I am earthsick. It is true. Earth’s revolving and rotating give me nausea. Earth’s shifting, shuffling crust runs me into walls. The subtext everywhere? Gravity will vary.

It is not just geo-cosmology making me ill. Postmodern life is a constant earthstorm battering my senses. The weight of human history pins me sideways. Like a carnival ride, I lurch with every whirl and every wobble, but the men who set all this in motion pay no attention to a lone woman damaged by their obsessively recorded, well lit chaos.

So yes, I am earthsick right now, right here, even inside my small sanctuary. Even hidden away on my tiny patch of Earth, I am sabotaged by specifics and queasy from uncertainties, and I dare not venture out to find out how to heal.

If I finally give in to this bilious illness, I will apparently be hurling from my soul.