Storyweaver's Farewell to 2020

 Storyweaver Says Goodbye to 2020 

 In the beginning, we cowered before every other human being, masked or unmasked, reticent, scared, leaving plenty of space in between. Virus Armageddon Part One, The Reckoning. Fear of catching the plague, and the very, very worst year in a long time.

 Then came the sanitizing of boxes of Cheerios, being afraid to leave the house, go shopping, take a walk, get your teeth cleaned, even smile at someone from a distance. It was simply never to see your family or even to touch your own face again for fear of contagion, and maybe scarcely to breathe.

 Eventually we became enveloped in the Curse of the Masks; all you thought you saved on going to work, the movies, a restaurant, outings with friends or family, a life, quickly was spent on a bevy of sanitizing wipes and cheap, annoying one-time-use, paper thin coverings being manufactured in what seemed like the billions. The thin ear loops would snap even before you left the house, your only other choice those flimsy cloth things you had to continually wash. By hand. . . .

 Continual hand washing of course precipitated hands dried and chapped by all the frequent hand washing. And if the hand washing didn’t finish off the hands, the profuse hand sanitizing completed the job nicely.

Eventually, when the weather warmed, a new activity arose: consuming meals on the sidewalk, under a plastic tent as people hurried by and/or stared or passing dogs did their thing- the only alternative eating "out" in your car. Lunch, breakfast, even dinner on the pavement or while driving, especially during those months when it stayed lighter longer, became a Thing. These days you barely can stuff that yogurt or slice down your gullet before the sun starts to set. It’s cold outside, the days are shorter, car “dining” more haphazard, we’ve had our first hefty snowfall. 

So we prepared.

My glove compartment now looks like a small pantry of paper goods, plastic utensils, and tiny bathroom cups for sipping. The dash is my new table. The back seat holds packages of trail mix, the floor cradles bottles of water, both plain and sparkling. The trunk is packed floor to ceiling with extra grocery bags and backup toilet paper. There's a small paper towel section.

 While on foot I see others eating in their cars too, through their windshields, sometimes while I'm waiting to cross the street. They eat parked and drink moving- the latter usually through those sippy cups with black lids for grownups. Most people do not look particularly comfortable with this arrangement, though occasionally you will find a solo driver cozying up to a  tepid frappuccino and/or bopping silently to some beat on the radio, like a car mime.

 I’ve tried to make up for this sorry state of things by consuming as many jelly donuts as I can to get in the mood of the season, mainly the new type with the vanilla cream in the center. How could we ever have forgotten how good these are? Don’t get me wrong, the traditional ones with the actual jelly filling are still great too, but the new variants (yes, there are chocolate filled)  are something to behold.

One late afternoon of a Sunday during the crisply cold Christmas weekend, just as the winter sun was starting to ponder its inevitable descent, I decided we needed to treat ourselves. With the dial on WQXR and the soothing strings of a classical and tranquil melody filling the car, I gave in rather easily to what's now become a totally guilt free pleasure. Slowly, languorously we each consumed a whole milk decaf latte (better froth, for sure!) and two small though quite exquisite chocolate rugelach. This, bien sur, was a high tea-  we were transported. And if  it all means becoming a pastry sociopath, then so be it. We do what we must to survive. 

 But I’m fine. Really.

Just another New Year’s of eating out, really.

Au revoir, 2020. . . . 

The Nootch Says Goodbye to 2020

                                                                             

 A few weeks ago the Nootch wanted to share the moon with me. She tried to drag the laptop over to her California window so I could see the unusually bright and cheery orb at it its fullest. It didn’t quite work, but I told her not to fret because I actually could see that very same gorgeous sphere of dazzling bluish white lighting up the darkness of the same sky we share from my big ol’ living room window right here in New York. For some reason this made us both very happy.             

                                                                                                                                     

 Then she announced which fairy tales were her favorite (yup, Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella still continue to top the charts- amazing! Maybe now they’re just read as wistful, fantastical blasts from the past of a time when women did not “work” outside the home for fear of fainting bouts or fits of hysteria and mild insanity).

 In any event, this month, after driving three thousand miles or so eastward with her parents, and bunking in low risk and sometimes chilly campsites along the way, the Nootch got to enjoy the first winter storm of New England, where they are hanging for a spell before landing in the cool and chilly, mid December Big & Frosty Apple. And guess what? Her favorite weather now is rain, not only because she hardly ever sees this phenomenon in her desert clime, but also because she found the perfect puddle in which to jump. Fancy that!

