There are still people collecting people in this time of trouble. (Think Professor Slughorn, only they don't collect famous persons but gather the throngs to themselves for a gluttonous feeding of their own psyche.) Sadly, many pretend to do good in the name of others. One person in particular—Austin-based—reads like horribly written fortune cookies. Another, quietly gloms onto the work of other(s) and, desperate for attention, repackages and reissues it—disguised as helpful advice and care for others. A vainglorious pursuit. (That writerly bros are so depraved is certainly a comment on state of America's cultural affairs.)
Finding humor is important in times like this. To keep the shadows in check. The horror in witnessing human beings engaged in the above during a pandemic makes me chuckle.
Another act making me laugh right now are statements indicating the economy is valued more than human lives. That certain persons equate human existence with the economy is troublesome. Economic endeavor and activity is A PART of existence, not the only part. And that certain persons would sacrifice life for economic metrics is absurd. And that absurdity makes me smile and chuckle. These people only value beans (profit). They have them counted, and they store them in little urns: Capitalist canopic jars™. As they have no soul, they have no need to use such containers for their entrails. Beans! For them, life is all about beans.
People need food right now. And medical care. How we deliver and how (even if) we are compensated matters little. Certainly we can be compensated with fiat currency. Precious metals. Gemstones. Or we can provide what's needed voluntarily and without immediate concern for stock indexes, GDP, and other metrics that are meaningless to the care of human beings and the upholding of life.
Something for readers to consider. Both the following statements can be true:
1. It's crass to view the human experience exclusively as economic endeavor, and people are foolish for ignoring transmission risks and health effects of the Coronavirus by suggesting people get back to work too soon merely for the sake of 'the economy.'
2. Certain people pointing out the foolishness of above said persons (see #1) stoke anxiety, cater fear, and pander to and over-encourage self-care to the point of rampant despondency and inaction in the broader populace because their bottom-line is driven by garnering the attention of others. They profit through their influence (sell movies, sell clicks and views, sell books, etc). To an extent, they have a vested interest in keeping people tuned in to drama, real or manufactured, because they can profit from it. YES; those suggesting others are wicked for focusing on the economy may themselves be engaging in the shoring up of their own economic interests.
Keep calm. Carry on.
UPDATE, to yesterday's bird feeder post: Black-capped chickadees and sparrows have overtaken the feeder. The common grackles are notably absent at present. The insurgency—orchestrated by the smallish aves—has been successful. At least for now.
There is hope. And songs dance across the green lawn.
But wait! What is this . . . a common grackle has landed on the fence. . .
More grackles have entered the field of battle.
I am enlisted to the small birds, give them aid and build them a rapid-fire weapon. I have no idea what caliber a millet seed is but the projectiles deter grackle the way soap did a certain 90s era film heartthrob rumored to practice poor personal hygiene. [We're in a pandemic, #### ####. Wash your hands, and your ass.]
The morning battle, a tidal affair. Ebb and flow.
With lunch concluded, I assess.
The small birds currently hold the feeder. A (mated?) pair of cardinals have sided with the precious little ones. The common grackles nest nearby. The neighbor's tree branches sag with the weight of such evil. They squawk. Iridescent feather necks shimmer as throats chant void-tongue incantations, spewing Vermis Maledicta at the smaller, enterprising aves.
Update [Trigger Warning: gallows humor -- read at your own risk]
Having accidentally inhaled whatever substance encrusts dry-roasted peanuts, I have taken to hurriedly rewriting the lyrics to (I CAN'T GET NO) SATISFACTION by Rolling Stones, from the point of view of a mage who is poorly trained in the arts of necromancy:
I can't stop the putrefaction, I can't stop the putrefaction
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can't stop the, I can't stop the
When I walk among the dead, and come across fresh dirt
And an unsuspecting body brings hope for a necromantic spell
To raise a soul that's bound to Hell
I can't stop the, oh, no, no, no, hey, hey, hey…
by Geoffrey Allison || SIXSTRINGcpa