Rock Star Hour

And then what?

Should I talk about the aching in my head? The not being able to breathe that comes along with winter illness?

Or should I talk about the body aches and the tiredness that can't quite seem to overcome the pseudoephedrine combined with antihistimines in my "nighttime" medication and how they seem to cut it less every day?

Or should I quit the whining and talk about school, or more about Moby Dick, or the songs I'm writing?

Maybe I could write about loneliness, and how loneliness caused by circumstance, rather than the self, is somehow more bearable because you can pretend it isn't real. It isn't chosen; it's just a symptom of the getting my shit together virus.

I'm pissed about being sick because it means I can't go dancing tomorrow night. Lame.

And also because being sick makes you sort of cranky, and the lack of sleep or food because of the sickness only adds to the just overall negativity of the situation. Being caged in your own body while some unknown lifeforce conspires a system overhaul.

I could talk about the phone calls. That's another thing that sucks about being sick. Today I got several phone calls from people I haven't talked to in awhile. Important people. The people you'd want to talk to when your doing great. The people you would smile at even on the phone. Instead, when they ask how you're doing, you can only answer in this sheepish, half-assed voice that you are ill.

Just for this week, though. The sickness only started Monday, so you fish around in your mind for one of the million stories of things that have happened over the last few months that you could catch up on. They are either fuzzy in your medicated brain or just plainly unsuitable for the ears of your company.

Meh. I just need to get better. I got sick this week, but before that, all I could think about were the things I couldn't do. Because of work or lack of money or a car or being at my parents' house. Now, that I am sick, all I can think of are things I could do and would do if I were healthy. Numero uno, play my guitar.

I talked to Trevor today. We've been playing phone tag for about three weeks. And I finally got to talk to him tonight. We go out of our way to get in touch every couple months. Only, this time I decided I want to see him, so we're going to figure something out.

It's funny how in this city it can be so impossible to see some people they may as well live in Oregon. He's staying on the north side of town. I'm staying on the southwest side of town. I did think about going to see him when my car worked, but I was busy driving to Pasadena at the time, and didn't want to lose my sense of direction.

It only recently became so clear to me that I truly do want to see him. It's been almost a year. You'd think if he could go to Canada, and I could go to Washington, and we could wind up in the same place, then, no matter what, we should be able to see each other. But seeing each other would only complicate things. Because for so long I held onto our last goodbye in my head as if it were a neat tiny package. And so unwrapping it would be just like when you're a kid and you find out where your mom hid the Christmas presents. And how just wanting a peak at them would fuck the whole job up, and you'd be found out.

So I guess that sums it up. I was afraid. I was afraid of too many things to count. I was afraid of clouding up my perfect memory images, the ones that have smoothed over and taken their shape over much time and thought, that I've gotten to look at through time's many respective colorful kaleidescopes.

And I was afraid of not being in control, like when your sick. Like how, when your sick, your body tells you when it's time to rest. And I can't control my illness, just like I can't always control my emotions. But the better thing about the emotions is that they don't have to control you.

And one of the things I learned in just the last few months, is that they can control you in two ways, by propelling you to and from people and situations.

You may not know what for shame I'm babbling about. I haven't taken those of you who read this into account during much of these spoutings off tonight. It's ridiculous and rude, and I blame the Theraflu, or the just plain flu.

I imagine it would be like being the new friend or lover in the room while a group of old college buddies reminisced and played catchup.

Or like starting to read a book or watch a television series in the middle.

Or maybe, if you've read many books by a favorite writer, like I do with Nick Hornby and Nora Ephron, you could pick any page or chapter, and get a feel for the characters, and just know from the patterns and recurring themes how it ends.

And if you knew, wouldn't you still read it for the little things? The digressions that make so many modern works of fiction worthwhile. Or would you set it down, never finish it, and casually and broadly speak about it in conversations at parties?