Sometimes, I've been tempted to keep a daily record of my energy level and mood to see if they're correlated. I struggle with both, of course, but I don't recall ever feeling so high-spirited while feeling simultaneously so physically fatigued. It's been like this now for about a month, and I keep hoping that I'll wake up one day and the fatigue will have lifted. After all, I'm eating a balanced, healthy diet for once in my life, and getting plenty of sleep. But every day is currently a struggle to see if I can get through what I want to get done before the fatigue brings me to a full stop.

I've experienced this thing for years now, and it comes and goes. It can last months, weeks or just a few days. And there is a cluster of symptoms that go with it: a heaviness in the eyes, a slight achiness, some congestion and minor halitosis. Over the years, I've been tested for everything, and nothing has ever been identified. I did find, recently, that Prozac gave me such a burst of energy that the fatigue would receed into the background, but that was certainly not a long-term solution, in view of the side-effects, which is why I went off it about a month ago.

In the past, when I felt this way, I'd usually give into it, and let it rule my life. In fact, I felt helpless to do otherwise. This time, though, I've been determined to "psych" my way through it. I've kept up my usual level of activity; going to the gym four times a week, going running three times, and playing squash regularly. I've been tackling those long-term projects that excite me right now, like my movie, whose script is coming along well. And I've been keeping up a very active social life. But if there was one thing I wish I could fix about my life it would be this darned fatigue thing.

Over the weekend, I decided that I'd try to find a new doctor who might be willing to really work with me to try to identify something that can help. I've been asking around, and, through Cecilia, I've identified a gay doctor in the Castro who really cares about his patients. (I'll believe that when I see it!)

On Sunday afternoon, I went over to the Yerba Buena Center to see the Paul Taylor Dance Company. I'd been invited by a man who works for the company, a guy whom I'd only, thus far, communicated with by email. I wasn't quite sure what he looked like, apart from that he'd be wearing an "ultra-conservative" suit. When I saw a fat, shambling man in an ill-fitting suit dragging a cigarette in the vague area where we'd said we'd meet, I feared the worst. Not that it really mattered what he'd look like, I suppose. But then a confident-looking, tall, sharply dressed man not much older than myself came towards me, his hand outstretched. My God, I thought to myself, it's the lead character from the Sopranos. And indeed, he did look a bit like Tony Soprano, minus about fifty pounds. He had a New York accent too, though not as pronounced as the character's New Jersey mob accent. I mentioned this to him, but thankfully he'd never seen the show so couldn't take offense :)

We went for lunch in the Metreon, and talked about his experiences working with the company. It was fascinating to hear about the life of a dance company from an insider. He's basically been on the road the last fifteen years. I certainly envied him his energy level, but I can't say that an itinerant life-style like his would work for me.

The show itself was extremely diverse. The first piece was fairly conventional, set to chamber music - pleasant to watch, but nothing earth-shattering. I tried to identify which of the dancers were likely to be gay, and concluded that the cute ones were the straight ones, unfortunately. My guesses proved correct, when I asked my friend at intermission. At least my gadar is functioning correctly.

Overall, I very much enjoyed the show. Yet even I was slightly suprised at the tone of the second-to-last piece, called "Big Bertha". I alread knew that it was a controversial piece. My friend was telling me how, before the first show in San Jose a while back, the venue's director had insisted that local audiences wouldn't have a problem with it, because "we're a sophisticated audience here". Well, sophisticated or not, the blue-haired old ladies fairly assaulted the dance company's management after they saw the clearly implied incestous rape towards the end of "Big Bertha".

I received a letter and some photos from my Dad yesterday, both of which brought a smile to my face. My Dad really is such a good letter writer. His news wasn't so good though. My mother is getting worse, apparently. Her Alzheimer's has reached the point where she's considered to be past the point where Aricept will do her any good. My Dad has acquired a prescription for it, anyway. He really has amazed me in the last couple of years, and given me a new sense of respect and love for him. My mother, the light of his life, is fading away before his eyes, yet he's still capable of taking the time to write me a long, light-hearted letter.

I'm still planning on going back over there this Summer, just for a couple of weeks. My brother is going to Hong Kong for two weeks, and I've twisted his arm to let me use his London flat while he's gone. I'm inviting Brett to go with me. Now we're just waiting for the cost of the airflights to go down, which I'm hoping will happen once the airlines realize that really nobody wants to go visit an England that's ravaged by Foot & Mouth disease.