- For multiple reasons, some logistical, yes, my studio has been repurposed for teleworking, but mostly I'm so sideways
- - being jailed in my house for 24 hours it takes for a foot of snow to be plowed spins me sideways -
- the idea of months jailed in house and the thought of the world that will be once I am paroled, I need think and write and type now to process, not splurt, hope this changes
- Tablets open, not very busy. I'm 75 pages from end of current journal tablet and don't have its successor bought yet, I'll order in time that the package can sit on stoop in three day quarantine before opening
- I've ink enough for years if I use the colors I don't like before ordering more of the colors I like
- As for here
- - three minutes ago I type this sentence I saw a tweet that Republicans will blame the Democrats' impeachment of Trump for the thousands of death and the end of existence we knew before the plague -
- I'm too vain and need to maintain contact to quit but I don't know if it's healthy for me to daily document the clusterfuck, though I did today
- This isn't to say I won't and isn't to say I will, I suspect it will be more normal product than not and not as much or just as much depending on how much I escape from my house
- I do know the terms of my teleworking and they blow, and I have it better than Earthgirl who's been told she needs to schedule and Zoom with all 400+ students she sees as an art teacher each week each week starting this week, that's six minutes per student if all she does for her 40 hours is Zoom with students (whose classroom teachers and other specialist teachers need Zoom with too)
- Plague, emergencies, fine metaphors abounding
- Policing and the English language
- On shitlords
- Our shitlords enforcers
- Life During Wartime
- The New Yorker turns on professional Democrats....
- Time to pen and kill poachers and hunters
- Do nothing
- On John Prine, who I like when I hear but don't put on myself, who is reportedly near death, I know some of you do put him on, often
- I do not know the terms of my imprisonment - I can go to the grocery store, pharmacy, doctors and vet (though my vet comes to us, I wonder); I can deliver items to my father if necessary; I can go for walks but don't know if we can drive to hikes, and don't know if we can go on drives, just the two of us, me gassing the car in my blue rubber gloves...
- I am stupid for Destroyer, have an apocalypse song
I’ve this gut feeling that inside somewhere,
perched, so to speak, in the innermost wood
of my body or brain, on mute since childhood
a bird-creature lurks in its cramped lair
for when the wood’s consumed, as in a fire,
though also consumed as drinks are or food
(over months or could be years ingesting crude
chemicals, making the sly one ever slyer).
But then crackle ’n pop, it’s all gone for good.
And good riddance, since freed from its bonds
the avian now preens its wings and absconds
from the scene below (that’s me, in my last throes)
skyward like a lark saying fuck to the whole broodand piping forth some blithe hymn as she goes.