September 5th, 2007


(no subject)

The anti-nausea drugs are awesome.

It's weird, but I didn't actually expect them to work, somehow--even though I know that the brain and the body are pretty much the same thing, for some reason it seemed alien that a loathing of food brought on by Bleak Despair(tm) could be stopped by mere anti-nausea drugs. As if you couldn't possibly treat a psychosomatic symptom without twidding with the brain.

But I sat down and devoured an entire French drip sandwich and fries and felt pretty okay about it. (Granted, I should probably go for the veggies rather than the starches, I know, but by that point, I was thinking "Anything I can look at without puking is a Good Thing.")

The anti-anxiety were interesting. I have this habit of having long, long conversations inside my head, which is great when I'm writing dialog or composing a blog entry, but terrible if I'm stressed, because I wind up having the same pointless one-sided arguments over and over again, and they only make me miserable. And this particular drug made it much easier to stop having them. I didn't feel any better, per se, I had no more energy or less misery, but at least I wasn't dredging up all the old hurts and yelling about them in the sounding chamber of my own skull. I'll definitely need more than that to get out of the hole, but the ability to choke off those arguments and say ", this isn't productive..." was very nice.

Alas, I can take neither anti-nausea nor anti-anxiety while I need to drive, but at least I have an evening of  peace and hunger to look forward to.

(no subject)

So one of my media mail boxes, full of books, died on the way out to me. It was shipped in a plastic bin, with one side missing. A number of the books are undoubtedly gone--the box was jammed full, and now it isn't.

And I'm pretty okay with that. I don't know what I lost, and I won't until I miss it and go looking, which probably won't be until I get my own apartment again. (I do think most of my Anne Bishop has wandered off.) Oh, well. Amazon heals all wounds.

The WEIRD thing is that I've acquired a hitchhiker book.  Wedged in between Sandman and the True Game was..."The Marquise of O--" and other stories, by Heinrich von Kleist. Not a book I've ever owned, or thought about owning, or knew existed. I pulled it out and said "What the hell...?"

I see the scene now. The post office is jammed. Paper flutters down. Workers wheel dollies packed with media mail, careening through the aisles, and suddenly WHAM! Collision! Chaos! Apocalypse! Two boxes are down, bleeding books across the concrete. Oh, no! What goes where? No time to worry! This is the post office, damnit! The show much go on, the mail must go through. What's left of it, anyhow. Books are hastily shovelled into bins, slapped with labels, sent on their way.  A few forlorn volumes are kicked under bins, to lie lonely until somebody fishes one out and reads it on their lunchbreak.

And somewhere, a student of German Enlightenment literature is picking through his box of Goethe, muttering about the low standards of the postal service--if there is a god with an aesthetic sense running the universe, he is hopefully wearing black and smoking a clove cigarette--and he reaches a hand into the box, up to the elbow, like a vet inside a cow's rear end, and fishes out a dog-eared copy of Daughter of the Blood.

"What the hell....?"