Mercurochrome: The Painful Treatment

Opening today's blog with a song that my dad gave me to follow me through life, and I hope it gives you hope. It's been a long, cold winter... but we'll get through this.

Here Comes The Sun.

When I was a kid, a road rash, scrape, or bloody cut was treated with mercurochrome which my dad kept in a medicine cabinet that dated to the 1880s, in his house on Dwight Way. This was so unpleasant that most kids would do most anything to avoid being anointed with the potent red tincture. So painfully repugnant was this vile medicine, we would cry at the mere threat of it. 

 (Mercurochrome bottle found in the midden at my home in Berkeley, and filled with colored water for effect)

What we're living with, people, is the painful treatment for a completely natural and normal situation that occurs as faithfully in a cycle as do hurricane, tornadoes and wildfires. Humans try to contain it, but inevitably, we have wounds that require tending, to lessen the impact and damage. Right now is one of those times.

None of us can sleep with the metaphoric scrapes and burns we have sustained in this pandemic.

Last night was one long, horrific nightmare. I went to bed early in a futile attempt to beat the sleeplessness so that I'd have extra hours to make up for the time I didn't sleep. It was as if my entire being has been stung by mercurochrome.

I put on the old Addams Family TV show, dropped a full dose of CBD, and fell asleep the second episode in, and sometime in my sleep, managed to both turn off the TV and up-end a bag of crackers, leaving me lying, in the dark, on a bed of crunchy crumbs. After spending some time sweeping crumbs off from under myself, I managed to fall asleep. At 1:18 a.m. I woke up again, probably because there were crumbs digging into my ass crack and responded to a text from my son from a few hours earlier. He was, surprisingly, still awake.  After that, I entreated sleep to come by an oft-used tactic; writing a potential short story in my head. Essentially, I consider different topics and then try to write a decent first outline in my mind based on a theme that is pleasant, calming and potentially a good short piece, essay or semi-autobiographical. In lighter times, these themes sometimes play out the following days into a creative writing piece that I find worthy, sometimes it seems as if I had played out some weird celestial acid trip. Most of the time, my mind drifts to certain concepts that I will replay over and over again in my normal state of insomnia. Oh, Satan be gone,  but not these days.

Last night, the topic of this seemingly endless lockdown kept replaying and I couldn't get past the obsessive thought-loop. I could think of nothing else.  I took another large dose of CBD at 2 a.m. and willed sleep to come and spent the remainder of the night in a half somnolent state that neither resembled sleep nor being awake. By 7:30 a.m. I tried to make excuses not to get out of bed, but guilt from the ever-present Protestant work ethic forced me up rather like a disjointed ragdoll and I threw on my robe, which has a large hole in the back where, Yaya, a beloved former rescue dog chewed it,  and flopped on the sofa to start working. I probably looked like a deranged homeless woman with a mental disorder.  A FB friend on a Berkeley page posted this marvelous cartoon he drew of a well-known street lady from the 70s and it's so me right now.

(cartoon courtesy fellow Berkeley Kid, Les Toil)

I worked wearing my pajamas for a few hours while wrestling with a new loaf of sourdough between trying to concentrate on work. I had no toast for breakfast, which was a bummer, and even though the amazing cup of Burundu medium roast coffee was on hit, the morning was just a complete wash in every possible way.

The sourdough came out nicely, eventually.

By noon, everything went south. For some reason, I couldn't organize and collate the work my vendors needed, and was unsure about whether the spreadsheets contained the correct data for each vendor. I stripped my gears trying to figure out how to do mundane tasks that are a regular part of my daily routine. My heart was pounding out of my chest in an irregular pattern and I couldn't focus. It took some time to determine that the feeling of being a hapless nitwit was actually an anxiety attack, not a heart attack.

Admission: I have PTSD, mild bi-polarism, and have endured anxiety/panic attacks since I was 18 years old. For forty Goddamned years my body has intermittently thrown me into a vortex of heart palpitations, mind-numbing confusion, fight or flight response, literal jaw-clenching anxiety and then into a weird euphoria that has no substance. I know what this feels like and this kind of anxiety we're going through right now, during this pandemic is not the normal kind of anxiety. 

I mentioned the other day being tossed by the Ocean (Yemaya) repeatedly and coming up laughing. Being in the vortex of the ocean is a far, far more amenable situation than sitting in my living room trying to cope with what feels like my own body trying to kill me for no rational reason.

Why is this anxiety and insomnia a thing right now? I'm a naturally rather reclusive person, I enjoy the privacy and sanctity of my home, and being here without being bothered or intruded upon is, in general, an absolute privilege for me. It's because I am worried for everyone, myself included, and I live in a bubble wherein my inner-self does not believe that I will be a casualty and yet there is dichotomy there and the cognitive dissonance makes me want to just hide. This is an anxiety I've never experienced before and I don't think any of us know how to really rationalize it and move on.

Georgia and Texas are opening up certain businesses earlier than I, personally, would feel comfortable with. This decision is publicly stated to alleviate the tension on the economy. Something I said several weeks ago is now coming out in articles far more eloquent than I can write:

If we put people back to work before it feels safe, employees are subjected to a decision: go back to work and risk being infected and infecting their families or; face being turned down for unemployment. As of today there are 30,000,000 unemployment applications. The Feds are not going to pay all of those people no matter what and opening up certain Red states who are aligned with the Orange Dickwangle In Chief guarantees that many of these people who refuse to return to unsafe working conditions, will not be eligible for unemployment. That is the full explanation for these early openings and it is not because people need to work; it is because the States and Federal government has zero intention of paying that many people to stay home and stay safe.

