Generally I read poetry before bed.  It helps compose my emotions, to allow me to slide more easily into what has become increasingly difficult to attain — the restful oblivion of a long night’s sleep.  Of late though, I have been reading Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl. It’s a delightful, light book and would normally be perfect for the calm, happy state of mind that I find a doorway to the dark warm queendom that is my world out from under the control of reason and wakefulness. Reichl’s comfort with privilege, her love of the senses, her essential stability as a person, all conspire to persuade her reader’s of their capacity for the same blissful state.

At any other time, I suspect Reichel of making me deeply happy. Unfortunately, given the baleful glares and deep imprecations of my surgeon (see Dr. B, I am blaming you again!), I am unable to partake of such fare as Ms Reichl wantonly blandishes throughout her pages. Damn if I don’t end up going to bed and dreaming of drawn butter, curry sauce and cannelloni and I don’t even like cannelloni.

The lesson learned: the power of literature to move one’s imagination? No. Instead, the demonic nature of crack surgeons.