 And her favorite season she says now is snow, especially after navigating her first, honest-to-goodness northeast sled ride, piercing shrieks & all as shown in a brief video, as she somewhat terrifyingly though bravely swerves and careens her little saucer down a genuine sledding hill on the chilliest of snow blanketed, early winter days.

 She is honing her knowledge of the four, distinct seasons, and particularly winter, firsthand. You know- the kind of season where at least she will not have to dig her car out anytime soon. And so this part of the year still promises her loads and loads (and oodles and oodles) of all kinds of fun. When you’re almost six by just a couple of months, a pandemic may not figure quite as large, especially when doing your first real winter sled ride.

 Oh, to be almost six.

The Story of (Blank). . . .

 The Story of (Blank) Land

 Far, far away from fires, floods, earthquakes and the dreaded coronavirus that has upended our lives, there’s a magic place that the five and half year old Nootch has fashioned for herself.

I would like to reveal the exact name and location of this paradise and super safe harbor. However in keeping with 19^th century concerns and literary protocols about privacy in novels and short stories and the young storyteller's trust in my discretion, I can only say that it’s called --------Land.

 In this distant world- which apparently holds “a hundred and thirty thousand people” according to the Nootch, a kind of funny language  is spoken, and one in which the Nootch appears to be quite fluent. This strange though lilting tongue sounds like a combo of Hungarian, Polish and Spanish, and a dialect with the occasionally trilled "r;" further, there are lots of vaguely Eastern European sounds and constructions as well, along with other syllabic formations that seem totally new and quite insensible. I’ve witnessed on screen the Nootch having animated conversations with residents of this strange land on her toy, princess iphone. She even has volunteered to translate certain words and sentences for me, when now and then I want to know how to say something specific in ---------language.

The Nootch not only finds solace in the mere existence of such a place along with many new friends there to keep her company during our sad, lockdown life, but she also has an essential job: that of keeping everyone in  --------land absolutely safe. Yup, she is in charge of that huge responsibility, and they pay her the incredible sum of ten dollars for this! She instructs the residents on how and where to hide from monsters, and she’s even “writing” a kind of manual on colored cards with more specifics about the technique. She also assures- just by the by- that there is absolutely no coronavirus in ---------land. It’s just not there.

 Her five year old innate creativity is flourishing, keeping her safe, allowing her some control, and showing how badly she misses our old, normal life, the one in which we see friends, family, new things and places, the one where we have less worry about breathing the air or being eaten by monsters. I think of a whole generation of five year olds, and children younger, and older, who must be having similarly unusual thoughts these days. . . .

What new, trendy,  pigeon holing catchword will we attach to these future generations?

How about the whole, damn alphabet? The A to Zers and how they (and their parents and friends and families) survived this, both now and in years to come.

More News From Fairyland

Children's fairy tales are not what they used to be, and five year olds possess a level of sophistication that is astounding. It almost makes you kind of want to do your life over, as them.

The plot and message of the story that the Nootch and I were reading the other day was unmistakable. When the enchanting Princess Elizabeth decides to rescue the hapless Prince Ronald from the lair of the annoying, fire breathing, crazily narcissistic dragon, she opts for a deceptively simple disguise: an ordinary, sustainable, everyday item from the grocery store, so as to avoid detection. And thus she transforms herself into "The [covertly stealthy and super smart] Paper Bag Princess." Clothes may make the man as Polonius admonishes Laertes, but modern women  buy on sale, if at all, and just get to work.

The author Robert Munsch (this was written by a man???), goes on to relate the fiery trials  Elizabeth endures to free the hapless prince from the flaming environs of the silly, self obsessed dragon, a feat she accomplishes through a series of carefully crafted manipulations designed to appeal to the monster's ego, and in this manner wear him out.

When all is said and done, the freed but not liberated prince- instead of thanking his fiancee- rather immediately makes mention of her disheveled, unsightly, unglamorous, soot covered look. Elizabeth quickly decides to chuck the guy, then, as the beaming, accompanying illustration indicates, lives happily ever after.

At the end of the tale, we had a little discussion about the book as we usually do, and I asked the Nootch why she thought the princess jettisoned the prince.

Without skipping a beat, this five year old with the thirty year old sensibility of a true post millennial replied with confidence, equanimity and certain knowledge: "Ronald is a jerk!"

As if to imply, isn't this self evident?

Like the sun rising each day and the Earth being round, stories do not always end the way they used to, and everyone knows this. 