We do not need mass murdered pork, beef and chicken to survive. We do not need haircuts. We do not need waxing, pedicures or manicures, or to go bowling or golfing. We need people to survive. We don't need people to go back to work in potentially unsafe conditions to save the EDD the money they say they don't have.

Trump flew the Blue Angels and the Thunderbirds over several states at an enormous cost; what about Congress (with Trump's alliance) allocating those funds to feed/house/clothe those who are now unemployed rather than require them to go back to work before it is safe?

There is a 900% increase in calls to crisis hotlines. People are suffering. People are suffering the loss of connection to other people, to their daily lives, to the ebb and flow of what our normal used to be.

I have several Zoom meetings every single week and I look forward to most of them but honestly, I'm finding that they fatigue me. I want to connect with one or two people at a time. I want to see what people are really feeling. I don't want cocktail hours and laughter and chatter -- not all the time -- I want to get down to why we want to connect in the first place. The fact that I love you and want to be important in your life. I want to be important somewhere, to someone.

We all do.

Mercurochrome reminds me of my dad, who loved me enough to stain my cuts and scrapes with it's sharp, burning smear. My dad wanted me to heal and move on to the next injury and he wanted me to survive in spite of the pain of it.

I don't know why my dad became part of this post, but my dad -- the highest
honor on my altar -- and the ancestor I most beseech for connection is sending me this over and over...

Ibae been tonu Donald Edward Wood.

 I am listening, and hearing you...  

but I still hated your mercurochrome. 

Riptide

This weekend, after almost two months being alone, I went to my son's house and visited with him and my grandchildren. We found a local beach that was sparsely attended so the kids could go skim boarding. I know, this is breaking my own rules and I'm not going to make any excuses or apologies. For seven weeks, like most people I know, I've been on isolation and working from home and for me and my little bipolar shit, I needed to break from this to reset my head. It's that or the psych ward and I'm not exaggerating by much.

Seals popped up here and there, close to shore than I've ever seen them. They are curious creatures, but rather bitey when provoked, and we watched them in amusement as they glided around, when suddenly a herd of dolphins showed up not more than 30 feet from shore. They leaped and dove, maintaining the same general channel-line as the seals and we watched them with so much joy. What beautiful creatures there are in this vast waterworld and what a magic time to see them so close. My granddaughter found a tiny, complete sand dollar -- the first one I've seen on a local beach for many years. She and I sang a song for Yemaya, which she loved doing. And a funny thing is that the ocean was as still and calm as could be, until I decided to try to swim out at which point the waves came back and I got tossed like a ragdoll three times until I could regain my footing. I came up laughing cause I felt the message, but my poor grandson was so scared for me. I have lessons to learn. 

(disclaimer: this is not my photo, it is a Google image of a California Bottleneck Dolphin, 

but it looks exactly like one we saw leaping)

I will tell you this: This was a very conscious and calculated decision the foundation of which is that I was afraid I would get sick somewhere shopping for toilet paper and die alone without having seen my people for months and months and I start falling into a sinkhole of depression that brings up threads of thoughts in my head that are better left in the inner sanctum. No, no... can't go there. That's it; I decided this based upon what I would want as an end of life decision, but not an end of life right now. Now I'm home and while I love being home, I'd choose those kids over anything, any day. I will miss them again for a few weeks and then I'll swim up for air and there they will be, to save me from drowning.

This whole experience is a riptide pulling me away further and further from everyone and everything I know; the place on this planet where I am stabilized and whole. 

My mood was in the irascible range today, and I'm guessing based upon my very few interactions, that others are feeling the same way.

I ended up having an interaction with a young woman that neither shamed me nor made me feel good; she ended a long transaction at a small store where I also had to stand in line and when I finally got the door where I could do my business (quickly, as I had it planned it out down to the penny), the woman asked me if I could move my car, the car behind mine would move and then she could leave.

And I said No. Just "No. I'm at the front of the line and I know it's inconvenient, but the world is inconvenient right now" and I admit I was not polite. I was not kind. I was not patient, and I did not care about her convenience. To the point: I would not have asked someone at the front of the line to break the line for my convenience.  I would have waited. Her entitlement pissed me off.

She then began to lecture me that if I had just asked her nicely she would have been okay with it and that's when I just devolved on her. Just a moment after I got to the point of telling her to go fuck herself with a piece of redwood, I got my bag of crickets, which took seriously maybe two minutes, and walked to my car when some random millennial guy back in the line felt it necessary to say, "That wasn't nice of you" and at that point, I was like fuck these people and just said "I'm sorry you feel that way".  It occurred to me a short while later that he wouldn't have said that had I been young and pretty with my nipples poking out the front of my hippie dress and no panty line. Yeah, no, man-bun boi. You just enjoy your wait in the line. Hippie girl still ain't looking at you.

Two things: 1. I know I did not need to be that harsh perhaps, and 2. She should have just sat in her car after she discerned I was at the door and about to get my turn. Did she deserve my snark? I don't know. This Depression-era bread line shit is already stressful.

Life is too short to suffer fools or assholes, so there it is. I could have been different, but I spent half an hour in a line only to have someone young enough to be my daughter use her entitlement, across the board, to try to school me and waste my time, and I ain't having it. Naw, I'm okay, girl.. you can take that to someone who has more time to waste than I do.

