Spring Broken

Monday 29
How to return down the mountain? That's always the trouble. To be back at work, sore muscles and all, after a weekend of generally wholesome interactions, was anticlimactic. I found myself drifting through my various undertakings at the office as though under the influence of spiritual Novocaine. Took a few minutes mid-morning to call Oregon's Hood River Circuit Court and pay my traffic fine. The clerk graciously reduced it by about $50. I also got a call from Paul around 8:30. He still refuses to get a cellular phone, so the number is always strange, but I picked up immediately on the hunch it was him. When two connoisseurs of the conversational art meet in witty banter, there really is nothing like it. If good friends, they may resume at any time, in almost any humor, on any topic, with equal ebullience. It matters not how much time passes between.

Tuesday 30
Work was productive and generally carefree. Saw Dr. Choi again for more physical therapy. I'd say it's helping. My neck, back and shoulder pain have gone down significantly since the traffic inconvenience. Definitely coming down with some sort of bug. By the evening it felt like I had a fever, and a soreness had developed in the throat and lower nasal passages.

Wednesday 31
Too sick to go to work. Woke up with a fever, prohibitive head and chest congestion, and a deep cough. Slept it off all day.

Thursday, April 1
I Supposed I was well enough, and past the worst of it, as the fever seemed to have broken. Things at the office were somewhat slow, but there was enough for me to do.

April Fools was mostly uneventful except for a few jokes among online friends at Xanga. My participation received kind raves from some of the who's who of the Xanga community.

“...you win April Fools.”
-GreekPhysique

“You are great”
-trunthepaige

“Full of win”
-Paul_Partisan

“...nice touch.”
-TheTheologiansCafe

“I bow before you”
-La_Chose_en_Soi

“...now this was funny.”
-TheBigShowAtUD

Tiny came over in the evening, ignoring my caveats of illness, and I watched the eighth and ninth installments of Band of Brothers with him. All the rest of us finished our most recent viewing of it a while ago, so he's trying to catch up.

Chapter nine is the heart-wrenching episode entitled "Why We Fight." It's hard to imagine being a comparatively sheltered 1940's soldier, having never heard of a Nazi concentration camp, and getting an impromptu history lesson by witnessing the atrocity first-hand. It never fails; I always weep watching this portrayal. The men who wrote, produced, directed, and acted for this miniseries were geniuses. We saved the last episode for later.



Friday 2
Physical therapy involved some painful massage sessions on the injured areas. I like the masseuse, a large, middle-aged woman who is an amiable Catholic, a San Jose Sharks fan, and a classically-trained opera singer. Given my own background in choral music, arias, and being myself a passive Sharks fan, I enjoy her company and conversation. The day was rather pleasant at work barring sickness, and overlooking the mild office-politics fire I inadvertently started. I was missed in the morning, as I'd forgotten to inform my office of my longer appointment, and had to apologize for my negligence.

I'd intended to accompany Jared to Hillview's Friday night college-group Bible study. I don't usually go to college-group functions anymore, but I think Jared's had a hard time finding regular fellowship since he left Grace, and I want to cheer him on. I didn't feel up to it at all, and spent Friday night in bed. I promised him and the others (most of Martha and The Chores goes to Hillview) I would go next week.

Saturday 3
Woke up with some kind of stuff in my eyes. It seems my cold had progressed through my sinuses into my eyes, where it produced an intense conjunctivitis. My eyes were a deep, evil red and had begun to itch and weep. I tried to putter around and do things but I felt too sick and ended up just vegetating, reading and half-heartedly trying to enjoy a humorous video game. I am not sure how my roommates can stand to spend so many hours of their lives on that Xbox. The whole day was an enormous pile of yuck.

Well, yes, yuck. But there was also sunshine, and softly singing cloud patterns.

Sunday 4
Awoke ill and oozy, discovering that my lungs and windpipe had been gently run over by a truck. I must have spent the entire night coughing in my sleep. My eyes were less red, but now the cough increased its virulence, and a daresay I would have been a nuisance if I had joined any Easter fellowship. It was disheartening to miss Easter Sunday services, and to be out of fellowship on another consecutive Sunday. All the legalistic types at my church have now probably taken me for an apostate if they hadn't already, those squirrelly scoundrels. No matter; you can never please them anyhow; I think nothing ever does.

I was more taken aback to be uninvited from the family Easter dinner! I'd worked hard to conceal my excitement at the prospect of taking my tired frame back to home's nurturing arms, and the mere thought of the good clamor Mom would certainly be raising in the kitchen warmed my poor bachelor's heart. But it was not to be. They didn't want my germs, and I don't blame them. Such is the life of the roving independent male of the species.

As a consolation, Mom and Dad dropped by later with a brown paper sack full of chamomile tea, cough suppressant, eye drops, orange juice, and other such balms, and a separate bag with what would have been my first and second helpings from the Easter table.

Believe me when I tell you, the spoils were nothing short of the most succulent and crumbling varieties of culinary bliss. Mom's pineapple and dark-cherry ham is unparalleled, and melts in the mouth. Her poppy-seed cake is scrumptious and glazed in heavenliness. Her whole palette brimmed with fresh strawberries and spinach leaves, steamed asparagus and small potatoes with chives and sour cream. My parents were concerned at my red eyes, obvious fatigue, and congestion; they didn't stay long, but urged me to see a doctor soon.

I canceled what small band practice we could have had. Multiple members would be absent due to the holiday, and I didn't feel equal to the remaining challenge. It just didn't seem worth the hassle. I disinfected everything I had touched and called it a night.

