I guess it was all this rain. And the damp. And the schizophrenic temperatures.
But I woke up this morning feeling lousy.
I talk to my mother today and, of course, she’s worried I have the dreaded Swine Flu. She’s never been to
I assure her that it’s not the Swine Flu. Not even the Spanish Influenza of 1919. It’s just a stupid cold.
As the day wears on, I begin to feel a heaviness in my chest---like Mimi in La Boheme. Of course, I know it’s not consumption---but this recent burst of creative activity coupled with my feverish brain sends me into Sillyland.
Consumption (or tuberculosis, as it is officially known) was a major killer around the turn-of-the-century. Particularly in urban areas. It also, somehow, became known as the disease of starving artists. If ever a disease was glamorous, consumption was its name.
According to Wikipedia:
“It was believed that TB sufferers who were artists had bursts of creativity as the disease progressed. It was also believed that TB sufferers acquired a final burst of energy just before they died which made women more beautiful and men more creative."
I suppose this accounts for Greta Garbo looking like this in her consumptive death scene in Camille.
Or the delicate beauty of Lillian Gish as she wasted away to nothing in the silent version of La Boheme.
I, however, did not look anything like these lovely ladies. I was sneezing and sniffling and just plain sickly-looking all day long. Nor did I have a man in a ruffled shirt cradling me in his arms. So, unfortunately, I think consumption is out.
Instead of a beautiful gown, I don my pajamas and comfy socks and decide to use my creativity today to make some chicken soup.
My chicken soup has been called THE best chicken noodle soup ever. I’ve been told to never NEVER change the recipe. Never ever!!!
It is possibly my most perfect creation.
My recipe is like a woodcut---once created, I can easily replicate the same results again and again and again.
I decide to try to find that same perfection today in a piece I’m writing. I curl up in bed with my notepads and chicken soup and my cat (who steadfastly refused to wear the ruffled shirt) and set to work.
And, if, by some bizarre chance, this turns out to be consumption---I will lie in wait for that burst of creative energy and hope that my cat will consent to some tailoring.
I do, however, take a short break to visit YouTube to watch Lillian Gish die. Ah---consumption is so pretty!
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