Entitlement: Mike Pence goes to Mt Sinai Hospital and in spite of being informed that everyone must wear a mask;  in spite of everyone else both staff and patients are wearing masks, and in spite of the fact that he is supposed to model the behaviors we are supposed to exhibit, the Motherfucker Did Not Wear A Mask. I don't give a hot fuck if he tests negative seven days a week and twice on Sunday (when the rest of us don't have a chance yet of being tested even once). This entitled dried up ballsac motherfucker uses his authority, power and privilege to walk the entitled walk that he does.

"I need to look 'em in the eye and say thank you". Lord have mercy you dried up piece of chum, do you even know what if wrong with what you just said?

I wasn't right and I wasn't wrong. I was just tired and it's probably for the best I'm not trying to lead the country although I'm 99.99% sure I'd do better than Trump or Pence.

This whole experience is like living in an alternate Universe. Do you feel this? Every time I go out to run a necessary errand, it feels like every stoplight is ten minutes long and people are busting through stop signs, and everywhere are lines of people, looped around like they're waiting in a Disneyland line for a Dole Whip. There is literally a bread line at the local artisanal bread shop that snakes around the parking lot, and I get it because in spite of everybody and their mother and me trying on a sourdough starter it is damned hard work. I think twice about going out for that head of lettuce for a salad because it's not just a quick trip, it's a damned event, and it's weird to get used to wearing a mask, but on the other hand, I'm getting used to it like it's just *shrug* normal business, as is slathering my hands, steering wheel, credit card, and everything I've touched with hand sanitizer or saniziting wipe.

Meanwhile, meat plants are becoming hotbed infection zones where workers who are basically slave laborers -- many of them undocumented workers -- are getting sick, aside from their abysmal work conditions. The animals, who have already been raised and handled as if they are not living, sentient beings, are somewhere in their holding pens and God knows if they're being fed or watered or anything. Trump calls this an "essential business" and is forcing the slaughter houses to remain open with the same untenable conditions they've always endured, human and animal, but in the melee that is happening with the virus infecting the workforce, the animals are just being randomly slaughtered and thrown in the garbage.

Seems to me it's about time to end this system of meat production completely. For God's sake, let them just fail. We cast our judgment and our aspersions on Chinese wet markets, yet we raise animals in horrendous cruelty, handle them as if they are not feeling beings, we create work environments for humans that are dangerous, untenable, low paying, stressful and exploitative.... and this is not an "essential business".  Our meat production system is worse than Chinese wet markets, but we just cover it up and pretend it doesn't exist, but here it is and it needs to stop now.

Did you get this far, wow, I am grateful. For the sake of remembering, it's been quite a hot day here and my draughty house, which is cold in the winter and conversely hot in the summer, is my sanctuary.  I know everything in it and can find every little thing by braille.  If I get sick, my bedroom is where I will go to lay down, and if I die, it will be in the same room my mom called hers once upon a time.

I grow maudlin, I suppose, but it's worth a thought about last wishes. We should all think about that.

Nothing Compares 2 U

Today is Earth Day 2020, I listened quietly to the singing of birds in the quiet world this morning, and the chatter of my local squirrel running back and forth on the fence outside. Mother Earth is enjoying this respite from our nonstop battering.

My friend, Peter Kat King who a couple weeks ago was in the hospital being tested for COVID19 (he is negative) dropped by unexpectedly with a tray of Neldam's Bakery cookies. If you see Peter, tell him I'm only eating them out of gratitude (the truth is they are feckin' delicious and I don't care about calories these days even if I'm fat as f**k). Truth is, I cried when Peter came by because I thought I might never see him again after his latest medical fiasco. This is the space I'm in right now; I cry while I'm eating cookies, and I cry when I hear music, and when I see people, and I cry... because I cry. The cookies don't help but I pretend they're a version of mother's little helper. Which they kind of are.

Today is Charles Mingus's birthday and I give you Moanin', because even if you don't like jazz, moaning is exactly how I'm feeling a lot these days and the music is in words written in notes... like I  can read this and know exactly what the 'words' are....

Enjoy this brilliant piece of music, but the incomparable Mingus.

Prince's 2016 death anniversary was yesterday, as was the day my son, newly home from the hospital after brain-surgery in 2014, wrote a post thanking me for my support. I cried a little yesterday. Okay to be honest, I cried a lot.  About five years ago yesterday, I took a hike with my now deceased husband (Ibae baen tonu Carter). It was a little overwhelming, all these little memories and to think this year, I'm sitting alone in a house waiting for the day I can see the people I love again.

Nothing Compares 2 U 

Prince wrote this and gave it to many, many artists, each who did it justice in their own way. Sinead O'Connor released this single 40 years ago, March 1990, and I happen to think that she slayed it.

I had to take a Xanax today. Anxiety comes in waves, sometimes disguised as anger, frustration, lack of patience. Focusing becomes a trial of wills; mine against any distraction. I  literally saw the squirrel outside and almost dropped my work call to go give him some pecans, just because. Most of the time I can breath through it, sift through the billions of misfiring in my brain screaming at me to run, run, run. Today was the day I was gonna run. Instead, I took a Xanax, and I honored myself with a'ish*.

