Without Getting Wet
Wind and rain last night, enough to wake me three or four times feeling the windows shake. At least I think that's what was waking me up. Easy to imagine creatures creeping up through the sludge: Creatures, fears, one last fucking flea miraculously managing to survive since the summer, a last remembrance of Wuss, a bite in the night. "Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!" Then again, get up, take a leak, go back to sleep, worry about it in the morning after breakfast except I don't worry about anything in the morning after breakfast, so what's the fuss?
I will miss the family party this year. I'm not up for traveling during Christmas, I'm not up for traveling until this prostate business is complete. Flying with cameras and film was bad enough before 9-11, the chance of booking something on the Coast Starlight is zero and there's no way I'm going to drive, so I'll go to Portland in January over a long weekend. They'll love it at work, six weeks off for recuperation, sitting here sipping wine and lolling about in double knit pajamas, a smile on my face, and now I want another four days two weeks after I get back?
Yes.
Later. I hit the wall around noon and took an hour's nap. My cousin said that's how it happened for him, one day you feel fine - up, down, around - and the next you're dead in bed. He didn't pilot a plane for three months, although he said he felt reasonably good after six weeks. I'm looking forward to finishing that sixth week, getting into work on the Monday before New Year's Eve, testing the waters, so to speak, seeing if I can go through a day without getting wet.
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