Sameness.
Lines that dwindle
in a finite distance
but return, yawning,
retreat again,
pulling walls with them.
The boomerang of the hour
just spent,
but back again,
to be lived again.
The thread unraveling,
longer each day,
hapless,
dragged through life’s leavings.
Eyes numb,
ears empty but for sounds of
the breathing self,
chewing,
the scraping of a plate.
World goal:
to live without touching.
We are safe from COVID —
hooray.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
One of these is my muse, dear reader. Standing stodgily and stupidly on the frozen pond. Hanging out with someone else’s muse, no doubt, both determined to be useless.
So, uninspired, I will write about what is.
Snow and more snow. Cold and more cold. A world in pandemic, a country in turmoil, and, at the moment, with millions battered by the weather with no power, and some without running water.
Monday the winter storms barreled into Indiana. In my best swaddled shmoo look, I shoveled the first wave of snow, which was fluffy and light, and, having congratulated myself on that, I decided to start the car and let it run a few minutes. I was walking in the garage when one of my booted left feet found something to slip on and went its own way. I grabbed the car and went down in one of those memorable slow-motion falls. It was not a serious fall. Except. Except that my cheekbone hit the rim of a plastic flowerpot. The crack heard ’round the world.
This in a monster winter storm. I was scared.
My son was able to get me to Urgent Care the next day. Nothing is broken, but if you are picturing an old lady with half her face the color and shape of an eggplant, you’d be close. An occasional Tylenol is in order.
The past twelve months have taken a toll on us all. We’d be foolish to understate that. Everything that happens to us right now hits hard and cuts deep. We all wish our muses would bring us magic words to make things better for each other. Failing that, we can only write about being human.
All hail the nap!
That mini vacation,
miraculous reset,
arm-chair sedation,
restoring us to
youthful vigor
instead of creeping
mortis rigor.
So, as fugitive from
myself and the news,
I follow example
of the duck group-snooze.
Beset by inane logorrhea,
I turn to time-honored idea:
when the world goes askew,
make you some goo,
the original holistic panacea.
Here we are, dear reader, in this country, in desperate need of goo. “From sea to shining sea” used to refer to the beauty of the land; now it refers to angst, despair, fear, rage, frustration, isolation, loneliness, and profound exhaustion. And it is likely true that wherever you live it is the same. You might not have an election to deal with, but you likely have illness and death and uncertainty and loneliness stalking you. I offer you this goo by way of saying I wish I could make things better for all of us.
Discouragement abounds,
angst, depression, fears;
my pate completely addled,
my brains ooze out my ears.
I feel as though I’m squeezed
by vise of pointless tripe;
innuendo and conspiracy
spring up in endless hype.
And isolation never helped
the cause of sanity;
it gives the upper hand
to crazed inanity.
I look for logic, reason,
a sense of what should be;
I find it in the bakery
in sweet geometry.
I do not make light, dear reader, of those who have little food. Or none at all. I know how fortunate I am to think about desserts.
Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to the artist-bakers at la Madeleine.
I knew it had to happen,
either soon or late,
inevitable, ordained
by calculating Fate.
A sign of our fraught times —
do you really have to ask? —
Nasal indigestion!
I sneezed into my mask!
You’ve seen “The Scream,” yes, dear reader? This is “The Gasp.” I made this! I, who scotch-taped pieces of fabric together to make doll clothes, made this mask with actual needle and thread. And no blood stains! I did, of course, draw blood because one of the rules of sewing is Stab yourself with the needle, but for once I didn’t get it on the material. Sometimes I amaze myself.
When I stepped away from the blog a couple weeks ago, my intention was to do what I could to re-arrange my head to survive this barrage of grief and flim-flam. What does one do with such resentment and frustration and creeping hopelessness in isolation? One grabs a dust rag and follows the lead of her ancestors.
Yes, I’ve been cleaning. To be clear, my housecleaning would never pass inspection by my mother or grandmothers. But I told their ghosts to shove off. I’ve cleaned, thrown out, packed away. It is symbolic, of course, but it is also a proven way to clear my head. If I can dig into something physically, I can dig out mentally.
I have baked, continuing my search for the El Dorado of gluten-free blueberry muffins.
Gardening beckoned but opportunity was limited to occasional cold and soggy weeding. Now overnight it’s the Amazon. I have mourned the death of spring in keeping with this season of requiem.
I started to go out last week, feeling like one of these emerging cicadas.
I made a mask!
Physically I’m better, but still get short of breath and tired. Fortunately, I was born pokey so slowing down comes naturally to me.
I have missed you and been concerned about you, dear reader. I hope you’ve managed to keep safe and sane.
Thus far, dear reader, I have coped by writing and by baking, two time-tested strategies for me. They aren’t working any more. A few days ago, we were bloodied once again through the reports of a terror attack on new babies and new mothers. That was one too many for me, awash as we are in grief and fear.
I’ve been sick, as some of you know. Nothing serious, just enough to keep me from being complacent. I don’t know that I had COVID; we still don’t know if my “presumed positive” son had it. We still don’t know much about COVID. “Don’t know” is the only wisdom we have.
Having seen my family only from a distance, unable to touch them, for two months, I think I have a sliver of understanding of what it might mean to die among strangers in Intensive Care.
I am disgusted and exhausted by the flim-flam.
I’m going to step away from the blog for a few days. Each of us has to find ways to stay human in this very dehumanizing time. I am looking for my ways.
Thanks for being with me in my blog. I worry about all of you and hope you endure.
I escaped into the garden,
a news-free calming spot,
to check on season’s progress
in every nook and pot.
Imagine my excitement
at this discovery;
I’m thrilled with its new life
but no idea what it might be.
Do you know, dear reader?
Is there any chance this could be the scabiosa that jumped into my cart last year?
Tomorrow, said the bard,
creeps from day to day.
Tomorrow, Annie sang,
the sun will come out to play.
I prefer the winsome second
but I feel the somber first
as fearful grim realities
grind from bad to worst.
Now it’s personal, dear reader. My son is presumed positive.
And so we wait.
I wish I could say April Fool!