Baking bread, a talent I have nurtured for a long time, intermittently, has become almost an obsession. Sourdough starter, everyone's fave fad foodie fixation, is possible on a regular basis because we.   have.    time. And working with sourdough starter requires a two day commitment, on top of the feeding of the starter, which somehow becomes a living breathing friend who one becomes extremely attached to. It's a weird relationship. This is Burt, who has been fed and is waiting to become part of a dough.

After Burt has shown how excited he is to see me (is that a bubble in your pants or are you inviting me home?) and bubbles up as if he is about to throw up over the edge of his container (it's always the drunk ones who take me home), we end up with the dough, and eventually, 48 hours later or so, the bread.

So now it's evening of Wednesday April 22, 2020 (which I had to be reminded of) and my day was comprised of work-work, the paying kind, and making English muffins (not a complete failure, but def would tweak that recipe somewhat).

I also started a Challah recipe (from a friend whose mom's recipe is still used at the Cheese Board Collective) and that actually made me truly happy.

This is amazeballs bread. The first one I am honestly proud of. I could make this every day for a year and not get tired of it. Yeah, I have a bit of braiding issue, but other than that, it's DELISHUS.

Believe it or not, I also got a full day's work done and then even got on my new rowing machine and pushed out 20 minutes (my knees and hips don't like this, and I have to tell them to stop moanin', but whatever).

Now, I'm floating and tired and hoping for a full night's sleep, a rarity these days but even if I don't, know that Nothing Compares 2 U -- Yeah, I mean it.

* - A'ish is a colloquial Arabic word which means bread but it also connotes life; in that bread, the basic staple on the table is what sustains life. We give a'ish to those we love or have peace with, when we break bread.

Cake or Death

I was going to put this at the end, but we need this first.

Stevie had it right back in 1976 when he said Loves in Need of Love Today and I have to keep looping this entire album to bring me back to a place of love.

I swear, today I'mma pick up a bag of popcorn and just sit back and watch this mess unfold. Groups of protesters, many carrying their guns and backup ammo clips, rally to their various capitol buildings because this stay at home shit has gone too far. Their rights are being infringed upon. They are uncomfortable, Gotdamn it. They entirely lost me at their need to bring those ARs out of storage and hold them in front of their bodies like codpieces.  Tell me there's any real difference here.

And let's be honest and transparent; when we see a group of white people, with white men standing around gripping their guns in some kind of protest, what the subtext really is: I'mma protect my shit and no n****r is gonna take it from me. I mean, let's just be real here. That's what these assholes are really saying with their flags and guns and frippery.  My God, go home assholes -- I swear, no one is interested in coming near your infected ass shit. Keep your guns, your underground bunker, your potato salad, and your toilet paper.

But the invisible virus floating around out here pretty much has our physiology figured out and no AR is gonna save your stupid, vapid, protesting ass.  We're talking aliens level shit here, except the danger is invisible and flies around in a snot bubble smaller than a baby flea. God's gonna flick those sorry motherfuckers like an annoying booger if they keep up this kind of stupid. And shit, it already has.

The truth of this situation is weirder and more predictable as anyone might expect. Okay, even weirder. The guys behind these protests are four brothers, the Dorrs, who are right-wing scammers of the turfroots variety. Yes, that's right, these guys are conservative 'activists' who are scamming the shit out of other gullible right-wingers. Truth is weirder than fiction, folks.

The protesters should really scurry back to their houses, squeaking, "we wuz jus kiddin'!" but they won't. They'll say it's fake news while the Dorr brothers get rich(er) off their insane stupidity. 

Meanwhile, Kentucky saw the highest spike in virus cases yet, following an anti-stay at home protest.  People, I got lots of Costco-sized bags of kettle corn over here. Don't think I can't keep up with this shit show all the days long. I'm telling you these Uncle Daddy MFers and their inbred floozies are making this just way too easy

For shit's sake I heard some Florida politician explaining that the rate of infection is much higher down in the Southern part of the state, so it's cool the Jacksonville beach is now open again. Georgia is planning to open their state back up this Friday, April 24th, and  I'm sitting here like .... okay, did I actually get enough Costco popcorn?

I'm hearing that California is now on time out until May 15th, but of course one really cannot tell. How is it that one day we're all hunkering down and wearing masks just to go down the street and the next day we're going to be back working in a cube? Yeah... I'm seriously wondering how that's gonna work because serious as a heart attack, I am not going to go back even if they reconfigure how close the cubes are. You want to know why?

Because shit comes out those air vents we rely on for heat and A/C.  Seriously, no one can convince me they got that shit figured out unless there are N100 filters all installed prior to my return and I see the labels on the filters.  Oh, and did I mention I want a filtering bubble installed around my little 4 x 4 cube?

Naw, that's okay, Boo. I can keep sitting here right at home without having to worry about shit, more or less. Next.

We are not all in the same boat. 

I am extremely fortunate to have a job right now and I don't discount that one bit. Let's be quite clear here that while we're all living with the same crazy shit these days, we're all experiencing it quite differently. My situation of slowly dwindling into a state of mild insanity is not the same as your existential crisis.

Let me give you a rundown of what that's like for me:

By nature, I wake up way earlier than I would ever want to. On a normal day, I'd get up and do a normal routine that would result in me getting in my car and going to the office by 8 a.m. or so. These days, I wake up at some ungodly hour after a sleep routine that resembles something haunted and involving an alien invasion and during which there might be a bizarre midnight snack involving Velveeta cheese and whatever crackers are within reach.

