There are moments when I feel I am nothing but the small clerk of some hotel without a proprietor, who has all his work cut out to enter the names and hand the keys to the willful guests.–Katherine Mansfield
I came across this in Tracy Daugherty’s Joan Didion biography, The Last Love Song, which I’ve been reading thirstily and disdainfully. I don’t mind the anonymity the quote describes, but I’ve been flashing on it as I’ve been watching the day turn to night. Sun’s turning all kinds of neon bruises that’ll disappear with her grand exit, permakitten Grace and I are admiring from the kitchen window, and there’s this feeling–immense, bottomless–of all of us passing through each other without leaving a dent. What’s interesting is how completely I’ve come to accept this. It’s not sad, not really. It’s just the fourth dimension, slicing through our existential chatter.
I have flu. I almost never get flu, but between my real-world worries and this up-and-down weather, my immune system is crying uncle. I admit I am feeling sorry for myself. Even when my back goes out, I usually just get very New England: stony and hyper-pragmatic. But there’s something about fevers and bodily fluids that robs me of my good sense. My adulthood, really. Case in point: I can’t remember if it’s “feed a cold/starve a fever” or “feed a fever/starve a cold” so I am glumly slurping broth as a compromise rather than doing a simple Google search.
