On the grim Pequod’s forecastle, ye shall ere long see him, beating his tambourine; prelusive of the eternal time, when sent for, to the great quarter deck on high, he was bid strike in with angels, and beat his tambourine in glory; called a coward here, hailed a hero there.
Knights and Squires, Chapter 27
I have Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, which sounds like a windfall of an ailment for a woman who loves multisyllabic words, but really, it just means that my immune system has failed to recognize my body’s own thyroid factory as part and parcel of itself and has taken to attacking it, not unlike Pip attacking himself “base little Pip, he died a coward; died all a’ shiver-out upon Pip!”
What it boils down to is far too much insomnia, and as I sat up last night, waiting for those damned meringues to bake–where is this universe where all cooking times are as recorded and not three or four times longer?I am convinced my oven is an invalid–I saw Heartbreak of Invention had posted “I Believe in Angels.” This on the heels of a Dylan post.
So for Patrice, and for insomnia, for as Dylan says:
Though I know that evenin’s empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street’s too dead for dreaming.
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
It is Pip he sings of. So much to say about Pip. Not enough brain left awake to say it here. And a Valentines party to deliver cookies to. Meringues. Which no first grader will eat, but my children have a way of requesting I make the strangest things for their classmates. Something with lemon or cranberries or egg whites that bears no resemblance to the much preferred Oreo.