December 12, 1973

I'm sitting here not knowing whether to write or shiver. Yesterday Mike arrived to spend a few days. When I awoke I felt decent except for a slight sore throat. During the morning I drove to Squirrel Hill to do some shopping. Back home I read while waiting for Mike to arrive. I had to work for part of the afternoon, so Mike accompanied me. I felt giddy the entire time and noticed a flu sickness coming on. At 4:30, I told Mike I needed to take a short nap. Walking home, I was raped by the wind. I felt as wispy as gossamer. Back in my room, I fell to the bed and wrapped the blanket I had retrieved from the car around me. It was the blanket from Atlantic City and there was still sand in it. Mike started to read, but I knew he must have been bored stiff. Before I mentioned that it would best if he just left, Mike himself made the move. There was no other choice.

I was out of it for the rest of the night. I was physically unable to raise myself. As much as I wanted to change my clothes and put on my thermal undershirt and crawl underneath the covers, I just could not motivate myself. It was similar to the feeling that a heavy acid trip gave me, the mind and body totally spaced-out and magnetized to a certain sound or visual. The flu trip, though, is an agonizing one, while the acid trip is usually a joyful one. I remember the time I was sick in February of my junior year at UB. The day the sickness really hit me, I made the decision not to attend classes. My twelve "free" records arrived from Columbia and the sickness has wearied me to such an extent that I couldn't make the effort to listen to any of these new albums.

Mom called me about 8 and that seemed to take me out of a drifting course toward sleep. At least the call made me feel bereft of a much-needed and longed-for sleep. She instantly knew I was ill from the sound of my voice. She called me since I haven't written in some time. Doubtless, she felt guilty for calling me when I was so intent on getting some rest, but then how many times do I retire at 8PM. Eight AM has been my bedtime more often than eight PM over the past few years.

At 9 I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be getting any sleep for awhile, so I did some reading. At 4:30 I was awakened by some hammer-like pounding coming from #5, that fucking weird person Milo. He was making frequent trips up and down the hallway, walking with what sounded to be a slight limp. Earlier in the evening, someone had knocked on my door, but I had been trying to sleep and didn't feel like getting up to answer. Maybe it was Milo, but what would he have wanted. Making all that noise at 4:30 in the morning convinced me that it must be attention he is craving.