A Cold – Truman Capote Style? April 2, 2001
"Sharp, subtle observations." That’s what the jacket cover says of Truman Capote’s book of essays, The Dogs Bark. (Quite good reading, actually.) Apparently Capote can write snippets of prose about the mundane or the exotic, making them equally interesting. Me too???? Here goes....
Was it the long airplane trip? The unsanitary, recirculating air passing from one mouth into another, germs moving in and out of healthy and infected lungs alike, reminiscent of the flickering tongue of a viper? Or was it the excitement and hustle of N’s wedding, visiting with old friends, moving between planned and unplanned happenings, making the most of what time there was yet knowing there wouldn’t be enough? Or maybe it was just my turn to "catch a cold"? If only there were a way to throw it back! Or perhaps it’s God, stepping in to remind me how good it is not to have a cold... Whatever, I'm definitely feeling poorly.
Right now I'm partially reclined on a narrow wood-framed bed, pillows supporting my back, laptop astride my knees, alone in a quiet, semi-dark room. Luminescent, transparent, runny liquid is dripping from my swollen reddened nostrils into one delicate snowy-white tissue after another. Soft tissues, since D thoughtfully ventured out to get me Puffs. Not the lanoline type though -- those smear your glasses if you use them to wipe away fingerprints or that loose pale gray dust, which inevitably finds its way onto your lens' surface.
I'm not able to sleep or even nap; the constant need to catch these clear outpourings of apparent nothingness leaves me fitful, restless. I wonder: Why in the world do those small, ever-lurking rhinoviruses need so much liquid to swim in anyway?
If only there were some value in all these crumpled tissues. The piles grow underfoot as I inch my way through the Puffs box (two inches gone, two inches left.) The used tissues multiply, not unlike peanut husks, shelled and discarded on the floor of a slightly seedy, country-western bar. But I can't seem to stop generating more. I want to stop, try to stop, but continue to add to the ever increasing pile of ugly, obscene whiteness. The mounds grow around me, like a disjointed wreath of crushed white flowers strewn about -- large clusters here, smaller ones there. Pretty in a way. Now, if only I could imagine my rose-colored nose as attractive...