Birds and Snakes and Aeroplanes, Part 9

This is an ‘absurd situation where every state and every hospital is competing with each other to buy supplies from the private market and the government,’ Kantor said. He compared the situation to ‘a crazy flea market,’ and called it, ‘no way to manage a natural disaster like this.’”

Yeah, you know I try to treat you
Your body right
My doorbell started ringin’ in the morning
It rings all night
Something wrong

Birds and Snakes and Aeroplanes, Part 8

“When I first got here, it was a relief for me to be on my own, but that’s not necessarily what a healthy person does — isolate themself. I mean, I’m good at it and I do it because I like it, but what works for me, it works for me. It quite conceivably wouldn’t work for anybody else.”

She’s a cool drink of water
If you saw her, you’d believe
With legs as long as a highway
If I had my way
I’d never leave

Birds and Snakes and Aeroplanes, Part 7

“In 2015, I urged world leaders in a TED talk to prepare for a pandemic the same way they prepare for war — by running simulations to find the cracks in the system. As we’ve seen this year, we have a long way to go. But I still believe that if we make the right decisions now, informed by science, data and the experience of medical professionals, we can save lives and get the country back to work.”

I got rain plans
Written in these storms
When I throw it
Tell me where to go

Birds and Snakes and Aeroplanes, Part 6

This could be a hell of a bad two weeks. This is going to be a very bad two, and maybe three weeks. This is going to be three weeks like we’ve never seen before,” Trump said at a White House press conference Tuesday. White House officials are projecting between 100,000 and 240,000 deaths in the U.S. with coronavirus fatalities peaking over the next two weeks. “When you look at night, the kind of death that has been caused by this invisible enemy, it’s incredible.”

Darkness darkness, be my blanket
Cover me with the endless night
Take away away the pain of knowing
Fill the emptiness of right now
Emptiness of right now
Emptiness of right now

Birds and Snakes and Aeroplanes, Part 5

You’re a hurricane.

I’m a caravan.

Not Bedouin, like we thought. Definitely not the Van Morrison variety. But certainly nomadic. Maybe by choice, maybe not. Not sure it matters.

These days we all wander through assorted social distancing deserts on the thirsty backs of our phones. In search of an eye or an ear. Social media touches. Dots. Likes. Tags. And so forth and so on.

I left social media when this barmy dotard was somehow elected to what was previously the most powerful office in the world. Over time I got drug back into it. Now it is it. All there is.

It occurs to me that I’m not any more fit for this new is than the last one.

I did re-friend my pal Amos on Facebook, which helps a little. If he can operate in this new world, I should be able to do so. I really like that guy. I think he knows it. We are fellow first-world refugees.

I took the trash to the dump today, during my virtual lunch hour-and-a-half. There are a hundred thousand gnats buzzing around my ears and eyes. Only some of them are real.

On the way back, I stopped by HEB. Those folks are bringing it during these weird, dark times. No chicken livers to fry. But plenty of shrimp and iced tea. And bread.

You’re a lion’s tooth, I’m a piece of bread….

Had a few phone calls. One was dark, and one was bright and warm. Light, all of it. Or the absence thereof.

There are moths all over the house. We get along mostly.

Lights attract all manner of things. There’s muted colors of green and red. More immediate blue. Some stuffy white. Some that dim for a second when the air conditioning comes on. Power darkens. Or something like that.

There aren’t many black lights anymore, like in that long ago barn loft we turned into a smoky, musical, safe haven.

Do you know why you see more white sheep than black ones? Because there are more of them.

I laughed at that back in the day.

Self Portrait, 1945

Diary of a COVID-19 Patient

We missed each other’s company, though, so I threw caution to the wind, washed my hands, and invited Will to wash his hands and lie on the bed with me, as far from my body as possible, to listen to a recording of the 1977 Cornell Grateful Dead show while watching the sunset from our bedroom window. I kept it together until Jerry, in “Morning Dew,” sang, “Where have all the people gone, my honey? Where have all the people gone today?”

Diary of a COVID-19 Patient, The Atlantic

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