Oh, uh, okay. . . . Got it. 

Silly me.

Taking It Slow

The world is moving at "multi tasking" lightning speed, though in silent, staccato clicks. 

It's all on your phone. A life's history,  a running tally of friends, family, shopping habits, bills, cares, fantasies, health concerns, dreams worries, all the places you may have visited  in virtual reality, in your imagination, in real time and/or in your car or on foot. 

An entire diary of one's hopes, desires, fears, frustrations, favorite tunes and prosaic daily tasks. A detailed, satellite picture of your every footstep, whether in truth or imagined. 

The question that continually comes up: why do we need to get all this done anyway, in the fastest way possible, then meticulously inscribe and post every movement, interaction, image  and blip of consciousness into the ship's log of your existence? Is there a  soundtrack for this?

During the first small heat wave in June I was headed to the market in my battered, little Civic- masked, locked and loaded against all and any germs- when I turned on the radio and heard- nay, was enveloped by!- the familiar, eternal chords of Swan Lake. 

Without a doubt, the exquisite, shape shifting myth is a strange tale of transmogrification, a poignant, tragic narrative, inducing the creation of a magical and majesterial ballet suite, a symphony of deepest fantasy.The story of Odette and her prince, their dark doubles Odile and Rothbart, eternity and mortality and the forces of good and evil give rise to a kind of shattering, indelible music. I acknowledge that the die hard Baroque groupies and such will turn up their smarmy noses at this shamelessly romantic, emotional outpouring of fairy dust schmaltz that brings me to near tears every time I hear it, but no matter.

As the music filled the parked car and the story unfolded in my mind, for one crystal moment, the sight of all those tired, over heated souls with face coverings as observed through the windshield, dragging themselves along the hot streets during the summer of not-going-anywhere, suddenly melted into a kind of suspended, melodic collage of pure, happy listening.

So you see, I'm not really talking about the pandemic anymore. . . .

Enough Already

I started the coronavirus posts (eventually comprising yet another kind of Coronavirus Diary) shortly after the "lockdown," on March 20, 2020 (gosh, all those repeating numbers! Is that some kind of mystical palindrome in reverse, or not at all, or something else, but equally, esoterically mysterious? Or not? Okay, just wondering; what else do I have to do these days).
                                                              
Now I'm ending it, just about three months later, following the summer solstice and prior to the July 4th holiday. Honestly, can't stand to think about this anymore. Living with it is hard enough!

And even if putting the brakes on the "diary" for now (because I can't bear to write about it anymore) does not mean the pandemic is over, then so be it; there has got to be something else to talk about. Hopefully I will have discovered what that is two weeks from now or so at the next post.

See ya' then!

If Only Pre-Schoolers Ruled the World. . .

If only pre-schoolers ruled the world, things would be so much simpler! So infinitely less complicated, so full of clarity!

Out of the mouths of babes often comes the most basic, sensible and elementary information we'll ever need for creating a peaceful, functioning and light hearted existence.

Just to prove the point, here are several examples from recent conversations with a pre-schooler:

1) In reference to those playful though extremely messy little house mates in the mythic forest with whom Snow White finds shelter, regarding the sorry state of the cottage-

"They're just dwarves- they don't know how to clean."

2) Comment about miniscule crustacean rolled up into tiny ball living in jar on pre-schooler's window, serving as pet, when asked whether creature minded if we talked about it-

"Roly-Polys don't have ears."

These observations speak for themselves. . . .

Pre-schoolers also love to bake and have the patience to watch cookies cook until the edges brown & they're really ready.

Such incredible common sense and down home honesty! Unlike politicians and "news" platforms, pre-schoolers tell it straight!

That's all for now, folks. I need to go put my head in a bucket of whipped cream and hope this all ends soon, you  know, the pandemic, soon, very soon. . . .

Civilization is Just a Mask

Like many of you during these past few months I've learned it's no longer fun to stay home and bake rock hard, almond flour brownies; I've also had occasional bouts of quiet terror that I've actually contracted coronavirus. These epiphanies usually occur in the dead of night, perhaps when I awaken to go to the bathroom, or get a drink of water, or take a break from sleep in order to worry consciously. At these times I must resist the urge to take my temperature because I know I'm being neurotic, or at least hoping really hard that this is the case and that I am not physically sick.

