrush of Leave
Oct. 4th, 2018 09:56 pmI have little of interest to report, because it is hard to do much of anything on 5 hrs. 42 minutes of sleep. I wasted some more valuable time trying to take a nap, but it didn't work. I levered myself back up to vertical again, grumbling loudly, "I DON'T LIKE THIS." Wellbutrin isn't helping, because one of the side effects can be throat irritation, and I think I'm having it. Coughing doesn't help when you're trying to sleep. I feel like a chemistry experiment. I'm hanging on by the skin of my teeth till I get to the two-week period after which I'm supposed to call my doctor and tell her how it's going. They say you should wait a month before you can tell if it's working, but I don't know if I'll make it that far.
I did some more reading of things I've been meaning to read. I know Wednesday is reading day, but I do recommend Forget the Sleepless Shores, an anthology by Sonya Taaffe. The stories are all about various kinds of transformations: marvelous, mythic, vivid, strange. They'll take you far away from current events. I went for a walk, called my mother, and so forth, all in that somewhat hallucinatory state of not enough sleep. We had a cold night, and to my surprise, the leaves that were green are starting to turn. An aspen shows pale yellow, the tips of maple branches are touched with rose. Gold leaves of the black walnuts are scattering over the path, and the sumac reddens. The late sun strikes at the perfect angle to burnish the gold and shine through the green, revealing how translucent and frail it has become. I was walking on the St. Francis path, because it's his day today. Out of respect, I listened to medieval music rather than Billy Idol this time.
I did some more reading of things I've been meaning to read. I know Wednesday is reading day, but I do recommend Forget the Sleepless Shores, an anthology by Sonya Taaffe. The stories are all about various kinds of transformations: marvelous, mythic, vivid, strange. They'll take you far away from current events. I went for a walk, called my mother, and so forth, all in that somewhat hallucinatory state of not enough sleep. We had a cold night, and to my surprise, the leaves that were green are starting to turn. An aspen shows pale yellow, the tips of maple branches are touched with rose. Gold leaves of the black walnuts are scattering over the path, and the sumac reddens. The late sun strikes at the perfect angle to burnish the gold and shine through the green, revealing how translucent and frail it has become. I was walking on the St. Francis path, because it's his day today. Out of respect, I listened to medieval music rather than Billy Idol this time.
