A handsome piece of deformity.

Argh.

This is me, frustrated by the mental block that my cold seems to be. It’s like, I’m usually overflowing with ideas, but since becoming sick my mind has almost entirely ceased functioning; I’ve been running on autopilot for the past week. It struck me earlier tonight while driving with m’love: we were having one of our deep and substantial conversations — common fare, really, for the two of us — when it dawned on me that not only she was doing the vast majority of the talking, but I was staring off into space — my usual thinking position, mind — except that I wasn’t really thinking. I just… was.

I’m really looking forward to my mind emerging from its snot-embrittled chrysalis, and soon. I miss actively participating in conversations and actually thinking; you know, being a do-er instead of a be-er.

It seems sickness reads much like silence.

This is where I chime in with a deep groan at your terrible, terrible pun.

Hopefully a day of resting your voice (I recall something about at least four blocks of minimal talking for you today) will help immensely. If not, you’ll just have to make a hobby out of formulating new euphemisms and descriptors for phlegm.

Interesting sidenote of the day: Hippocratic doctors considered production of copious greeny-yellow phlegm to be a Very Bad Sign. In addition, phlegm was thought to be the cause of colds rather than merely an unpleasant side effect.

Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your humors are seriously out of whack. On the plus side, you aren’t displaying an excess of yellow bile, which means you’re not likely to die of a fever. Yay!

Alas, I am still afflicted with my malady. The swamp my sinuses manifested is now resident in my throat too. I tell you, teaching these few days past has been, for lack of a better word, “interesting”, given that I can only speak at a volume that would barely qualify as ‘whisper’. Fun, fun.

And hey, it would appear that a book has been written about me and my phlegm — check it out.

I love my CD collection.

Tonight’s play is the introspective-but-crunchy “New York City Bluster”, by Sanctum. Beautiful, beautiful music that shifts seamlessly between drifting ambience, soaring yet urgent orchestral passages, and aggressive rhythmic industrial. Had I the time, I’d toss on Azure Skies’ self-titled debut disc which, given stylistic similarities between it and “New York City Bluster” — Sanctum is half of Azure Skies, after all — is a nice companion disc of sorts. Tomorrow night, I suppose. Both can be bought from Malignant.

Nothing much to say of late, except… well, my brains have either gone rotten and liquified, or else a swamp has taken up residence in my sinuses.

This is eerily like me. So is this. And this.

I vanish now.

Really wishing I had all of my “Sandman” books right now; having read (what I believe is) a quote from one of the ten volumes, I’m itching to re-read the entire run. I mean, I’ve been wanting to re-read Gaiman’s entire epic for a while now, but the quote in question has aggravated my desire to a rather bothersome itch. If I recall correctly, the quotation is actually part of a larger conversation between Morpheus and a little girl, and is from Book VII(?), Brief Lives(?) — regardless, the arc in which Delirium drags Dream cross-continent in search of Destruction. I suppose that, for lack of the books proper to confirm the origin of the quote, I could could use Google to sate my curiousity, but… eh. I’m in geek nirvana right now, just thinking about it and enjoying the fact that I might be wrong.

Beyond that, tonight ended up being something of a bust. Had little in the way of marking to do and, while I was able to answer a half-dozen very long emails that I’d let pile up over the past month and was able to listen to some music (one of my favorites of 2003), little else was accomplished. My desire to start Stephen King’s fifth “Dark Tower” novel was dashed by the sudden realization that it was too late to adequately get into it… hence my updating this bloody blog. Though discouraged on that count, my spirits were buoyed by learning that the sixth and seventh novels in King’s series are both due later this year: June 8th and September 21st, respectively. My knickers are, really, wet at the prospect.

Last few days have found me growing what I consider a lazy man’s beard. Given that it’s a short work-week due to Family Day, I’ve basically buggered my regular shaving regimen in favour of sporting steel-like bristles on my face, not having passed dull metal over my countenance since the Friday last. Not exactly gentle on the features of a loved one, or on the eyes of the average onlooker, but… I’m not proud, and there’s no shame. I’m even wearing plaid to boot, and probably look like a bloody lumberjack — minus the burly build and ape side-kick, mind.

Now, if you’d excuse me, I think I’ll pass the rest of my waking hours this eve with a warm cup of tea, a cat, and an arc or two of Ellis’ “Authority”.

A movie based on Frank Miller’s “300″? Neat. Now I just need to read the bloody thing…!

This picture begs for a caption.

“Boy, this whole time we’ve been talking, I’ve been filming our conversation and broadcasting it live round the world. And, well, your fly’s undone, your boxers are showing, and you’ve spinach in your teeth. Or maybe it’s a booger?”

“Ah, shit, Mr. Henson. Why’d you have to go and do that?”

Here I sit, buckets glued to mine ears and revising the piss out of an exam, and I must say: David Bowie’s “Reality” is one hell of an album. Perhaps it’s the mood I’m in, but this disc is really jiving with me. Props to m’loves paternal unit for the loan; methinks I shall have to pick a copy of this disc up for myself, but to m’loves likely chagrin. ;)

NOTE: Don’t click that link! Chagrin! CHAGRIN!

Check out Marvel Comics’ solicits for May 2004, everyone… confirmation of Joss Whedon and John Cassaday doing an X-title! Zounds!

It’s come to my attention of late that, through linking and the amazing powers of the world-wide interweb (god that sounds dweeby — oh yeah, that was the point) that I’ve picked up a few new ‘readers’. To those few, I say welcome, and godspeed. Or something to that effect. Enjoy the show, but no throwing popcorn.

New in the life of the Sickson is… very little. My cat’s ear, or rather, the tip of my cat’s ear is on the verge of falling off — did I mention that his previous owners, the considerate fucks that they are, dumped him in the midst of a very cold snap? — due to frostbite. Thus, he’s been rather irritable the past few days; in fairness I myself would be too had I a chunk of necrotic skin hanging off my face. Beyond that, finished up the first season of Twin Peaks Saturday afternoon — it ended on a cliffhanger, imagine that — and I’m keen to start into the second season. Too bad the bloody thing isn’t available to North American audiences via DVD… yet.

Tomorrow marks the end of the long weekend (note to self: past few days have had a sense of finality to them, of things finishing and the promise of new starts; Twin Peaks season one, “Preacher”, Neverwinter Nights, et al.) and the start of the work week. Fortunately for me, a long weekend means a short work week, so really, Friday is but a short stretch away. Hell, I can practically taste it already… or is that my gum?

So anyways, I’m putzing around the house, waiting to scoop up me girlfriend such that we can indulge in some Twin Peaks with some friends of ours, listening to some Ulrich Schnauss, and pondering where to house my Sentinel. Finished Ennis’ entire “Preacher” run the other day and, I must say, it was a lovely run; one that I shall read and re-read in the years to come. An epic tale, and a helluva lot of fun. Finishing it on Valentine’s Day was fitting, too, in my opinion…

Damn you, clock, damn you!