Sickness took over my body two days ago. I spent two weeks in and out of a court room, which besides holding two defendants and their lawyers, also held germs in captivity. I started feeling ill as soon as I walked in the court room. With a will of my own making, I imagined not to get sick during jury duty. After I was released, and not suitable for either one's case (both the defense and the state) I started to feel the strains of a cold. I of course ignored it as much as possible. I went to an outside concert in West Hollywood, and it was there that it was obvious that I shouldn't be out on a cool night. Since then, I have had a hard time concentrating on my writing as well as my daily reading. I haven't been sick for at least five years. I tend to think it is due that I gave up eating meat -but I couldn't escape the clutches of justice.
For the past two days, I have been in bed reading about Los Angeles art history of the 1960s. There are two books: "Out of Sight" and "Rebels in Paradise." "Rebels" I find it a total gossip narrative which has very little truth. The stuff I read about my dad (Wallace Berman) were at its worst, just plain silly, but also I was more alarmed that the author didn't have any sources backing up her story regarding my father. "Out of Sight" I think is the better book, because I sense a real appreciation of the artist's work. History, especially recent history (the last 50 years or so) is basically based on various individuals, and each one has a specific point-of-view - and if they don't have a point-of-view, they tend to make things up. As a writer I never trust my opinion, in the words of Truman Capote, I'm not really a writer, but just a typist.
This Sunday (today) I wanted to go out in the sunshine and see a film later tonight. Alas, my breathing, the night sweats, coughing, is a strong clue that I will stay in tonight. More likely to be in bed all day. My eyes get tired when I read, and the Internet bores me. What I find fascinating is laying on my back on the bed and watching my ceiling. I imagine that if I die, and I die in my bed, the last image will be the ceiling. I'm hoping that it will be this ceiling, because it gives me immense pleasure. The lighting fixture for instance doesn't even work. I think we need to change the lightbulb, but for whatever reason, we just refuse to change it. I like to think it is due to laziness, but I think it has more to do with let nature do the job. I'm having trouble sleeping, so I look at the ceiling a lot for the last few days. Both the natural lighting outside and the lamp on my side of the bed add interesting textures to the ceiling. It is the one area where I can fully meditate and not think of anything.
For the last two days, I haven't changed my bed clothing or the sheets. Nor have I taken a shower or bath. In the sense, I'm rotting in the bed, and that also gives me a sense of peace or pleasure. Since my cold is getting worse, I'm also enjoying the changes in my so-far mild suffering. It is if life goes on, even though I have stopped everything. Now, I must stop typing, and focus on my ceiling. For some reason, I feel that the answer to the world is on that ceiling. I don't understand what or why, but I do know that the focus is on that ceiling.