5 a.m. is the worst. It's too early to want to get up and do anything, and just late enough that falling back to sleep (if even possible) might result in being seriously tardy.  The parochial Protestant work ethic lives on as a residual proletariat responsibility; Work or Die. Cake or Death.

Thus, I get up most days no later than 7 a.m., force my arthritic body into the shower where I stand as long as I can stand it and then do the ritual of getting ready for work which is to pull on a pair of (hopefully clean) sweat pants and a sweatshirt. Most days, my sweatpants have flour handprints on them from baking bread. My jeans fit last week (or was it the week before?), but God knows if they ever will again. I'm usually in front of my computer, reading my first emails, by 7:30 a.m.

I keep telling myself it is absolutely not required nor even particularly expected that I would be propped in front of this glowing screen that early, but the demands of a capitalist society that weighs the value of a human being by their work ethic and productivity...

And here I am. I get a paycheck every single week until my contract expires on April 31st, 2020 and until then the glowing of this laptop screen will light my windows in a cold blue glow by 7:30 a.m. five days a week because to do otherwise would be death.

Martin Luther would easily agree with my Protestant work ethic, but Jesus H. Christ it's killing me right now.

The alternate life right now is the many who are unemployed. Among them are the hairdressers, massage therapists, acupuncturists, physical therapists, personal trainers, gym employees, swim coaches, contractors, pet groomers, aestheticians, mani/pedicurists, ... Jesus, the list is really too long. All these people have absolutely zero reason to get up at any specific time in the morning, nor anything to do at those times of the morning, yet I guaran-fucking-tee you they are waking up at 5 or 6 a.m. and laying there with their eyes open wondering What The Actual Fuck they are going to do today? With no paycheck and a wonky promise of some Federal assistance that looks like it might be a day late, dollar short, I suspect far more small businesses will fail than will survive. The outcome, when we all crawl out of this dark, dank hole will be a world that has lost so many rich and wonderful amenities, with lovely things to eat, and invaluable contributions to our daily lives will be our eternal loss. The world will never be the same; no not at all. At some point, we will all being doing the Time Warp and wishing we could go back to the way it was, which it never can be again.

Cake or death is the choice I have to make here. I'm choosing cake, by God. Even if it kills me.

Everyone Has a Soapbox

I started this on Saturday night, scrolling around watching what people are sharing these days. About the only thing I'm not mad about right now is Sam Cooke.

I am paying these all some mind because I figure people have reasons for topics that they feel strongly about, even if they're wrong sometimes.  Here's my top three today:

1. The meat industry; how we treat animals; being carnivorous. I'm going to start this with how many people are outraged at the Wuhan wet market (and I'll get to that later) and (Chinese) people eating bats and pangolins. Well fuckerama people, we sure do have a lot of judgment about what other people do, as we sit here gnawing on a pig's rib bone.

I saw an intelligent video posted by a FB friend on this one. My eyeballs usually roll up in my head when people post their preachy shit on this topic, but this woman isn't preachy. She made a conscious decision to stop eating animal products and it was a journey. I respect her this way, and find she conducts reasonable discourse on the topic. In case you want to watch it, here is the Facebook video from Earthling Ed.  I warn you that it lulls you into feeling all your humanity for humans, then drops some sad and disturbing images of mass-farming animal abuse. If it doesn't make you stop and consider why you are eating that BBQ rib, then you have no heart.

Disclaimer is that I am a meat-eater, so I'm not trying to convince you of anything. It would just make me feel I've accomplished something if even one person took the time to think about this. I try to be socially conscious of where my meat comes from, and I am deeply conflicted. I am conflicted because I am selfish and entitled and would feel deprived if I stopped eating the flesh of another animal. I will likely never be vegan, but I can choose to source the animals products I do consume with some sense of responsibility. Mass farming, mass dairy, mass anything that comes from animals ensures the misery of other living beings. I don't want to get all preachy, but it's hard not to. Eggs can come from happy chickens. Milk and cheese can come from happy cows. Honey can come from bees who are humanely kept and whose honey is taken with responsibility and care for the bees who made it. Meat can, in fact, come from an animal that is relatively humanely killed. I won't go into details since most people I know can't even eat meat that doesn't come in plastic wrap, let alone acknowledge it came from an actual live animal. I am willing to have a conversation about a more humane way to be carnivorous. The truth is, though -- it still requires that an animal die for us to eat them.

We eat too much meat in this country. We mass-produce living, breathing creatures to produce far more than they were ever designed to so that we can have the luxury of their meat and products. Everyone would be healthier and happier if we at least reduce our consumption. That brings me to entitlement, #2 on the moral outrage list.

2. People in various states, including my home state of California, protesting that their rights have been taken from them because of the stay at home and social distancing orders.

These are the same people who haven't said shit about the increased mortality among black people, who probably don't even know that the Navajo nation is being ravaged by this disease, or that the people who pick their produce are risking their lives to gather our food. These protesters are the same people who carry signs saying "My body, my choice" and well, I don't think I need to explain that one. If I do, leave me a comment and I will explain it to you.

With so much entitlement they seem incapable of seeing that they are the root of so many problems, including this one, apparently. I am sincerely angered by the shiny white faces with their signs, marching around demanding they get their God-given rights back.

You know that during the last 40 days or so, there hasn't been one school shooting? In a country that has had so many of this particular atrocity it has become practically normalized, I'm here to say: If the way we stop our children from being terrorized at their schools is by keeping people on Stay at Home orders, then by all means -- let's keep it up. We all know school shootings have been entirely perpetrated by white people and those are the people protesting. Keep 'em on lockdown, I don't give a shit.

