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Mixture of sleepless tossings and cold-induced insomnia last night. I awoke around 2AM, wide awake. Finally, tumbled back to sleep and rested quietly until nearly 9AM. Cold is better today; still present, still causing floods of discharge, but better.

This afternoon, I went for a chai and as I sat drinking my drink, I could sense the end of this turmoil. Not fully there as yet, but closing.

Talked with landlady about staying another six months. Big load set aside if I don't have to move. Even if I do have to grub about for food. Will help to be staying at L's place for some of this coming time. Even though it will involve taking care of the animals.

Just have to pull my structure together--reading, writing, research, etc. I just want to be healthy, stay healthy, so I can concentrate on my projects and not be sidetracked by combinations of microbes. Soon, really soon.

Stress is underneath all of this dislocation. Stress and anxiety. That's why this quiet place is so appealing. Even with the dislocations, I've come to enjoy and relish the peace and quiet.

Dreams last night were fleeting and fragmentary. Seems that there was something about a group of children and a river that was frozen, but I'm uncertain if there were such images and dreams. May have been associated with the stories I've been reading--the O. Henry 2005 winners. Classy writing; interesting tales and characters. Trying to read some SciFi on the side and find it too crude when put up against literary writings.

That, of course, means that there is an opening, a niche, an opportunity. But, I need several weeks of solid writing, without physical distractions, to begin to craft some ideas and put some words in place.

In all of my reading, I've come away with a clear sense of what I want to write--the tone and quality of what I want to say and the feelings I wish to leave with the readers. I can almost taste the tone and mood of the stories. I can feel them in my body. Now, I need to translate those sensations into prose.

I often stop and have flashes of thoughts about Memphis and the people there. What they are doing. What they are dealing with each day. It's not an extended visual image, just a flash like a snapshot taken across time.

There are memories and tangled dreams. There are whispers and soft murmurings. There are the images of the stillness and the quiet humming of the voices lost in shadows. I am pulled by these elements, by these surges of intention. I hold the careful lens of light and work the settings on the cameras. I am bathed in circumstance, wrapped in bitter dreams. Each and every marker carries the name of someone, somebody, some lost soul.

I feel pulled like a kite sucked taut by the winds. I float and shimmer, hover and spin out of control. There are distant images. No one is around; the scenes are barren and unprotected. The guardians have left; they have abandoned everything.

Soft rains flickers across the garden. The leaves and blossoms bend before the wave of water and winds. Tiny creatures rush out of their subterranean darkness into the pearl-colored light of the storms. Immense clouds ricochet against the hidden thermals. There is silence now. A deep and wondrous silence hovering over everything.

My health has been a constraint. It has been keeping me preoccupied and distracted. Now left it carry me forward, push me out onto the edge of the breaking waves. Falling is not an issue; riding is the issue. Continuing to ride the maverick waves, continuing to cling to a vision of possibility.

And so it goes, or comes and goes. The random ramblings clear the air, make room for concentrated effort in and about the chaotic coursings. I run down now; I run out of steam. But I can sense the closeness, feel the warm breath of the jaguar even though I cannot see its shining eyes. Warble and woof. Walkanation and wondrification worries.

Time to retreat once more into the fogs of the zebra virus. Airborne prevails and makes the wonders sing. Into the night I go.