Go figure

my brain isn’t at its swiftest, this morning. Whatever I read, I read twice or three times and I’m not sure I catch on even then. If my contract provided for sick leave, I’d take it. It doesn’t, so I’ll do a slo-mo version to the day.

In fact, I had a brief chirpy moment around five am. One of the half-baked characters seemed ready to grab the mood and run with it. Then, the chirpiness evaporated. poof. gone.

In a private communication, someone worried about “asking for sympathy” which brought back long-ago memories of strict orders against complaining of any kind. Full-grown adults had complaining rights, children had none. The process has become somewhat more democratized. In this country at least, everyone seems to exercise the right to complain (except for those who never say a word, of course. Six or eight months after their demise, someone says ‘haven’t seen old so-and-so around for a while…’). Like other social skills, complaining requires some finesse. Getting the mix right : a matter of historical period and ethnic values, I guess.

At any rate, the doctor labeling a pulmonary infection as “solid” doesn’t add to the medical or scientific accuracy of the diagnosis. But it does provide vindication of sorts, more than a diagnosis setting the bar at “light” or “wimpy”.  Thus comforted, me,  plus a molecule called fluoroquinolone and a corticoid compound shall do brave battle against the “solid” colonizers of my lung space. How much fiction writing will get done during this time? No idea. I look forward to the next appearance by little Miss Chirpy, that much I know for a fact.