Oops, I missed yesterday’s post. I’ve been compromised since Wednesday night with what I’m pretty sure is food poisoning, contracted after eating from the student union salad bar. In any case, whatever I have, whencesoever it came, has involved chills and fevers and cold sweats and a relentless, gripping bellyache like some horrible campus food court alien baby is clawing its way to the surface.
My good friend SJ recently sent me this story about Morrissey’s amazing “sick note” to his fans explaining further show cancellations, and I filed it away for future deployment. Now seems like as good a time as any.
Illness turns the body into a complete stranger, and I’ll be testing the capabilities of my strides at the most unlikely music shows this week. The will to get on with it runs strong. Even death can be used as a springboard. For those scholars who are heatedly curious, my ulcer is now under reins, even if neither asleep nor dead, but the continued cause for concern is a slightly embarrassing absence of blood – most of which the bleeding ulcer relieved me of. Anemia sets its own terms with quite obvious biological conclusions, and I have spent these last weeks under expert medical care in Los Angeles with an almost erotic dependency on various IV drips. Sitting around reading indecent books is no substitute for continuing the tour, but my progress holds great promise and Flint shall not escape quite so lightly. We are all at the mercy of biological chance, and I once again beg for your liberal tolerance. If you bump into me this week at a heavy rock show, please understand that I’m lowering myself into the cut and thrust after weeks on ice – horizontal, with sockets empty of eyes.
Since my profession rather unfortunately involves fewer heavy rock shows than Morrissey’s, my re-emergence will be somewhat less glamorous. But make no mistake: all the things I will manage to accomplish in the next few days will be the work of the willfully undead.