I saw Dr. B today for the last time: He says I'm fine, and don't need to take antibiotics anymore. In fact, the ones I've been taking for the last three months were only precautionary -- just in case my brain abscess was caused by tuberculosis, which is still a possibility. He thinks that it was probably nocardia, though he wouldn't rule out TB completely -- in short, it's still a mystery, partly because there was no evidence that my immune system was compromised. But he doesn't need to see me again unless something new flares up.
I can live with being a mystery.
A movie log formerly known as Bookishness / By Charles Matthews
"Dazzled by so many and such marvelous inventions, the people of Macondo ... became indignant over the living images that the prosperous merchant Bruno Crespi projected in the theater with the lion-head ticket windows, for a character who had died and was buried in one film and for whose misfortune tears had been shed would reappear alive and transformed into an Arab in the next one. The audience, who had paid two cents apiece to share the difficulties of the actors, would not tolerate that outlandish fraud and they broke up the seats. The mayor, at the urging of Bruno Crespi, explained in a proclamation that the cinema was a machine of illusions that did not merit the emotional outbursts of the audience. With that discouraging explanation many ... decided not to return to the movies, considering that they already had too many troubles of their own to weep over the acted-out misfortunes of imaginary beings."--Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude