Today, although I have been active, including in domestic affairs, I have rested. Ironing shirts kills his man, especially since for three days I had been suffering from angina that kept me awake because I was hypersalivating and after a while, I was choking on my water. Trying to swallow, eat, drink, take even a drop of alcohol instantly cuts off your appetite.
I lost 2.5 kilos, took Buckley capsules, antacids, Vicks-coated capsules to sterilize the atmosphere, took three baths with eucalyptus essential oil. In the last bath, I overdid it. The moss, also with eucalyptus (fancy the guy), burned my legs and testicles.
Poor little me.
I got out of the bath, took a shower to chase away the discomfort and then, standing in front of the large mirror in the corridor in front of the bathroom (I still don’t have a door to it), naked like a sick worm, I took up old yoga exercises learned well over fifteen years ago and which have always remained in my memory.
Make a U with your arms, bend your legs slightly and tilt your back, keeping your butt in a prominent position until you reach the ground with your hands, as slowly and elegantly as possible. Then go up by bending the spine concavely, still with the butt in heat, return to the initial position. Three, four times. On the fifth floor, all bent over, the taste of vomiting. I rushed to the sink and spit out a large amount of translucent mucus.
Fortunately, no blood, no color, just thick, nasty liquid. Let’s start again to see. Same feeling, same burp. After about ten times, I had nothing left to evacuate, even if my throat still had a sore throat. Come on, two more Buckleys, it was time for bed, telling me that drugs were enough and that I would have to go to the doctor.
I woke up at 4:00 in the morning realizing that the pain was gone. Yoga or the normal course of the disease? Certainly not the Buckleys who only serve to ease the pain and make your life easier, sort of.
At 8:00 a.m., I got up and started my usual Sunday day alone. Corrected, as a good code obsessed, some stuff at a client’s project. Then, the shirts, a two-hour nap, preceded by a short discussion with a Brazilian friend who said he feared the worst for his country with the rise of the despot.
People are thirsty, it seems, for heavy hands on their destiny. I don’t understand that. I don’t understand this ongoing ignorance. I told my friend that a new employee was arriving at my company and that she would be sitting at the office next to mine. I know she’s twenty-eight years old and she’s Brazilian.
This country seems to be sticking to me. I will probably be able to practice the little Portuguese I know with her. I have the fantasy of ending my days, deserted but near a Brazilian beach to pull the tarot or the sky charts to tourists, as I wrote in my last novel.
Sunday afternoon, therefore, in the comfort of my bed, watching the light of autumn that finally shows its colors. A strange world with such abrupt mixtures of colors, pains, and wonders.