James Ensor: Woman In Distress. 1882
Dear Enraptured Readers:
I'm undergoing some novel new medical applications at the moment. It is a frustration that there seems to be no guarantee that my quality of life will be lifted to celebrity quality by them. This seems to me to be markedly unfair. Voluntarily taking oneself out of the loop-de-loop of "regular life" to enthusiastically participate in slow-moving new clinical explorations should at least, I think, warrant some salt-water taffy and a souvenir trinket. Perhaps my rewards will be in heaven, after all.
These procedures are not without lesser earthsome rewards, though - namely, a panoply of fascinating side effects. Side effects are the actual journey. Cures are merely mirage-like, chimeric - the travel brochure.
I should add that these side effects are keeping me occupied. Full-time. They've also got me touchy, untoward, and discomboobulatingly tired. The days are washing by, unevenly. Lying about in a variegated miasma is not exactly the summer career I would have conciously chosen, but - whatcha gonna do?
So - I'm not feeling my best at the moment. This means no new work is being publicly produced by me for the time being. Which is my first time off in twenty years of production. Which has its charms, for now.