On a more local level, I see some people calling themselves having quarantine parties. They have a special occasion and blur the lines enough that they figure having a few people over to celebrate is okay. The plausible deniability clause is that everyone has been in solitary confinement for two weeks, so it must be okay. Isn't that just a reset, because after the little party isn't everyone a potential carrier again? It's not okay to have moral outrage for a group of protestors if you're stepping over the line yourself. That's being just as selfish as the protestors are.

That said, these protestors seem to think us libtards are enjoying this. Let me assure we are not, but I'd like to believe we are generally behaving ourselves for the betterment of the community. The idea that we must never go without, be uncomfortable or otherwise sacrifice something for everyone else is just so.... American.

3. Chinese wet markets. Look, everyone in this country eating whatever animals parts we believe are more okay than others seems to have something to say about this. I admit that the idea of eating bats or pangolins or other exotic animals is appalling to me because I have a cultural bias. Let me further assure you that there are very few Chinese people eating those animals. Yeah, I don't want to hear about certain ethnic groups eating rats, cats, dogs and horses. Unless you tell me you're not eating meat, you don't get to judge. I have my limits, and bats, pangolins and seriously, octopus, are on my list of no-gos, but I cannot judge an entire group of people for one market. It would behoove the Chinese government to ban sales of these animals, I think, but then, it would behoove the U.S. to retighten our own restrictions and perhaps we shouldn't revere those disgusting trophy hunters who wantonly kill endangered animals in Africa either. Who is this pot calling the kettle black? 

Wet markets are, quite simply, farmer's markets -- see this Youtube for a reality check (and don't be scared off by the FOX news opener). Wet markets not only have animals and meat, they have eggs, dairy, fresh produce and things like fresh noodles and pickles, as well as fresh flowers. There are also dry markets, which as you may intelligently surmise, sell non-fresh products like spices, canned foods, and dried goods.

The Wuhan wet market is a bit unique, apparently, in that it is known for offering wild animals as well as the domestic meats that are more frequently seen on the kitchen table. This is not the norm.

While it is widely accepted that COVID19 originated from the Wuhan wet market, it is erroneous, dangerous and racist to condemn Chinese wet markets because of this. Americans are way too quick to make dangerous, sweeping generalities about other cultures when we usually don't even look at our own practices (see #1). We are a racist, individualistic society who too easily judge others. Our bloated, selfish, unbridled capitalism is as much at fault for the spread of this disease as anything else.

As my friend Piero wrote the other day, "Unregulated capitalism is the reason we are in this pandemic" and none of us are exempt from culpability to some extent or another.

A Stream of Consciousness

"We can't touch each other, but we can be touched by each other" -- Regina Wells, Healer

There is a lot to learn in this place we are in, but it takes a willingness to introspect and be vulnerable.

What does this time allow us?

Maybe it's granting us access to something truly unique: a true pause.
To consider what is important
To witness how the natural world reveals itself when we are absent
To love each other so damned much we would rather be alone than cause harm

We are witness to terrible, unnecessary fear
Why are so many so hungry when farmers have to throw their product away
Why are so many afraid they will lose their homes when the richest get paid out?
Why must we watch our friends and loved ones struggle to get aid?

I am not concerned with any of my own deprivation, because
There are people who are hungry
and people who are hurting
and people I cannot keep safe
and people I love out there, struggling with their fear who I cannot help.

I cannot help them. I cannot hold them. I cannot do anything but stay away from them, because I love them too much to do otherwise.

We have a deplorable in office, whose sole concern is his popularity,
and the money he never really had anyway
and whether or not he is right
and whether or not we are watching him
Was he abused as a child, and am I supposed to give a damn about that right now?

Here in the safety of my own situation, insecurity threatens. I am afraid; afraid of what I don't know.

I am concerned about how this could make us even more a nation of individualists, more concerned with getting what the individual needs as opposed to what is better for the community. There are people I know who are like closet alcoholics (one drink won't hurt), who are making concessions for social gatherings because (it's just my birthday, or it's Easter - we have to do this for the kids) and then proclaim that they are "in quarantine" and "social distancing".  It isn't for me to judge, per se' whether they are doing right or wrong, but it does make me question whether that is good for the community. Of course, it's good to be in the same room with those we are closest to, and yes, it's actually good for us to be in company. Our emotional health relies on connection. What I question is, am I potentially doing something harmful for the community -- my community?  To this end, I ask: by depriving myself of your good company, I am helping myself, for I want nothing more than for you to live and live and live.

The question in the back of my mind has been, "how long am I willing to forgo seeing my son and my grandchildren?" I have an answer in mind, and the explanation for that is simple; I cannot live endlessly without seeing them. I won't go six months and probably not over three months, but I can be in peace right now without seeing them.  Seeing me would do none of us any good if any one of us were to get sick, nor would death make a visit worthwhile. But I an unlikely to go much further into this year without seeing them. I have not seen my son and my granddaughter since February. I haven't seen my grandson since March 17th. I have not seen my favorite people in the entire world in two months.  How long am I willing to go without seeing them? In the back of my mind I know that if I were to end up in the hospital, they could not come to see me and thus I would have spent this entire time without them only to potentially die without seeing them.

I cannot reconcile this.

