"From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines, going where I list, my own master total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me."
Walt Whitman (1819-92)
"When I look back now over my life and call to mind what I might have had simply for taking and did not take, my heart is like to break."
Akhenaton (d. c.1354 BC)
And now, the current weather, from some random person we pulled off the street:
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Why Can't It Be Purple?
drain Function: verb
Etymology: Middle English draynen, from Old English drEahnian -- more at DRY
1 obsolete : FILTER
2 a : to draw off (liquid) gradually or completely [drained all the water out] b : to cause the gradual disappearance of c : to exhaust physically or emotionally
3 : what something is doing to me lately
I once had a cat named Missy. She was an alley cat, and her love for us was matched only by her complete lack of moral character.
If you were a male cat, you would want to know Missy.
The last litter that she had was from a black cat in the neighborhood. The most tragic thing was that someone, somewhere in the process had contracted feline leukemia. The entire litter was born with it.
Missy picked up on it pretty soon, and abandoned the kittens in our closet. We did what we could, but one by one they died.
The last one has ingrained himself into my memory. He was a fighter. The disease had sapped him of strength so that he could barely stand upright, much less do kittenish things, but he would prop his head on the side of his little box so he could at least watch us.
When you picked him up, he would purr and purr. He greedily lapped up the milk, unlike the others.
But one day, he didn't want any more milk.
He just sat there, head propped on the side of the box, drained of the energy to even swallow, wanting to fight but unable to do it.
That night, the kitten mewed one last plaintive time, and died.
I always wondered what it would feel like to just slow down to a stop. To just get more and more tired, more and more exhausted, then finally just exhale one last time and drift off because your body was just too tired and worn out to hold onto you any more.
Unfortunately, some of the meds I am taking sap my energy almost that much. Like right now. It's 4:30 in the afternoon, and if it weren't for my wife coming home from work soon I would not have even gotten dressed. And that's not like me.
I'm the guy that used to just hop into the car and drive somewhere just because I hadn't seen it before. The guy that would go dig a huge garden by hand. Now, just going to the mailbox is a chore.
Sheesh, listen to me poor mouthing everything.
Can we spell "mood swing?" Perhaps.
Or it might just be that I'm tired. I'm holding out for tired.
One of the problems with this kind of thing is that it's not obvious to the others around you that you aren't up to snuff. It's not like other illnesses, when you turn colors or get a fever. This one is all inside, even though when it hurts you wish it looked purple.
In a few minutes, my wife will be home. There won't be any room for this kind of thing. It'll be time to be cheerful, industrious, the whole rigmarole. I'll have no problem with it, I've played that part many, many times before.
But here I stand, my costume supported by twigs.
Time to go on stage.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "As You Like It", Act 2 scene 7