The universe is going through another one of her big collection phases, isn't she? From the last week of last year, through today, we keep seeing well-known names exiting this life. Today's was interesting. While we were all wondering how Meat Loaf died (the initial report said "with his wife at his side," so I guessed wrongly that it must not have been covid), the comedian Louis Anderson's name appeared on the list. They certainly are not the only ones to go this week. I saw two numbers cited for Wednesday, early Worldometer (Worldometric? It's not one I know well) reports of 2700 dead of covid, with a later Johns Hopkins calculation of 3800. That is a one day total, two full years into this thing, after two-thirds of us have two or three vaccine shots. It is just beyond comprehension that it is still mowing down so many people, yet we are all just bored of it at this point. We adjusted to the horror, threw it into our already-full backpacks of collective trauma we wear slung over our shoulders every day, and kept going.
Maybe I need to find a new pastime other than making myself reflect on something to write about every night. I'm either whining about my own poor health, or I'm looking around and realizing everyone else is feeling as crappy as I am, at some level. How about I take up painting again... or better, embroidery. Stabbing a piece of fabric hundreds of times to work out stress sounds lovely. There has to be something else to think about that our collective doom.
Here is a photo of a dog hanging out on frozen mud, who refused to go inside to his warm bed. It's a metaphor.
No comments:
Post a Comment