<monster inside me>
Last night, angry villagers, seeking the death of Frankenstein's monster, lit their torches and began marching through my intestinal tract.
In the parlance of medical science, I've caught a bug. A happy springtime intestinal virus. It feels like the tromping of heavy boots and the burning of smokey, oily torches. It makes me weak and tired. It makes me sleep. I get up only to drink juice. I work for half an hour and go back to bed. I accept my condition.
As people always think when they get sick, it couldn't have come at a worse time.
The Week in Preview
What am I supposed to do this week, when I feel like doing nothing at all besides sleeping and occasionally moaning softly?
I'm supposed to read and proof over four hundred galley pages, so my book can ship to the printers on Monday.
I'm supposed to take the New York Public Library site to the next level. Turn in an overdue Creativity column. Prepare this week's ALA, and finish redesigning the magazine's community forums. And attend an important client function I've been looking forward to since my partner and I were invited to it several weeks ago.
Tromp, tromp, tromp go the heavy villagers' boots.
Two months ago, Joan and I ordered a large piece of furniture from Ebay. Today it arrives. Today of all days. Two months late.
The man called from the road. "If you want me to bring it inside, it's another sixty bucks delivery," he said. A hidden charge.
No, we don't want you to bring it inside. We want you to leave it on the street. We thought it would be nice to donate a bookshelf to the city of New York.
I'm in no mood or condition to argue. "That's fine," I said. "Bring it in."
What am I supposed to do this week? Three weeks worth of work. Business as usual.
What am I going to do this week? I'm going to sleep as much as possible. I've seen this movie a hundred times. Eventually the villagers find the monster and drag him away in chains.
The problem with my metaphor? I'm not sure if the monster is my bug, or me.
18 April 2001
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