After hauling myself to a meeting, I get back in bed at ten and sleep until the setting sun looks like dawn. No dreams, just the encompassing cavernous darkness of a body in need of rest. I literally cannot remember the last time I had such a fever; I was sick in Bolivia but not like this. My skin tingles and flashes: I am lightning. Nausea topples me and Tylenol holds no sway.


I would like to inhabit my body more fully than I do; the fever reminds me. Walking reminds me, the lovely labor of one foot in front of the other, the pack an anchor, gravity a backhanded gift. Food reminds me, and the fact that I have not been hungry all day is testament to how sick I really am. There is a part of me wallowing in the feverhaze, the sparks in my blood, the constriction at my temples: this is my body. The sniffles remind me to breathe.


Nonetheless, I hope it passes. I have a lot of work to do, and sleeping all day doesn't get my paper written, no matter how nice it is to burrow into my bed.