The quiet outside is extraordinary and a return to nature that we will likely never experience again in this lifetime. The sky is clear of airplanes. The sound of traffic on the freeway a couple miles away has dimmed. The general clang and clatter of construction work and street traffic no longer has to be filtered. I am reminded of my childhood when I spent my summers in the hills outside Garberville. When I slept outside in a large open meadow, surrounded by forest, and see all the stars in the sky at night, and the owls hooting echoed around us in the forest. Coyotes howled and we weren't afraid. When the stillness wasn't questioned, it was as it should be.

Intermittent social media posts share pictures of coyotes running down the street in San Francisco, a herd of deer in downtown Oakland, and wild turkeys roosting on cars.  I yearn to find an abandoned baby opossum, but I'd rather they stay safely holding tight to their rambling, Seussian mothers.

In a world filled with the noises of human commerce, I forget that quiet and the peace it brought. Right now, when I step outside there are so many birds -- far more than I ever have seen before. Are there more or are they just more noticeable? The tiniest of finches fill the tree in my front yard. I have missed the blue jays but now see a few here and there. For the first time ever, there are beautiful small birds with brilliant red feathers on their wings. I hear all of them singing, I don't know what they are. But they are here, and they are beautiful and I don't want them to disappear when humans take back over control of the world.

I need to read the Lorax again, because I now know once we disappear, the earth truly does abide and she will come back with force once we completely annihilate our species.

  “I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” - Frank Herbert, Dune

Babatunde': The Father Returns

As I write this, I am watching Imani Community Church's Easter Sermon on Zoom. I am not a member of this church but am a friend with many in its community. Faith can be found in many sources. Hope is not a church, it is a state of being, a state of community and a state of grace. Thank you Paulette Johnson for inviting me and sending the link. 

I found Babatunde five years ago at the Ethnic Arts Warehouse. He was mounted on a shelf, surrounded by other artifacts from West Africa. Among the jumble of stolen things, sat this guy.  He is from Nigeria and once lived in an Ancestor hut, or a shrine, in a village somewhere. Inside of him would have been the skull of the ancestor he represented. 

My heart cried for him. Instead of his skull, he had a museum spiral which kept him erect on the shelf. It felt as if he were calling out to anyone who could hear him "please take me to my home". I couldn't shake the feeling that he urgently needed help. I left the store, only to return a while later. His price tag was steep. The proprietress told me a man had come in several times already, concerned for this piece of 'artwork', but who could not afford him. As it turned out, the gentleman was a Yoruba priest who was also fretting for the ancestor on the shelf. The proprietress wasn't so much amused by this situation as she was enjoying being a part of a cultural issue that she did not understand at all. She did not offer to reduce the price. I took money from our savings, without consulting my husband, and brought him home. 

That night, I had a dream and was told his name was Babatunde. I had to look it up as I'd never heard the word before. It means The Father Returns. 

It is Easter and has just been Passover, the Holy Days. My faith is in another tradition, and even so I have a deep reverence for those other beliefs.  Spring's sacred days, filled with life, rebirth, hope and prayers for the future, are calls for potent divine prayers to the Universe. 

I woke up this morning really feeling my soul. I am a daughter of Obatala, the great father of us all. Obatala is the Orisha of wisdom, justice and life. His children, like me, have tendencies that are attributable to our Father -- who is our 'head' where, in this tradition, the soul resides. We children of Obatala tend to be well-suited to being alone and in deep thought. We have tendencies to compassion and deep intolerance of injustice. We are potent when angry, and yet we usually refrain from outright confrontation with a preference to reason unless deeply provoked. There are many attributes to Obatala, and a person can vary between those attributes. I mention the ones that are clearly mine. 

Obatala is ancient, with white hair and a stooped walk. He carries a long staff. He brings the wisdom of the ages to us and with that sometimes is a deep heaviness of heart. We children of Obatala can suffer greatly when the world is in pain, as it is today.  I know we are not alone in feeling this but I also know that we communally have hope that we can restore ourselves and our world. Now is a good time for a reset of reflection and faith. 

I am supposed to wear white, the color of purity, more often than I do. I tend to shy away from it because it gets stained so easily. Wearing white is a responsibility - a reminder, if you will - that we must be aware and awake of our actions. That we must be pure of heart. The smallest mishap can leave a stain, a lack of purity, and for me, this is a meaningful metaphor. When I wear white, everything I do is done consciously. Nothing is done carelessly, or I will wear the impurity of my actions.   

Let me tell you what happened this morning. As I was doing my morning ablutions, I picked up a bottle of hyssop oil and it spilled down my arms as if I'd cut my wrists. I thought I'd picked up frankincense, one of three oils I often use to bring me closer to the Orisha. The room filled with the heady, acrid smell. Obatala just reminded me to get out of my internal world and back to Him. I put on my whites and my warrior beads and sat down to read, being a follower of the intellectual path of Obatala's children, for which we are known, and found this: 

 "Take a bunch of hyssop, dip it into the blood in the basin and put some of the blood on the top and on both sides of the doorframe. None of you shall go out of the door of your house until morning" - Exodus 12:22

Struggling with this quarantine for me is not the many hours of solitude. In fact, being alone is a luxury that feels absolutely correct at this time. However, being in solitude also means that those who must comprise my heart are deeply missed.  

It doesn't take a child of Obatala to feel a sense of pain in this solitude, but for me most of the hours of each day in which I am alone is a rich pantheon of textures, thoughts and internal conversations. My life is not boring here. Rather, it is filled with my own ritual and rhythm. Of course I miss people and I miss my daily routines outside this house, but in its disorganization and clutter, my world is truly in here. With Keeya, by Paul Lewin and my painted cow skull from Lori Gregg Denman, to turkey feathers from Marin County I am surrounded by beauty inside. 

