February 9th, 2005

gericault_the raft of the medusa 2


Wind is making the trees sing tonight, but failing to blow the clouds away. They drift by, revealing only patches of stars, and never a full constellation. The damp, cold gusts grab my legs with clammy denim. I don't stay out for long. My cold is trying to come back. Last night, I made the mistake of sitting in Sluggo's icy room too long, and woke with renewed symptoms. I didn't make that mistake tonight. Instead, I stayed in the nice, warm living room with the uncomplaining television set and the napping cat. Now I'm going to heat Sluggo's room and go to sleep. I don't know if the cold can be gotten rid of now. Usually, they become more stubborn and vigorous when allowed to return in this way. If it's still around tomorrow, I'm probably stuck with it for several more days. That hasn't happened for years. Well, that'll teach me to succumb to the allure of the wicked Intraweb.

A Terrible Mildness

More inexplicable warmth on the way, and the days already sing with the flutter of hummingbird wings. The numbers of the ants are growing, too, and they have begun to invade the kitchen. Every night I must execute many of them where they crawl, and the smell of the formic acid crushed from their bodies lingers for hours following each slaughter. I don't want to use insecticide in the kitchen, and I can't find the place from which they enter the house, so it's hand-to-antenna combat, night after night. I wonder that I don't have nightmares.

The infection has been fought to a draw for the moment, and I now have no more than a runny nose, though I must consider the possibility that this symptom is not of viral origin, but the result of the vigorous false spring which has caused so many flowers to bloom prematurely. It may be merely the usual allergies arriving early. Not wishing to take chances, I'll assume it is in fact viral, and continue to spend most of my time in the warmer part of the house, leaving Sluggo to sleep and (most likely) dream of my destruction.