Last Thursday evening—as I sit taking in the perfect clemency of a Michigan summer evening, perhaps sipping a Coke Zero, perhaps not, I cannot now recall—I feel the faint stirrings of a headache.1 No worries. It would be gone in the morning. I had probably delved too greedily and too deep in the perfume mines and awoken something in the darkness of Khazad-dum. It would be fine. Meanwhile, I am reading Ann Radcliffe’s classic Gothic novel, The Mysteries of Udolpho. It is extremely boring.
Friday morning, the headache remained. No worries. I took some Tylenol and got on a plane to New York, baby!! It will all be fine. I am still reading The Mysteries of Udolpho. It does not improve.
Saturday morning (location: New York, baby!!), still headache. Looking at computer hurts. Looking at phone hurts. Well it’s fine. I will just write longhand in my notebook and read. I finish The Mysteries of Udolpho and read some Joanna Russ essays. Take two separate naps. Still: New York, baby!!
Sunday morning, still headache. I begin reading Eliza Parson’s The Mysterious Warning, a contemporary of Udolpho’s that begins with this indelible paragraph:
No sooner had the struggling soul escaped from the clay-cold body of Count Renaud, than his eldest son, Count Rhodophil, hastened to the library, and opening the secret cabinet, where his late father usually deposited his papers of consequence, after a strict examination of the contents, returned to the anti-chamber, on the floor of which lay extended his brother, the deeply-afflicted Ferdinand, just recovering from a fainting fit, and overwhelmed with inexpressible anguish.
While undoubtedly it is a much, much worse novel than The Mysteries of Udolpho, it is more fun. It is true that I have thus far spent my time in New York, baby!! lying down with an icepack on my face but headaches can’t last forever. Try Excedrin in the evening—headache clears—all is well.…
…until Monday morning, when it’s clearly back. I finish The Mysterious Warning and begin Francis Lathom’s The Midnight Bell (another contemporary of Udolpho’s). I meet somebody for coffee but successfully stay upright throughout. Am aided in the task of appearing cogent by a topic of conversation turning out to be Taylor Swift.
I try reading Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, but since Villette is what is known as a “good book,” unlike the novels I have been hitherto reading, it requires from me a certain amount of focus I feel unable to give it at this time. Lucy Snowe is very funny, however, and I illustrate this to Austin, whose copy of Villette I am in fact reading, and who thus already knows this fact, by deciding to read a couple paragraphs out loud.
More to the point, I begin to think that possibly, something is wrong. Indeed, I develop something of a hunch. To the walk-in clinic.… from whence I emerge in an hour with three separate prescriptions and a single diagnosis, which is, indeed, the one that I suspected… an ear infection. How did I get an ear infection, you ask? Am I an eight year old who went swimming? No, I’m not, and yet, I must be.
Anyway, I take my medicine and smugly wait to feel better in the morning. To the nail-like sensation in my temples, I say, primly: thank you for letting me know something was wrong, but your services are no longer required. I have the matter in hand.
Through these past few days, I occasionally think I’ll try listening to music, but for reasons I’m not going to explain (because they’re boring) every time I pick up my phone, the song that starts playing is… this:
I don’t even dislike this song, to be honest, but there’s really almost nothing less soothing to my troubled brow than the combination of Camila Cabello’s squeaky voice and blue raspberry lollipop. Anyway it’s fine! Because tomorrow I’ll feel perfect. Weakly, but with feeling: New York, baby!!
Tuesday morning. Do not feel perfect. Finish The Midnight Bell. Begin Eleanor Sleath’s The Orphan of the Rhine. I resign myself to my fate of horizontally reading Gothic novels for the rest of my life. Another two nap day.
Wednesday morning (that is, today)—I awake expecting nothing and indeed nothing has changed. Brave laptop screen and type this missive as a warning to others though its efficacy is dubious because I don’t know how this happened. Only have two Gothic novels left after The Orphan of the Rhine. After that, who knows. Maybe death awaits me. O dark Mother, open to me your arms…
But seriously—how did I get an ear infection.
eta: the tenses here are all screwed up but take that as a sign of how disturbed my mind is, etc.
Noooo!!!! Feel better soon! :(((
I’m selfishly glad for the excellent content, but please feel better soon 😔 😞