I now also know there are worse things than worrying about being neurotic, and coronavirus clearly is one of them. Apparently my seasonal battle with what used to be euphemistically called "rose fever" by a kindly physician of my childhood has lingered long into adulthood and the symptoms can parallel viruses. And so because it's once again spring and I choke when outside, I am kind of okay with the anxiety- maybe just another form of the kind of sympathetic magic we employ these days, and maybe it works, at least to calm things. If you worry hard enough,maybe it will all go away. . . .

So as the allergy season continues to just about destroy any equilibrium I once may have enjoyed, and I sneeze and cough and gasp my tired, allergen-infused body through the days with the help of a few highly touted though basically innocuous, barely effective  medications, I've begun thinking about masks- it's also a way to quit obsessing about the virus. 

For starters, barring the inaction of a few miscreants, the masks are mainly everywhere they're supposed to be; and aside from the generic, paper "surgical" type that you throw away and unfortunately find littering the streets, lawns and sidewalks these days, the more substantial coverings come in a huge variety of colors, patterns, shapes, fabrics and fashion statements! For that's what they've become in many instances, a kind of individualized exclamation of one's particular style, belief, cause, or banner. In truth, they've just about replaced t-shirts in their ubiquitous exclamations of identity and cultural preferences. Mouths may be somewhat muffled now, but masks talk!

I've noticed women politicos wearing everything from leopard prints to lilies in soft, silky like materials; the Speaker had one hanging about her throat on TV the other day like a small, expensive finishing touch to her coiffed look (how did she get her hair done??). The President of course makes his own statement by going unmasked and revealing all. Younger members of society seem to cleave to infinity type sports scarves that can be pulled up or down from face to neck with a flick of the wrist, or plain ol' cowboy bandanas (let's keep it simple they say and drive the virus out of town like Gary Cooper in "High Noon"). Black of course still comprises the school colors of New York, and now has  made its happy way across the continent. In essence, a simple black mask is an essential accessory and has become as popular and intrinsic as the little black dress.

I tend to favor throw-aways 'cause I'm lazy but admit to tucking a few more formal, wildly overpriced coverings in my sock drawer as this newest plague may linger on for quite some time we're told, and you never know when you might need one of these. On the other hand, where will I ever have occasion to use such a gorgeous mask? Ordinarily I walk about in my oldest rags these days. Maybe if I start using the more fashionable coverings things will change. I always go back to Joseph Conrad's enduring, unforgettable theme in "Heart of Darkness:" civilization is just a mask anyway. Now we have the literal proof.

So basically, underneath all that nicey niceness we may try to project, dark forces continue to lurk, like teeny, weeny tiny, little microbes wanting to take over your life and well being, and sometimes these forces do not remain underneath and invisible and voila! We have a pandemic. Oh well, might as well take those masks out of the drawer and live now. . . .

Corona Coda

Every night at precisely 7:00 pm, when the clapping, shouting, hooting, banging, whistling, stomping  and cheering for healthcare workers (and health!) begins, our COVID-19 lockdown turns into an affirmation of noise and life. 

It fills the early evening air. Passing cars blow their horns. The familiar firehouse across the street with its red door, seasonal decorations and pictures of 9/11 heroes refuses to be left out; suddenly we hear one of those large, very loud, and assertive (as in get outta my way), yet strangely comforting, super important, fire engine blasts that you just can’t ignore. 

Engine 52 traces its history to 1884, when most fire stations were in Manhattan and places further afield and still woodsy were considered wild and untrammeled. The bellowing toot that insists on being heard each evening blares yeah, we're with you, we're in this together New York & we're gonna beat it!!!

Sympathetic magic? Maybe. But who's to say this won't keep our spirits moving while we wait for a more concrete solution? Call it an end-to-pandemic dance. . . .

Corona. . . Part 2

Skyping, face-timing, googling, hanging out or attempting to connect through the "New Annoying"- the Zoom effect that has reared its many little heads (and all at once!)- takes up a lot of time while you're locking down, much of it frustrating and/or disappointing.  Then there is the recovery from the wretchedness of it all, followed by the vow to quit trying to connect in such ways.

Meanwhile the closets were still sitting there, as if they didn't exist, as if there was no reason to tackle them or think about them, because there really was nothing in 'em. . . .

It became harder to get off the couch 'cause of all the baking, even though, if like me, you were not able to find genuine, not-good-for-you, regular white flour because the shelves were devoid of this along with many other ingredients (suddenly everyone is baking from scratch??) & you had to resort to that pasty, concrete textured, overpriced stuff milled of everything from root vegetables to old shoes. Simply getting out the door each day became another hurdle in itself, an exercise in how to prepare for entry into a deadly germ lab of the type one encounters in sci-fi stories where brave scientists swathed in PPE gear from head to foot venture trepidly* into the microbe abyss. 

