Altered

Trump, 2010

al·ter verb \ˈol-tər\

al·tered | al·ter·ing

Definition of ALTER

transitive verb

1 : to make different without changing into something else

definition: http://www.merriam-webster.com

You know how having a cold can alter your existence? Suddenly the clear headed you is viewing your days through a fog or murkiness of some sort. Basically, everything looks a little blurry. This is not always a bad thing. It's a new perspective, like squinting while looking at a painting or photograph to see the composition without the details. I've been squinting these last few days. I've also been away from home.

I had the surreal experience of reading Annie Dillard's Aces and Eights with a view of the manufactured landscape above, my hotel chair positioned in front of this odd frame. Bizarre. By the way, Aces and Eights is excellent. Thanks, Shari. But I really didn't like staying in the room.

I probably should have been in bed, beneath the covers, but something about this particular room, most hotel rooms really, made me antsy. I need functional windows. I need fresh air, sort of desperately.

So I'd wake up early while the rest of the city was sleeping off the night before and I'd sit at the pool, fully dressed, in the shade. The weather was perfect. I could sit for hours and I'd only see two or three other people, at the most. It was just a sea of empty chairs and quiet.

I cultivated a routine: flip through magazine, watch window washers scale giant hotel before me, look at sky, and then back to magazine. Lots of sniffles in between. The window washers and the sky were most interesting.

Out of my entire thick glossy magazine I only tore a photo of a woman with bangs I liked, someone's dream holiday that appealed to me, and a little blurb about custom fit Levi's. I haven't worn Levi's in a long time. They bring back good memories. That's it.

It's been a strange few days, but I'm confident that there is something of substance percolating in my subconscious. I have three library books on crochet and am contemplating teaching myself some basics if I can slow down my incessant need for a tissue. It's really getting old.

Remember this scene from When Harry Met Sally? No, no, not that fake orgasm in the deli scene. This one was much better, I think.

(Casablanca ends with "I think this is the beginning of a
beautiful friendship.")
Harry: Mmm, best last line of a movie ever.
Sally: Hmm....
Harry: I'm definitely coming down with something.
Probably a twenty four hour tumor. They're going around.
Sally: You don't have a tumor.
Harry: How do you know?
Sally: If you're so worried go see a doctor.
Harry: No, he'll just tell me it's nothing.
Sally: Will you be able to sleep?
Harry: If not I'll be OK.
Sally: What will you do?
Harry: I'll stay up and moan. May be I should practice
now.
(moans....)
Sally: Goodnight Harry.
Harry: Goodnight.
(Both hang up the phone)
(Sally's light is out)
(Harry keeps moaning...and eventually lights out)

I kind of feel like Harry. Maybe I should forget crochet and just crawl into bed and watch Enchanted April. This is always helpful. Lottie makes me happy.

(Denise moans, sniffles, continues moaning...and
eventually you move on to read another blog)

Results, 2010