Filled the feeders in the backyard. Birds are already squawking and alighting on neighboring trees.
In the old days, I would have grabbed a chair from the patio table and slid a cigarette from a pack of Marlboro Lights and watched the birds for a while. Now it's just the chair. I can still listen to the birds though.
I can do that, and think about some of the good things that may come from this pandemic.
I am down seven pounds in last seven days. I am not sick. Much of my weight loss was due to the extra pounds I acquired while away, admittedly. That was easy weight loss. There's a little muscle mass loss, too. (I have lowered the amount of weight I exercise with since injuring my left arm in January.) However, some of the weight loss is attributable to careful eating and reducing portion size beyond pre-pandemic levels so I can try and shop only once a week during the self-isolation period.
And THAT is where I think one can find a silver lining in this cloud of pandemic.
Imagine the world being more conscientious of the amount they consume. We have to now, of course, because of worry. We're forced to limit our buying to two packages of X or Y. But what if aspects of this new reality took hold in individual, neighborhood and community behavior patterns?
Less consumption. Less waste. Less emission. Et cetera.
Perhaps anxiety has got a grip on you. Or you have a family member suffering right now and are rightfully in an emotionally heightened state. Perhaps you're not ready, or able, to consider 'beneficial' changes to the culture and attitudes and behaviors that may come from the COVID-19 pandemic. If you're not, I understand. Really, I do. I cannot help but consider all aspects. It's how I am wired. I think there's opportunity for the emergence of positive things.
Stay calm. Carry on. Listen to the birds. And, as always . . . smoke 'em if you got 'em.
UPDATE: The common grackles have established a beachhead. The main feeder is theirs. And they've reinforced the entirety of the backyard now. The robins, and sparrows, and chickadees are in desperate need. Their joy ebbs in the fading light of the new spring. And they search for an effective breach point in the common grackle's defenses. Alas, the bird wars of suburbia are a melancholy affair.
[post corrected for errors contained within original. sorry, I posted quickly, before prepping lunch]
UPDATE: Doing research and preparation for extended family and friends set. As a result, uncovering and unpacking things. Surprisingly came across an old membership card, dated Jan 1994 . . . for PACER'S, an adult entertainment club located in San Diego, CA.
(P.S. that shit is making it into today's story / writing . . . Fuckin' A it is)
UPDATE: Nobody should read my work in progress—even if it were finished. I can barely stand to read the draft as I review current bits in establishing launching points for next effort. I am not talking about quality of craft, here. No. It should not be read because It is too in the moment. Too raw, and sharp. Serrated. I am writing it for myself. It is my Rage Vent™. I am, essentially, a pilot engaged in an emergency fuel dump procedure. It is a dangerous maneuver; or can be, if performed poorly, without care. I know I am ejecting combustible material. Still, it has value. And my investment of time is worth it, even if this shambling obscenity is unviable, commercially untenable, for the foreseeable future . . . if not longer.
Unrelated: If you live --successfully or not-- with the disease of alcoholism, you may choose not to read on.
Your church, or spiritual, leader, or healer, will not tell you this: COVID-19 absolves you from the sin of consuming cheap OJ mixed with even cheaper-still tequila.
by Geoffrey Allison || SIXSTRINGcpa