I have a virus. I have been sleeping for the past two days. At first, I tried to work through it but my boyfriend insisted that I shouldn't. He pointed out that not to rest now would only prolong it. I know he's right.
My immune system is still recovering from the damage I did to it painting with enamel. My skin, inflamed by the paints' fumes, has been slow to heal and there's blood in the tissue every time I blow my nose. The blood looks like paint sprayed clumsily through an airbrush. It reminds me of Howard Arkley's Printout Red/Blue, from 1980. Up close, his works always seem to consist of random splatters, instead of being auto-finish smooth.When not asleep, I've been reading The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles. If I can't make art, at least I can let my mind become absorbed in another world. Of course, I also find myself identifying with it: "He did not think of himself as a tourist; he was a traveller. The difference is partly one of time, he would explain. Whereas the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveller, belonging no more to one place than to the next, moves slowly, over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another. Indeed, he would have found it difficult to tell, among the many places he had lived, precisely where it was he had felt most at home."