Forced now to cook, and in a lilliputian sized kitchen smaller than some people's closets, became a heroic challenge. Yes, it actually imbued a feeling of accomplishment, grit, that is until my worst fears came true. . . . The old fridge I'd been planning never to replace because I was sure it was immortal started vying for attention in a hugely stress causing way. It began slowly, with little puddles of water appearing at its base. I found the first one the morning after a big rain storm and just passed it off to water having blown in through the two inches of open window, even though the fridge was at least six feet feet away. 

When the little puddles began to appear that evening again after I had cleaned them up, I knew there was gonna be trouble. How would I be able to purchase a new appliance when all the stores were closed? Why hadn't I done this years before, and not procrastinated?!? And even if I could manage this online, I was told that the delivery people would not bring anything into my home, but rather leave it "curbside" or "outside the door." Yeah. No problem. I would just say the magic words, drink the potion, become the Hulk-ess or Super Woman, haul it inside, and connect it up. . . .

Just as I was getting ready to tear out what was left of my increasingly wild, unkempt locks, I happened to notice that strangely there also was a puddle at the base of a cabinet, situated a couple of feet away from the fridge; so I opened the cabinet door and lo and behold found the inside flooded, awash with the clearly leaking several gallons of bottled water I had stored in there a long time before- the source of the dreaded leak! And thus the mystery of the puddles was solved and I was elated!!! Never was I to be so thrilled to learn that these porous bottles no doubt leaked plastic into your glass too eventually, and had been doing so for years, because I was so happy to have my fridge back!

A day or two of delirious happiness ensued, pure elation over my water bottles leaking all over the cabinet and onto the floor (water having found its lowest level and pooled near the fridge); it actually became something like a brief "staycation" from worry for a day or two. 

Soon however I resumed my routine, and became more social. People had woken up and started calling, I was doing the same and  spending more time on the phone talking about where to get food and toilet paper and generally commiserating and whining. The novelty of the lock down had worn off and we all were fed up. And so it still goes.

Other activities now include listless internet shopping with no completion; continuing to leave house if at all in rags, saving freshly laundered PJs for dress up. These enterprises alternate with bouts of anger and paranoia about the government, and questions about how come the governor's hair was always so immaculately dyed and coiffed if "we are all in it together!" Huh??? And those news commentators were never looking too shabby either. The hair inequality was, and remains, jarring.

There also are fits of quiet rage about the effect on poor people, on small businesses, on the middle class, on the supply chain, on the economy, on my way of life, on the future; the useless elected officials; the useless everything. As the grief over all the loss progressed, more anger & resentment over politicans, the CDC, everyone on or off TV and the shameless coiffing as seen on the screen took up yet more time.

As of now, I'm still looking for masks and toilet paper far into the night; desperation still lurks even though the hoarded little rolls now are stacked up in the foyer like small, uneven pyramids, while knowing too well I am part of the problem but making no excuses. At least I'm not buying ten thousand dollars worth of hand sanitizer to sell on Amazon. Nonetheless I remain chagrined about having to use Scott paper towels and worse; even Marcal (remember that?) has reared its thinly papered head again, after years in retail Siberia. Where did it come from? Is this ubiquitous reappearance in the toilet paper market even authentic, substandard, knock off tissue??

Oh, and those days spent hearing about truck morgues. . .  were they kidding??!!!??? This decidedly was not how to raise morale. And what about all the recovery "models," ranging anywhere from a year to a lifetime?  C'mon folks!! Still can't bear to hear or utter the word "hair." Continue to wave listlessly to masked strangers I do not recognize when I venture out, even though I have known them for years and/or may even be related to them. Still wondering when and if I can make any plans whatsoever, ever.

There is one thing though. . . .

(Tune in next time to find out, if you can find time, that is. . . 
____________________________________________________

*trepidly is just a made up word, a  combination of tepidly and with trepidation; it's fun to make up words during lock down.

Water water everywhere. . . . Corona Chronicle, Part 1

After the initial shock, terror, and growing, mind numbing fright of a 21st century "plague" called "Coronavirus" (soon to be renamed "Covid-19", so much more high tech sounding!), we tried to adjust, right? Even if it meant totally isolating, we would "win this war!" 

