On Monday, I came down with the (non-swine) flu.  Since then, I have done little else but trudge back and forth to the bathroom in between naps.

For now, for you, I have no words, nothing but the moon. (Thanks to borealnz.)

I made it through the first hour of work today, but that was all. This nasty little head-cold has me beat. No matter how many times I wash my hands at work, I seem to pick up every cold and flu that walks through the doors of the library. Certainly this is a result of my compromised immune system, but no less annoying.

The cold medicine I am taking makes everything a bit dreamlike. My choice of media today — Paul Auster’s “In the Country of Last Things” and Taika Waititi’s “Eagle vs. Shark” — added to it, no doubt. Zen slept next to me most of the day and evening. My eyes are dry and my nose won’t stop running, and yet I am confident that with rest and vitamins and sleep I will be better tomorrow.

For clarification, yesterday’s poem wasn’t about anything in particular. I saw that first line in my junk email folder, and the rest happened without much thought. It was slightly influenced by my affection for “Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind” and “Vanilla Sky”.

This summer cold has taken away my voice. I went through the day saying almost nothing, whispering when needed.  There were nods and shakes of my head, shrugs, minimal gestures.  Mostly I listened: to other people, to the sounds of children playing next door, to the cats purring, to my own sticky breathing, to my beloved’s quiet singing in the car.

I am always surprised by the sound of my voice on recordings. We sound much lower inside our own heads, which makes perfect acoustic sense but still startles me.  I sound like a little girl; my laugh is bizarre and whooping.  Not-so-secretly I have always wished for a lower, sexier voice, something that prowls around vowels and shudders spines, chuckles that emanate whisky and chocolate.  Today I would just like my own voice back, because I miss it.

One thing I like about my voice is that I sound a lot like my mom. She is a professional actor and voiceover artist, so I don’t sound like her when she’s performing, but many people have told me that they can’t tell our voices apart in casual conversation.  I admire her voice so much that if mine is like hers, it can’t be all bad.

(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)

After three months of a gluten-free diet, I can safely say that I am tired of this brave new salad-riddled world and want to go home, my fluffy pastry home with the doughnut doorknob.

Initially, I was more than happy to give up gluten if it meant feeling good again. There is no question that even my bad days now are better than my best days were back then. I won’t go back to how it was before, no matter how bleak it seems right now.

And right now it seems very bleak.

I suppose this is merely a slump, an expected one since I jumped into a gluten-free life without real consideration to how my eating habits — ALL of my eating habits — would have to change. Today I am mourning the ability to be the effortless dining companion I once was. Some cuisines are easier for me than others because of the variety of options their menus provide. Other cuisines daunt and depress me. When once I would order anything (aside from squid) depending on my whim, now I have to scour and study each menu item, ask servers endless, nitpicking questions, and ruin my friends’ good time because I can’t eat most dishes that people like to share.

It’s not that I miss any particular food; I love so many different foods, plus there are viable gluten-free options for many things now. I miss my easy-going glutenated self. I miss being able to say “whatever, whenever” to food with friends. I miss being able to focus on the company rather than the components. When I have to mention my dietary restrictions to anyone, I feel high-maintenance and lame. Food used to be such a vast pleasure for me, but now I am constantly self-conscious about it. I do not like the dynamic of requesting special treatment, but the alternative is a plethora of horrible side-effects.

I know it has only been three months. It has been a long three months.

I awoke to the shaky, bad-gut feeling of my days with gluten: each stretch of intestine its own serpent, stick-poked and salivating and wanting out.   Slamming behind my left eyesocket was the quickened tattoo of my blood: dah-duh-tump, dah-duh-tump.  “I feel sick” doesn’t cover it on these days, that tepid stain of a phrase.  Sick feels me, pinches my larynx, bends back my elbows, kicks my shins.  Sick is the subject and I its weakened, palpated object.

This is why I must remain humble: just when I think I have beaten it, fooled it, run around the block on it and sneaked into its end-zone, I do the classic horror-film turn and it is closer than ever, my cute little ailment, my snack of a disease.  I scream; it gapes its maw.  I stumble backwards to flee; it prowls forward in no hurry.

Names have power, but this one is a mouthful of chalk.  I found it and called it what I thought it was and hit it with a sword turned to foam. Today is one long Möbius twist of the guts.