Despite some irregular fits of hacking cough and noisy snufflings, I feel so much better, so much more energetic today, that the Peter of a week ago seem like someone else altogether. The mid-onset Peter had such a narrow focus. I was happy at this time of day to stumble home and sprawl semi-comatose on the arm chair with feet up and a blanket pulled up to my chin, arms crossed tightly on my chest, slipping again and again down the slope of unconsciousness. (Bless caregivers, in my case, my wife, at such times.)
My mind,when aware of anything, was confused, dazzled by light and action, and fixated on definite goals: upstairs, bed, blotto. Even later as I recovered, thinking was like a house with single bulb. To read in a different room, unscrew the bulb and take it with you there. Some mental activity took place but much of it consisted of just shoveling out conceptual cave-ins. Interest in drawing? Forget it.
Blue sky thinking, sweeping, broad, spontaneous, with horizons throbbing with distant implication, has finally come back. So how does the more and more cocky Peter of today view the abject Peter of before: someone truncated, crippled, rehearsing the gratitudes of simple survival, committed only to indominability, hearing in his mind's year over and over themes from Tales of Hoffmann? Am I Kleinzach, with his click-clack, click-clack?
Be generous, Peter, to that ridiculoso. After all, he did manage to painstakingly cobble together the strategies that led to a successful launch of his new evening class, something he'd been wrestling with before the onslaught. He in fact prevailed, something you don't always, in your mental effervescence, don't always attain to. And don't forget the snow he's managed to shift.
In fact, now that the sun is down and the lights are artificial, I'm feeling my head fill with vapors and my skin shiver with chills. Don't laugh too soon.
My mind,when aware of anything, was confused, dazzled by light and action, and fixated on definite goals: upstairs, bed, blotto. Even later as I recovered, thinking was like a house with single bulb. To read in a different room, unscrew the bulb and take it with you there. Some mental activity took place but much of it consisted of just shoveling out conceptual cave-ins. Interest in drawing? Forget it.
Blue sky thinking, sweeping, broad, spontaneous, with horizons throbbing with distant implication, has finally come back. So how does the more and more cocky Peter of today view the abject Peter of before: someone truncated, crippled, rehearsing the gratitudes of simple survival, committed only to indominability, hearing in his mind's year over and over themes from Tales of Hoffmann? Am I Kleinzach, with his click-clack, click-clack?
Be generous, Peter, to that ridiculoso. After all, he did manage to painstakingly cobble together the strategies that led to a successful launch of his new evening class, something he'd been wrestling with before the onslaught. He in fact prevailed, something you don't always, in your mental effervescence, don't always attain to. And don't forget the snow he's managed to shift.
In fact, now that the sun is down and the lights are artificial, I'm feeling my head fill with vapors and my skin shiver with chills. Don't laugh too soon.
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