That's what they told us on TV.

In the beginning there emerged a kind of bright side. Finally, finally, the chance to get things done at home, things you had long put aside. Esprit d' corps of the mind and task tackling, so to speak. Yippee!- lots  of free time too, no pressure to run out, meditation time, perhaps an entire spiritual reset!!! Time with the family, the kids! With your partner or roommate! Or luscious time alone to read, relax, do exactly what you wish! No rush hour! Three, lazy cups of decaf in the morning. . . .

True, it was not exactly a vacation, but if we didn't succumb to this new germ on the block and managed to survive, why not make the best of it?? When was the last time you actually didn't have to worry about deadlines and doing anything, going anywhere, or taking care of  of stuff??

My first impulse toward adjusting, or figuring out what to engage in besides meditation all day, was to tackle the closets! The first "lock down" would last only a few weeks they said, perfect timing to throw away all the junk that had been accumulating on dusty, overloaded shelves for years, ditch clothes you had not worn since the twentieth century; in essence, a perfect moment in which to order a messy existence.

By the time the government extended the period of our stay home "order" to months, not weeks, not only had the closets not been touched (it was as if there were no closets, they didn't exist, and therefore they contained nothing, nothing whatsoever), slowly it became increasingly hard even to prepare a meal or keep a room vaguely in some sort of livable order.

Like many of you, I soon realized it takes all day to forage for stuff online, like food, masks, gloves, wipes, toilet paper, or worse, to furtively try to leave the house "all suited up" in protective gear, for a clandestine trip to the store; only to get there and stand in a huge, snaking  line six feet away from every other human being while a handful of paper towel and toothpaste seeking souls were admitted to this supply speakeasy two at a time. This event required time, lots of it!

I stopped reading everything but the crawl beneath the screen of the news channels.

When finally you were admitted to the magic cornucopia you once naively regarded simply as a "pharmacy," or you scored a "spot" at three in the morning on one of the overloaded, online grocery websites, or actually made it into a market live, yet another time consuming activity ensued: trying to fill the larder with tasteless non-perishables, which caused you to  wind up with half a dozen, humongous jars of tomato sauce and little else because the market shelves suddenly were empty, bare. 

Frozen, mushy berries had become a hot, black market item, along with spaghetti and eggs, and you don't even like eggs and they never last in your dying fridge anyway (more about that later!), but you would grab at least two or three dozen when you could find them, even though you hated them. You know, just to be safe.

And in truth, how in the hell would you have gotten all that planned cleaning, straightening and reordering done anyway in the mere space of twelve or so hours each day, since your day did not actually start until till almost noon now; if you weren't teaching your kids and everyone else's online, or otherwise "working from home," you were binging on Brit detective stories until the wee hours. Accchhh, those addictive little thrillers,  so clever!!! So well written!!! So beautifully done and impossible not to watch, the mysteries and soaps you now had come to love and in fact rely on,  and the safety of knowing they could be watched over & over & over again if need be, into a kind of endless, TV miniseries eternity . . . .  

Although you had wisely resisted for years, you immediately signed up for a free Netflix trial, even though you knew you would go through the "library" in less than a week but that they would hound you with emails forever. All that other stuff you did before, like running around doing things, working, playing, being outside, seeing friends and family, going to movies, studying, shopping, traveling, living? A complete waste of time. Why did you never realize how comforting and easy and fulfilling it could be to do absolutely nothing but watch TV, often not even bothering getting dressed? Silly you.

Eventually, reality did step into this mythic screen time existence and it all became rather like scream time, no longer nirvana but nerve shattering. . . .

(Part Two next week! Catch it if you have time. . . .)

Pandemic Poetry 7

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? Each week during the "stay home" order there will be a post of lines from her work, along with some needed if irreverent updating (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me).

There is no frigate' like a book

   To take us lands away,

Nor any coursers like a page

   Of prancing poetry.

                       -Dickinson

There's no accessory like a mask

   To make you safe and cozy,

And banish thoughts of far off lands

   The news reports "less rosy. . . ."

                       -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 6

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? Each week during the "stay home" order there will be a post of lines from her work, along with some needed if irreverent updating (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me).


Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
               -Dickinson


Simple jaunts, simple jaunts!
A store without a line. . .   
reunion with my hairdresser
similarly would be fine!
                -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 5

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? Each week during the "stay home" order there will be a post of lines from her work, along with some needed if irreverent updating (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me).


