First of all, I just wanted to inform everyone that according to several blogs I have read recently, it is Delurking Week. I've done my part by delurking on several sites I have been haunting recently. I'm hoping that all my varied lurkers feel safe enough to delurk during this week (yes, I'm looking at YOU reader from Utrecht!) You don't have to comment on this post. You can comment on another, or just go sign my Frappr map.
I can't find out what other kinds of week it is, but for your education (and to guide the rest of your activities this month) here is a list of January's official designations:
National Eye Care Month
Yours, Mine and Ours Month
National High Tech Month
National Diet Month
International "Get Over It" Month
National Book Month
Soooo, take your stepkids and go get their vision checked, while your partner plays around with the ipods they received for Christmas and downloads some music to cheer you all up while you're eating cottage cheese and carrots. If the kids complain, tell them to "get over it" and go read a book!
We are still sick today. I have that nasty taste in my throat. You know the one. The one that doesn't leave no matter how many times you brush and gargle. The taste that tells you that adrenaline and sleeplessness and wishing-really-hard might fool you into thinking that you're getting better, but you're really not.
Last night I dreamed that Kiker arrived at my house on a flying bicycle with 2 oranges and a tangerine. She walked to the door and placed the fruit on a tray and said (very dramatically) "Let there be juice" and plunged straws into the fruit and handed the oranges to me and Kristin and the tangerine to Julia. Then she got back on her bicycle and flew away. I guess that'll teach me to read blogs right before falling into a bacteria-induced coma!
In honor of my yuckiness and that taste, here is a poem that I wrote a few years ago when getting over a bad spring cold.
The Sibyl of Cumae
It's not that the visions and voices were such a burden;
she was born to them.
Occasionally they came on like a cold
clogging every portal in her head
until the only things she had were a pounding and a ringing
and a taste in the back of her throat.
Most of the time, though, her gift was like
the translucent eyelid of an amphibian;
it slid over as she slipped under,
as natural as breathing though skin.
I wonder if she always looked through that crystalline film
and if this gave her eyes a glitter
visible only in reflection on the bodies and faces
of those who would not crowd around her,
and those who didn't look in her eyes?
Or was she, at odd times, drawn back to the surface;
opening herself to cold air and silence
to breathing in space through her skin?
I imagine her, in these moments,
shaking and raw, squinting to focus,
trying to figure out which eyelid to blink;
surrounded by strangers who look at her only
now that her eyes are crossed.
I see goosebumps on her skin,
a bluish tinge to her lips,
prophecy running down her body
puddling at her feet.
Just as that second eyelid is blinked away
and her vision cleared, just as she remembers
that noses are for breathing,
someone reaches out
touches her shoulder
shoves her back in.
I can never imagine a different ending
just as I can never imagine away
the coldness given my hands when I pushed her.
They ache and sometimes wake me
from watery dreams to leave me alone
with the cold, the dark, her body, my hands.