Last night, I dreamt of codfish. I dreamt that I was suffering from a strange, slowly-debilitating, mysterious disease. The only cure, I knew, was codfish. But the cod stocks in Newfoundland had been overfished, and, ultimately, there just would be no cure for me. I woke up slightly when Randal came in the room. But I pretended to be more half-asleep than I really was, as I felt guilty that I was allowing him to continue to believe I would someday be cured, when I knew perfectly well that, without cod, I would remain sick for always.
In completely unrelated news, I've been battling the flu for 10 days now. I've been having trouble sleeping*, mostly due to a very bad cough, and have had traces of a fever on one or two occasions. Oh, also à propos of nothing whatsoever, I just started reading Mark Kurlansky's fascinating book on the history and politics of codfishing called, fittingly enough, Cod.
* A state of affairs quite extraordinary for me, as those of you who went to library school or (especially) law school with me can attest.