head on

Picture of "Head On" 2006. Cai Guo-Qiang.

I could see the water spout over the crowded tabletop but my body wouldn’t move. A fever is my great weakness. Can’t think straight, can’t seem to move, only the pain of it. The press below cranked with classic rock from the early hours (say 4:30AM) through late afternoon. I could feel the chemicals lift up though the floorboards even if I couldn’t smell them. I just lay there making a plan. I could shift my feet and twist my torso up with the blankets if I couldn’t get up to remake them. Then If I could somehow manage to get to the medicine the headache could at least be partially slain. I thought about this, parched, for two hours and ultimately failed to make it happen. I brewed some tea but the tea got cold as I lay in a pool of sweat. I saw it there though, teasing from the corner of my eye in Z’s new mug, a mini replica of the Guggenheim he picked up for my birthday a few days back. So I nestled down and let the fever take me.