I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
yield such an alcohol!
                           -Dickinson


I drink of a trip never taken,
though planned waaaay back in fall; 
oh, think of all we didn't do. . . .
Damned virus has such gall!!!
                                           -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 4

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? Each week during the "stay home" order there will be a post of lines from her work, along with some needed if irreverent updating (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me).

This is my letter to the world,

  That never wrote to me-

The simple news that Nature told,

  With tender majesty.

                            -Dickinson

This is my post to the readers

who never commented here, 
I know you're there- do you really care,
in the covid nineteen year?  Huh?

Just wondering.
                                                   -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 3

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? During "stay home" order there will be frequent posts from her work, along with updating in the service of preserving sanity (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me!). So check back often, and feel free to join in this irreverent project.

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us- don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How drear to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
                                  -Dickinson
                           

I'm anonymous, you too?
Shmatahs don't reveal who's who!
They cover the face, leave only the eyes,
it's so damn hard to recognize (anyone)!

Once 'twas fun to share your "hi!"
& greet each one by name-
mysterious souls now nod "hello" ( who are they??)-
Honestly, it's not the same.                                                    
                                                  -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 2

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? During "stay home" order there will be frequent posts from her work, along with updating in the service of preserving sanity (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me!). So check back often, and feel free to join in this irreverent project.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant-
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our inform Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind-

                                          -Dickinson

Report the truth? Nay, Say it slant!

the ratings thrive on lies,

all sorts of fun deceptions

to shield and fool our eyes.

First they said the main thing:

no sunny crowds to bask,

no hoarding of the "PPE" gear-

but now? Do wear a mask!!!
                          -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 1

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? During "stay home" order there will be frequent posts from her work, along with updating in the service of preserving sanity (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me!). So check back often, and feel free to join in this irreverent project.

The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

                             -Dickinson

The virus loves society,

so we all sit home and kvetch

in self-dealt isolation,

This germ poop not to catch.

                    -Storyweaver

Sheltering, Week Two

Sheltering in Place 2020, Week Two

It’s amazing how quickly we can go from looking like fairly well coiffed citizens of the milleneum-  gingerly stepping our way through the twenty-first century with our smarty pants smart phones tucked into our pockets- to becoming characters from the once wildly popular Clan of the Cave Bear- you get the point even if you're not familiar with the text: proto-Neanderthals.

The preponderance of really bad hair days for just about everyone over the age of fourteen that I pass on the streets these days is astonishing. It’s like those fairy tales we love but in horrible reverse: princes quickly turning into frogs, princesses to unruly-mopped hags, not the other way around, the way it's supposed to end. . . . My shocked, hopeless sense of diminishing beauty at these dishevelments helps me deal with my own hair issues, since these pauvre miserables are nothing more than mirrors. I try not to obsessively check myself out in store windows. Without our regular trims, cuts and restylings, it’s a jungle of flying feathers out there, to say nothing of those blatantly naked roots that are making a sizable portion of the population seem a tad more "mature." Oh, the things we took for granted!

I’ve also began considering with riveting interest my increasingly frightening looking toenails, and the therapeutic effects of podiatry that we carelessly assumed would always be there. And while we’re at it, if we cannot shop (even if we don’t always buy), why live? I mean, what does this say about us as a people??

On the other hand, families of all ages, locked together in irreversible quarantine, are taking quaint, afternoon strolls together, acting a tad awkwardly as if they’ve just met. There are so many parking spots available on the avenue that it looks like a scene from the 1940’s. And once people have gotten used to conducting all their daily business, working, learning, teaching, shopping, banking, agonizing, leisuring and worrying online, they actually look a lot less crazed (screen over exposure notwithstanding). No getting up at the crack of dawn and fighting traffic. No waiting in line at the post office. Time for a second cup of coffee, even if you don’t drink the stuff; it’s the idea of it.

And if the news becomes too much, you can say “no” to the media!!! Well, maybe it does require some professional help. . . . Their egregious exploitation of the situation (like that Amazon price gouging for generic, bad smelling hand sanitizer of spurious origin) the cable  fear mongering is plain shameless. A daily and nightly horror show about truck morgues, tents outside hospitals and pleas for sanctuary in churches, scenes you can switch off with the right kind of therapeutic intervention.  

My favorite headline today had to do with the police making fewer arrests, along with another ominous story alerting readers to the fact that “jailhouse doors are open.” So far though, I have not encountered any psychopaths in prison suits rampaging through the streets.

