A thought to round out a sick day.

They're just four books, the one on top, the smallest, being the most scary, but they have so much power...

I'm feeling groggy, I'm having to squint to avoid feeling the strain that the computer screen is causing my eyes to feel, and I'm also feeling slightly feverish.

I'm sick, ladies and gentlemen.

My body feels drained, I've been drinking fluids like they're going out of style and finding things to keep my mind off the things I don't want to think about; such thoughts being brought on by being somewhat idle, considering how difficult it is to sit in front of the computer and produce anything of value.

This illness came at the worst possible time, motivationally speaking. You see, just before I fell into this uncomfortable abyss, I was feeling pumped, ready to get really serious about getting my writing out there, into the hands of publications that still print on paper and pay their contributors. I even went to the library and checked out tomes with contact information of every publication under the sun (within the United States, anyway) and was planning on spending a large chunk of my coming days looking through, getting pointers on how to be successful at such endeavors and finding my market. I planned on spending other chunks of those days working diligently toward filling those spaces I'm sure are just waiting for my writing to fill them.

Well, the motivation went down some, and it's probably just the fluids, or the Nyquil I took last night, or maybe just the fever, but I felt discouraged most of today. I even resorted to watching a movie during a time when I could've been doing the things I had set out to do just days ago. I felt completely defeated and helpless in the face of all those obstacles that have succeeded for years at keeping me from doing the things I've always known I needed to be doing.

It's days like this that make me look at all the information, the resources, the tools available to me to get my writing seriously going somewhere seriously good, and feel complete and absolute fear. The small pile of books I got from the library sits next to my bed, staring me down, daring me to crack them open and get any more overwhelmed than I already feel.

I've exhausted myself in this fight, so much so that I am going to call it a night. But despite the horrible feelings I had all day, I have succeeded in giving myself the strength to go to bed and know that tomorrow will be completely different: a lot more productive.

Of sickness and kids

With spring finally in the air, I've been suffering from my usual allergies that include runny nose, itchy dry eyes and itchy throat. The effects are mild, but annoying all the same. When my throat felt hoarse just a couple days ago, I thought it was just an allergy deal and dismissed it as something to remedy with even a piece of Ricola cough drops.

Today, I am stuffy, sneezy, tired and just plain sick. Add to that a pain in my neck that throbs each time I move my neck a certain way! Truthfully, I feel well enough to go about my day, but I think that doing too much might make what I think is a mild cold into something more. Also, the pain in my neck is what's making me lean more toward the idea of staying home this Friday night. Fridays I usually go out to dinner with my sister and some friends, and though I look forward to each Friday night, I think this Friday will be one I have to pass up.

Looking in the paper this morning, I was made aware that the Impressionist Exhibit at the Denver Art Museum is close to ending; May 25th is the last day. I've know about this for quite some time, but never made it possible for myself to go, so I think this weekend will be a good opportunity with the weather being nice, and time being of the essence.

Right before the end of last year, our neighbors down the street moved. They're a nice family, who were renting the house they were in, and had to leave, because the owner decided to sell the house. In the time they were living on our street, we got to know them a little bit. The family consists of a man, no younger than 60-something, his wife who is only a little younger, and their three kids. At first, I thought they were grandparents whose grandkids visit them a lot, and though I still can't be sure, the kids have proven to be, in fact, their kids. Their ages range from an 18-year-old boy, to a 4 or 5-year-old little girl. The reason I'm talking about this, is because the 18-year-old boy, Vincent, is graduating on Saturday May 24th from Lakewood High School, where I went for my Freshman and Sophomore years. Though we don't keep in touch with this family, every now and then they come out to our neighborhood to say hello to us and the other neighbors they befriended while living here. We have been invited to Vincent's graduation, and I thought it was awfully sweet that even though we're not that close to these people, and probably won't be going to the event in Boulder, the boy was cavalier enough to drop off his graduation announcement, and write on the envelope "My Dad is Marcel," in case we weren't sure who he was. I really wish Vincent and his family had been able to stay in the house down the street, because they were a family of very nice and extremely sociable people. All three kids are incredibly polite and helped not only their Dad with outdoor chores (what I could see), but were always looking out for each other as well. Many times, I'd see the middle boy on his skateboard, acting cool, but not too cool to look out for his little sister tagging along, and reminding her to "be careful, or you'll fall" as she runs behind him. I get warm fuzzies just remembering such sights outside my window... such a difference from the other kids on our street who don't display such behavior toward each other.

The rest of the kids on our street are quite colorful. They ride their scooters, bicycles, or what have you and play every kind of game imaginable outside. Since they're outside so much on nice days, I get to hear some of what they say and though at times it's quite mundane, sometimes it's quite funny. Just the other day, I was sitting outside on the porch, and one boy was riding his bike with his friend tagging along behind him. I have no idea what would merit such a comment in a conversation between two pre-pubescent boys.

First boy says as a matter-of-factly: "I've got ancestors that are 500 years old."

The other boy replies: "Really?" with genuine curiousity and interest.

The first boy then continues: "Yeah. But they're dead now."

It made me laugh a lot. It's interesting to hear just what kids talk about right before they hit that age where their brain begins to think of things you don't want them to think or know about.

There's not much else for me to write about. I am in the process of watching the movie, Love in the Time of Cholera. I say I'm in the process, because I started it, but still haven't finished it. So far, so good. I plan on writing a blurb about when I'm done, because I tried to read the book a few years ago.

For now, I will focus on getting better, and getting rid of this annoying cold.