Kage Baker had migraines.
Bad ones, too – nausea, pain, light sensitivity, and a mixed grill of synesthesia to top it off. Kage would see sounds, feel colours, smell textures – and, to her outrage and dismay, they were all nasty. Some people in the literature wax rhapsodic over the altered perceptions native to angels and facet-eyed bees: she got stuck with a smell of antique cabbage every time she saw the colour phthalo blue.
I, too, get migraines. I think mine are unfair because I never had a damned one until menopause hove on my personal horizon – and though menopause has come and gone and I rather appreciate most of its changes, the migraines have stayed. I just get a headache and weird background disturbances. However, Kage was hard put to be really sympathetic when I started to complain – and Kimberly, too, has suffered from them most of her life. But both of them have been kind enough to bring me lavender oil and cups of strong coffee when I am stricken, and not tell me too loudly to suck it up and stop whinging ….
At the moment, though, I am alone. Which is actually all right, as the noise level is pretty low when it’s only me and a cat with a tiny meow and velvet feet. My usual visual disturbance of black and silver thorns twining all over everything looks pretty good on my friends’ oaken furniture and nice drapes, too. The perfumes of the garden are filling the house without weird alterations, thank goodness, and I can just recline in the dimness of my bedroom and suck coffee through a straw.
And that’s about all I am doing this evening. When it gets darker, perhaps I can sit up and enjoy a little more of the twilight here under the sycamores and buckeyes, and breathe in the scent of the datura. That’ll be more than enough excitement for me.
More interesting adventures tomorrow, I hope. For now – off and out and more caffeine, Dear Readers.
Everyone have a nice night.