Unfortunately, I can’t even seem to read. Those slick, Brit sleuths with the clever intonations do provide a modicum of relief, but the hypnotic, soothing effect of gorging on BBC mysteries doesn’t endure. At the moment my husband is “relaxing,” watching a series about the French resistance and the Nazis. Amid the sounds of machine gun fire, summary executions and brutal interrogations from the next room, all I can think about are microbes.  And a line from Macbeth, “Nature seems dead;” I’ve updated this thought to “the neighborhood seems dead.” Nature on the other hand is much too alive, especially in the realm of microbiology. . . .

Whole days are spent strategizing about what tasteless, non-perishable meals to assemble in order to boost the immune system while conserving the nutrition stash.  I’ve taken to purchasing profuse amounts of broccoli so this oft maligned (though strangely long lasting) veggie can now while away its days in my fridge instead of hopelessly lingering on market shelves, daring you to cook its sorry looking "flowerettes." Five or six previously vigorous red peppers are aging and withering before my eyes because I felt compelled to remove them from their shiny, colorful shangri’las in the produce section and throw them into that dark place at the back of the fridge. 

There is one encouraging blip of salvation on the horizon. Although the first batch of brownies (after decades of forgoing baking) was indeed a rock hard disaster, the second try was sincerely edible. Now I'm planning a third attempt, just to see if I can perfect the recipe. And if I have to sample a few to make this pronouncement, well, then so be it.

Sheltering in Place

Sheltering in Place, a 2020 Survival Guide

The streets are empty, 

the stores full,

though not with the kind of “paper”-

you pull.

As the days wear on

sidewalks are crowded,

but you’re eyed with suspicion,

(and please don’t doubt it).

Is it me? Is it him?

Did someone clear a throat?!?

Oh to live in a castle

and pull up that moat!

The news, the news will certainly tire us

as surely as that nasty virus.
With stores and gyms and salons in fear
looks like it might be a bad hair year.

Predictions are dire-

don’t wanna expire!

No handshake, no kiss,

my fantasy is this:

To sail away from all those germs

and do it on my own sweet terms.

But I’m not from the royal classes,

And so must suffer with the masses.

Suggestions and ideas abound

of ways this boredom to get ‘round:

An online class in history?

Or better, Masterpiece Mystery!!!

A glut of murders and Inspector Detectives

just may quell these sad invectives-

a crime, a victim, a hero, a rogue,

all with that lilting British brogue.

So before you think of object touching,

Skip the tactile, and happy watching!

(and if these lines seem somewhat lazy,
like you, I'm slowly going crazy. . . ).

State House Blues

I just found out- while innocently checking my phone messages- that my “social security number has been used for fraudulent activity;” They are contacting me from "The Department” as in this is The Department calling (which department? Is it a department store??) to let me know I “could be arrested” and need to get back to them (presumably with all my personal identity information) before it all “goes to the state house. . . .”

The state house???  Sounds like something from a mid-century noir in black and white about “the Big House,” visions of George Raft arduously, frantically swimming away from Alcatraz as he takes a bullet smack between the eyes. Is this truly to be my fate??? Is this what shopping at Bloomingdale’s has wrought?? I’ll admit retail therapy has its downside, but prison???  I’ll say this for the phishers, they know their movie history alright, regular film buffs they are!

The day before that I was cautioned about my “auto service contract;” apparently it was up for renewal, and I’d better see to it faaaast- even though I cannot recall ever having signed on for such a service.

Earlier in the week the important message of the day was relayed in a language I do not speak, perhaps Chinese, and there was loud music playing in the background that I similarly did not recognize; these I have gotten on a regular basis, ironically reminiscent of the entertainments of a century past, specifically a game show called “Name That Tune.” In truth, I was completely stumped, had no idea what the song was called, though no doubt I will be given the opportunity to try again. Apparently I am a favored contestant.

I suppose one of the benefits of “going to the Big House” (after a brief trip to the “state house”) will be that I no longer have access to a phone and therefore cannot receive, check for or listen to these messages.

What I really want to know though, is how come these guys on the other end of the line are not in “the Big House” themselves. . . .

Yup, we gotta send these punks right up the river to the hoosegow before they get their hands on another rube or put some patsy behind the eight ball. Listen sister, I’m knackered from these calls, so maybe we just collar some stoolie, get the canary to sing, and make sure these hooligans never get outta the stir! They’re a bunch of dirty, double crossing rats.

I’ll “state house” ‘em. . . .

Say your prayers, mugs.