Love in the Time of Corona, Part 5


I have no idea what I did yesterday. I mean I remember making chicken and dumplings, eating some and freezing some. I remember eating some of the goulash I made in the crock pot overnight. I ate some and froze some. I gave a bowl of the goulash to Clarissa my neighbor. I gave a bowl of the chicken-and-dumplings to Miss Ann. “Be careful of the bones, Miss Ann. That chicken was whole last night and I just made the dumplings today!” “I will Sugar! And Thanks!” I’d placed the bag with the cottage cheese container full of dumplings at her door and rang the bell. I placed the bag there, rang the bell, and ran away. It reminded me of something but I can’t remember what. The reason I ran away today was because I wanted to respect the whole social distancing thing. Miss Ann must be pushing 80 by now. I flew across the country a week ago. I’m still not in the “all clear” as far as days go. I don’t want to give it to anybody if I have it. Plus, as recently as this morning I’d have to hit the start-over button because the Department of Water and Sewage guy walked right up to me.  I guess I’m at day one again. They say–




23 March, 2020 (he starts to unravel)

How many days until Sylvester tries something tricky and we all go smo-mobiling in the Tahoe Desert on weekends when the establishment is making two place settlements out of oyster bake sales to settle the distance between the tectonic shelf paper to decide the calculations of dried butter leaf lettuce on any kind of way to taste the beautiful sweetness of my true love’s body in the glowing sunshine and sweet tears too, rolling down my face, for having given myself so completely.

He protects me.
I protect him.

He loves me with his mouth.

He loves me with his eyes.

He loves me with his breath.

He loves me with his mind.
He loves me with his body.
I, in turn, love him the same.

I taste the salt of his neck. I love the way he smells.


Monday inquires website W SW BNO dot o-r-g

New Orleans Department of Water and Sewage plays 70s porn music while you’re on hold.

Customer then access access access access every attempt

Too much much sewage  business customers waiting in line.

Your call is very important to us and will answered in the order it was received.

Bill. Pay your bill. Bill. Bill. Bill—

Answer the!

Seems like, every tight, windsicle popsicle

Windmill Flavor 7, Flavor 19 towards and
Windmills blow, blow, blow, and blow, and grow and
Whippoorwills and stage coach pioneers with rabbit ears

In waters too shallow to dive in
Drive in finding no place to go in shadow, in Fantasy


In my broken-down truck
That I’ll have to ask Mike

If I can borrow his tools to fix
And how we navigate that at maintain

Social Distancing?

So I’ll ask Mike just what he thinks

And what he drinks (Irish Whiskey)
So I can buy him one when this is all over
And the borrower of tools is either

Your best friend or your worst enemy

And I have no particular qualm with the virus

Except for all the death and suffering,

Suffering and death.

I made jambalaya today and stuffed a turkey with it. I kept half for myself and gave half to my neighbors Glenn and Melissa. Glenn is also a Marine.

A month or two ago, I set out to restart a daily blog. That was before all this plague business really got into full swing. In my imagination, I’d use the blog as sort of an accountability device as well as a documentation of my progress. I’d been awarded an Artist in Residency position and I wanted to make sure that if the program ended at the end of the year (it seems at least for now that this will be the case given that the funding isn’t there yet and with COVID-19…) I wouldn’t simply be dropped off where I was financially or professionally when I received the first month’s stipend. I was hoping for a similar performance out of myself as when I did what I’ve come to call my “suicide blog” in which, over a year’s time, with the exception of when I was away at prayer ceremony, Wawanke Wachipi and Hambleycha (Sundance and Vision Quest), I blogged everyday. I swore that at the end of the year, after doing and blogging about everything that was put in front of me to try to help improve my psychology, I was going to build a guillotine and lop off my own head if I couldn’t replace my current raison d’etre (because everyone would be all fucked up if I died) and replace it with a new one, perhaps joie de vivre itself! Sorry to drop all the French borrowed phrases. They suit when nothing else will. They have that certain je ne sais quoi (sorry) when nothing else will do. I did, in fact, blog every day except during ceremony and I’ve heard from folks it was helpful to them and I know it was for me. It was wholly lacking in structure and was as likely to be some sort of fantasy fan fiction with celebrity’s I had imaginary and torrid affairs as it was of public exposure and castigation of everyone who’d ever hurt me. I love every opportunity to quote Anne Lamont when she said, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them they should have behaved better.”
So here we are, in sequester. Really, if I am what I say I am, a writer, et al., and maybe not so much the “et al.” part, maybe that parts my problem. I digress. I’m supposed to be a writer. I’m paid an artists’ stipend to generate art and engage the community (local to international) in that art. I’m halfway through that year. I had already been given the heads-up that there might be funding to offer it to me for a second year. In the beginning, the plan was for me to meet with Bastion (the place where I live, an intentional community of veterans and allies, I’m the Artist in Residency here) and if we were both amiable with the idea, the position would continue. Even before Miss Corona showed up on the scene, that began to look iffy. In times where the money is getting all vacuumed to the top (you can usually tell it by the bellwether headlines of how great “the numbers” are or about the super-robust stock market and therefore economy) the rich, if they can be convinced their wealth stockpiles and income streams are secure, will toss off a few coins in self-aggrandizing philanthropy so it can be known to all that when “they” speak of the evil things that the rich do to have so much more than others around them, “they” are certainly not talking about—

When the rich get scared, Arts funding is one of the first things to go.

For some people having anything like clean water and a place to sleep indoors is rich. For some people, being able to go to sleep without the fear of being dragged out of the bed and beaten to death is rich. I’ve been searching and working for years to get to a situation where I was able to create for a living, enough to pay my bills and a little left over to go out to dinner or a ballgame and have a little savings set aside. I wasn’t there before the Virus but I was working hard enough and working enough different jobs that the surface of the economic waters was getting closer to my face as I rose and I had hopes of gasping free and fresh air before too long. This just placed massive hands and plunged me down a hundred feet.  Not really. Well possibly. But also not-possibly. As my friend Spanky always says, “The worst possible outcome is not the only possible outcome.” Or something like that. That’s the spirit of what he said. I might have improved it. I have a way of stealing and improving what other people say.

So my plan was to use the blog to keep myself on track for this year and now about half that year is left. Interestingly it comes at a time unlike any other in my lifetime.
The sequester creates some inconveniences for me. For all of us, I acknowledge. I bought $250 worth of groceries when I came home from California thinking thereafter I could just hunker down and write and wait the whole mess out. A couple days later I remembered about ten items that I, in my estimation, “couldn’t live without” so it was back to the store I went and it was WalMart I’m ashamed to admit because that was the only place close by (I had to borrow my—

You’re getting off track again.
I’m going to use this sequester to accomplish some wonderful things.
I have a safe place to sleep, water to drink, two computers and almost limitless paper to work on.

I can, with this time we’ve been given, at least sort out some proposed adventure map and course correct as needed.
Thanks for riding the wave with the word salad before. Sometimes you just got to let that shit out before you can get to the point.
First things first. Now I have to schedule. It’s not 5pm and I’m finishing the blog. That’s a step in the right direction. I’ll sit down at this table at 9am and sort out what I want to do with my life from this point forward and make the schedule that’s going to save my life during this abundance of scarcity which promises, if we’ll let it, to lift us into a new level and recognition of abundance.
I’ll let you know what I come up with.




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