Late Summer, Part Two (A Retrospective)

• Saturday, 9/9/6 - Asheville North - After Farmer and Cannone and I waved off their girls, we traveled north. The hour was 12:30 AM, the road was dark and calling. I remember shouted conversation, tackling every issue from the metaphysical to the sensual to the spiritual. There was no doubt in my mind that they knew the same God that I did, but often their hypotheses wandered a bit far from truth into mysticism or spiritism. Farmer did more of the talking, usually describing Cannone's exploits for me, then telling Cannone to recount for me his latest theory on how lies fit into the truth. Then Cannone would cringe and explain that he didn't want me to "hammer" him, because he likes to play games with Truth for the sake of feeling like a hippie-philosopher-king. Coupled with the knowledge that I don't like doing that, Cannone becomes a bit of a barefoot hesitant. The two of them had also brought a stash of salvia with them, and we had a good deal of tobacco and cigarettes left. We opted out of the hallucinogen, as I had the distinct impression that it was a bad idea for an overnight road trip, even though it was legal.


• Route 81 - From Asheville we took highway 19/23 North (which is also called hwy 26, but it's the same road) proceeding to 81 North into Virginia. After a while Cannone slept, and Farmer and I discussed the meanings of many things. By my estimate, it was about four in the morning when I stopped at a Flying J, where 81 meets route 77 in Virginia, for sustenance in the form of a coffee and a Big Hunk candy bar. I gassed up Farmer's old sport utility vehicle, and Farmer spent some time waking Cannone up. After we were sure Cannone was awake, which was longer than one might think reasonable, our vehicle set out again into the night, the dawn well nigh. Farmer slept in the back seat while Cannone tried to pretend to be awake enough to talk to me. After a while, he blinked off some of the stupor, and talked for some time autobiographically, relating some things because he had overdone them for the purpose of retelling them at just such a time, and relating some things because at just such a time it was easy to retell them in an exaggerated manner. His life seemed a roller coaster of more or less welcome failures, a string of events tragic and made for the telling. The passing Virginia countryside dimly increased with the sunrise, and I began to feel tired, but never got sleepy. I live for roadtrips, and I do not prefer to sleep through them. It was a waking bucolic dream set to a campfire storyteller who didn't have any one particular story to tell. The only thing that changed was the waxing daylight, and the storyteller's name. Sometimes he went by Farmer, sometimes by Cannone.


• Northern VA - I took highway 66 east from 81, cutting across familiar territory, and by nine-hundred hours we had reached the beltway. We took 495 north to 7 west, arriving at James and Jeremy's sub floor apartment in Falls Church, VA, by about 9:30 AM.
  
  Between saying hello to one crowd of old friends, and saying goodbye to another, and getting lunch, I didn't take any opportunity to nap. I admired James' new truck for the first time, as it was a huge improvement over the old, time-tested Grand Am with the notoriously marshy backseat. (Although, there's something fond in the memories, watching countless passengers realizing that their butt was mysteriously wet.) He and I talked over spiritual things and other less memorable fluff over a lunch burrito, somewhere off the main drag (Route 7) in Falls Church. Post-burrito, we proceeded back after lunch, and I got a triple S (eliminate, shower, shave) for the first time in a while. Donning our suits and ties, we rechecked the directions to the wedding, and made our way to the Universalist National Memorial Church, deep in the maze of Washington, D.C., for a sign of the end times.


• Washington, D.C. - Upon arrival, we were greeted by a lot of dressed up people in the belly of a staunchly gothic stone building, which was candle-lit and gaudily beflowered. The apocalyptic harbinger we were about to witness was really only a wedding between a couple of old friends, but the solemnity and pomp with which the event was executed really did reinforce the old joke we used to lay on Mike's conscience, that the day he got a girl would be a sign of the end times. In an only slightly exaggeratory light, Mike and his bride made each other exactly 347,490 vows, all of which they will never be able to keep due to the unmanageable tome that would result in the event of their codification. One good-natured guest observed under his breath an opinion which I endorse, that bride and groom are doomed to marital infidelity on several minor points by dint of sheer promissory tedium. Note to Self: It would be appropriate to establish a committee for the purpose of framing a bill of amendments to these vows. It should allow parties to break many of the lesser vows, provided apologies are promulgated immediately following any said breach. A resolution should also be accepted, directing executive emphasis to the more orthodox and central points of the bureaucratic code that certainly must follow the necessarily involved architectural capping of such a cleverly intricate marital foundation.
  
  Considering that I had had no sleep after my nocturnal road vigil, I blinked slowly several times during the wedding. I did my duty as witness to their actual vows, because I cleverly saved my nodding for the proclamatory readings of one lover's sentiments to the other. These readings were preserved for just such an occasion from the more-or-less gushy love letters of months past. Naturally, these were read by someone not in love, to all us, who were also not in love. I found these moments quite lulling, but did my duty to bravely wake after each was safely over, in order to faithfully witness more vows. In any other nuptial event, the abundance of promise and the lavishness of sentiment might have become quite grating by the third hour of the ceremony. But considering that we had all teased Mike for years for being grinningly, purposely annoying, the melodramatic nature of the proceedings was instead touching and likeable. At the end of the ceremony, the couple receded as a brassy fanfare shook the halls and summoned the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Luckily, the disagreeable equestrians were preoccupied elsewhere and did not attend. Once outside, I was happily greeted by several old friends, including Faith, Abigail, and Jeremy and his girl.


• Arington, VA - A reception was held at the Army Navy Country Club, which was pleasant enough, despite its severe case of military branch ambiguity. Solemn faces mixed with jolly ones, and round after round of toasts were followed by round after round of traditional family frivolities. The night ended at a reasonable hour for us, and if I remember correctly, we returned to the apartment to mix with Paul McNiel, which was even more agreeable than usual. I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have.