|How I spent all of March. The IV port where they dumped the killer antibiotics is hidden in there somewhere.|
I know I don't have to say it, since the date stamp from my last post is clear, but I didn't write at all over the winter and the beginning of spring. I do have a good reason, though: Tirana turned on me, and went from charmingly absurd to hell bent on destroying me. I destroyed Tirana instead, by simply deciding that it wasn't real. As it turns out, it's incredibly satisfying to deem an entire city and everything in it a bizarre apparition- it made so many things make so much more sense. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I certainly have a grip of entertaining stories to show for it, but in the process I wore myself down into a frenetic bundle of nerves and sleepless, dancing feet mania. The all nighters and street play and new pubs and clubs and friends and roaming like a wild thing was punctuated with unexpected and overwhelming interruptions of sweeping grief that left me on the ground, staring in surprise at the sky, gasping for breath and checking myself all over for bruises and cuts. In the mix there was a month of sickness, resulting in my spending my 30th birthday pissing blood with chunks of more blood in it, crawling on the floor in agony convinced my side was going to split open, and pondering the potential damage to my kidneys and how much a flight to the UK might be if I were to need such a thing. Things were fine for a bit but now, as I type, a bandage cuffs my left arm, right above the elbow, covering the long, straight cut where a rogue mole was sliced out by my good friends (we're all on a first name basis now, y'all) at the Spitali Amerikan. The winter, and the beginning of spring, were all in all a ramshackle jumble of the best and the worst of what it means to give up one's home and roam the world living in temporary places, carving out a bit of space upon which to set up camp for a while. That is to say, I had some of the best and worst times I've had in a while. I danced and played and stomped all over the rain soaked city; I lived like a vagrant and reveled in late nights and early mornings and music and books and new faces; I also sobbed and brooded and raged and sulked and frequently picked at the pain from last June, even when I didn't particularly want to, even when I shouldn't have, because feeling the pain at least felt like having another shared experience, even though I know the time for that is forever over.
So I've been doing what I always do when I find myself on the other side of what might be considered by most to be a pretty hectic and wild swing- I've been reading a lot of books and poetry, and listening to a lot of music, and, recently, writing a lot of rambly crap that isn't very good but feels good to write anyway. I have a new job, this one is about to end (sadly so, I adore my kids), and summer travel plans are shimmering in the distance but getting closer and closer every day.
Let's catch up, shall we? I'll be around. Maybe. Okay, probably. Let's say we'll see and leave it be. I'm just glad to be up and out of bed. It seems like I'm still getting used to that again, ever so slowly, but I'm getting there.