Saturday, July 19, 2008
In March I took antibiotics that put a hold on my plasma donations. I only became eligible to donate again in late June. The plasma donation center ran tests that showed my blood is still abnormal. I cannot donate, again, for two months. This translates to a monthly loss of two hundred dollars' income. Ach.
I nodded at the phlebotomist and somberly left the office, but recently wondered whether I ought not call the center to find out what "abnormal" means. Do I have AIDS? Are there vicious, alien lifeforms using my platelets as surfboards?
I finished reading an edition, published in 1978, of selections from Byron's poetry corpus. Most lines, with the exception of Don Juan and a few stanzas here and there, induced sleep. The editor's notes hardly illuminated anything. Many of the notes written for the numerous classical references over-simplified or led to popular (but not wholly accurate) interpretation. The copy hurt meine Augen.
Byron wrote best when he dared be bold.
Labels: AIDS, antibiotics, blood, Byron, classicism, heart, income, phlebotomist, plasma, poetry, reading
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 8:22 PM]