It is not accurate to say that I have been too sick to write lately. It is accurate to say that I have been too sick to write anything worth reading lately. Turns out that this unusual collection of symptoms that I have had seem to be generated by Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.
This is not a sickness that I would have expected to pick up. The name alone does not fit--sounds like a John Denver kind of sickness. I feel more deserving of something like Texas Tick Fever--evocative of Townes Van Zandt, Steve Earle or even Guy Clarke.
Bottom line is that I am not going to die but I expect to be living in slow motion for bit.
The mind plays a huge part in keeping a body pumped up and ready to fight germs and my mind has been getting its guts kicked out lately. Baby murder, parents murder, rape, molestation-- a buffet of suffering to prosecute. Makes your brain tired. Such matters would be so much easier if I was just better at hating. If all I had to do was get up in the morning and go prosecute people that I hate, my life would take on a pleasurable tint. But I burned out my hater too long ago. They don't make replacement models that fit the person that I have become. I would rather heal than hate. Don't always have the power to do the first and don't have the ability the do the last.
So I will pick up a guitar, feed a hog, ride a horse, speak with authority to a goat and with sympathy to a chicken, and I will make a kid smile.
Then I will do it again tomorrow.
Poor germs. They do not have a chance when faced with a regimen like that.
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