"Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored." -Aldous Huxley

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wMonday, February 23, 2004

NOTHING NEW UNDER THE MOON EITHER: So one of my roommates was complaining today that I don't take advantage of this forum often enough. I've no quarrel with that assessment, as far as it goes. One reason for this is that this editing thing can really take of you. Between the business end of things, the website, and the print edition of the Spectator, my writing has been scaled back rather drastically. Even freelancing has become difficult. This week, I told an editor I thought I'd have a review to him on Monday. In fact, it took until Friday, at 4:30 in the afternon. And if I don't have the energy to freelance, I shore don't have what it takes to blog.

There's something else, that I hesitate to mention, but really don't know how to get around. Last year, not long after I got here, I got very, very sick. I downplayed it on this site at the time, but I've never been that close to death. A really bad fever was raging, the only movement that I was capable of was shaking uncontrollably, and I wasn't able even to cry for help. If the fever didn't break at exactly the right angle, to use a poolhall metaphor, I doubt I'd have the mental capacity to write these sentences.

That is assuming I still had a pulse. At the time, I did not believe I would make it through the night. Normally, for people with some religious sense, that's the time to start striking deals with the Almighty. You know, If I pull through this, I'll... And of course people often do pull through and then discard the terms of the deal. Proof, one supposes, that we'll say anything if we're truly desperate.

But that wasn't me. I saw, or thought I saw, death coming and made my peace with it as best I could. I prayed some, I reflected on my life and family and friends. Regret was, of course, a major theme. I wondered what heaven or hell looked like and pondered where I'd wind up. And then the fever broke and my strength started to seep back in. I limped into the far bedroom -- vacant at the time -- and watched the sun come up as I sipped Ginger Ale to try and replenish some liquid.

I was beyond exhausted. The muscles in my face had spasmed so much that I was incapable of expressions for the next day. And I was relieved but not overwhelmingly so...

Anyway, I'm going to bed now, but there have been very few days since when I haven't wondered what I'm still doing here. A lot of things that I would have written about seem unimpartant or silly. I write less about politics nowadays because, frankly, I care less. Such is life, I suppose. Or maybe it would be better to say, such is death.

posted by Jeremy at 12:01 AM