In these days of quiet solitude, I have started playing the piano again, and have picked up a long forgotten knitting project. Little doodles come to me and colored pencils stay on my coffee table, along with many cookbooks, a book of Orisha songs and a journal. I watched a lot of TV for the first couple of weeks, then found that either I could not pay attention or could not tolerate the inundation of information and loud advertisements.  Yes, inside me there is a lot going on and we will all return, and like Babatunde, it might not be the same world it was before but it will be home.  

I am playing Orisha songs, contemplating my relationship to the Universe and listening to the dog snore.  Conjunto de Folklorico de Cuba has a wonderful album of Orisha songs. Here is their Canto for Obatala.  Another song for Obatala by the beautiful and vibrant Bobi Cespedes is glorious.



Meferefun Obatala, thank you Baba for guiding me through this life. 

Be Like Vanessa, Not Like Me.

Three weeks into our social isolation project, we are told this is the 'worst week' yet with deaths and diagnoses skyrocketing. So far, whoever 'they' are who said that, are right. It's the worst week yet in terms of number of deaths, for sure, but it's also my worst week yet because I am tired, fed up, out of patience and lacking a certain amount of compassion I used to have.

No doubt everyone is feeling the pinch of something right now; lack of connection, missing people we are closest to. Restricted from parks, recreation, restaurants, stores and most of all, separated from the people we love. Worried about whether there will be any toilet paper or eggs, or butter or something else we use on a regular basis and rely on causes more tension, as lines at the stores lumber along like depression-era bread lines and the bathroom supply shelves as barren when you finally do get inside. I have not been to a store in two weeks.

I have reached the point, in this cruel exercise of austerity and isolation, of claiming not giving a shit. I don't give a shit about my clueless roommate who, without the graces of my well-stocked home, would be wiping his ass with leaves. I am at a loss of patience with people's lack of compassion and gratitude, including my own. I am sick and tired of my sofa, every book I have to read, and anything that is on TV. I am bored by the weeds in my yard and the dog hair on the floor I have to sweep up. I'm sick of peeing because then I have to use toilet paper which is in short supply. In short, I'm sick and tired of everything.

To be honest, this is all just angst and grief, and in all of that, the realization that life is too short, and some people are a waste of time. Enough of the wasted time. I no longer want to deal with people who are selfish, unnecessarily rude, unhelpful, unkind and people who won't smile or say hello, as well as people who aren't self-reflective, which is an awful lot of people I'm afraid. In short, the lack of humanity is making me awfully grumpy.

And yes, I'm an asshole, and probably just like everyone else stuck in this hellhole called Life in a Pandemic, my patience is shorter than usual.

Are you tired? I'm working from home so no commute, taking breaks to get outside for some air here and there, generally taking it easy on myself and having a helluva time sleeping. I am hearing so many others also having sleep issues they never had before. I've had sleep problems for years, but right now has gone beyond that, and I am not alone. I am so fatigued I can't wait to finish my work day and sit here in a stupor, just waiting for another craptastic night in hell so I can move into another day.

Walking the dog is an interesting fun thing, though. There are so few people out, it's like Christmas Day most of the time. A few people here and there, we move away from each other. People with lovely little people, who they corral as far from me and Lola as they can get. One mother waved awkwardly at me and smiled. I smiled back, and I think it was a sad smile. My walks are slow and lingering. I stop to smell the jasmine and the newly blooming roses. I fondle beautiful leaves and admire little overgrown nooks and crannies, hoping to find elves or fairies. My feet are arthritic now, and they hurt, but I have feet and can walk. Blessings.

There are times as I sit here working and hear someone walking past with some little people and I go outside just to see them totter down the sidewalk and say silly kid things. One parent told their miniature person, "Poopsie, you can't pick the flowers in other people's yards!" and I said, "Yes you can! Come pick mine!" and the mom smiled and the kid clutched her California poppy and they moved along.

My next door neighbor has a small one born in late January, so he's a few months old now. Wilder, his name is, has certain times of the day when he wakes up fighting mad. I hear that small person screaming in indignation and he doesn't calm it down until he's exhausted himself. He poops himself out with his neophyte rage, his parents tell me, and then promptly passes out. I find him utterly charming, and sometimes go outside where I can hear him raging away because he is life and life is good.

The little people are going about their business as much as usual if they can. I feel bad for the children who know something is wrong, and life is weird, and they may be acting out and making their parents crazy. We expect kids to be resilient and often forget that they are sensing and feeling everything around them, but God bless them, they just act like life is what it is even when inside they are quaking. Let's not forget that even those who are not able to say it are feeling this situation in their own way. We're all being traumatized to some extent or another.

My friend Vanessa, who passed in mid-March, would have been really tolerant of this weirdness. She would get up and post something about how nice it was to wake up today, and would post a picture of her daily banana (she hated them but had to eat them for potassium) which she would draw a face on and describe the banana's daily mood. She would take a walk once a day, rambling around wherever she happened to be living, and detail occasional meetings with people she ran into. She lived a relatively sheltered existence and not an easy one but she made the most of it. She had overcome many hardships and traumas and yet... and yet, every day she had something positive to say. There was always something good in her experience, even when her life seemed so hard in many ways.

I lost a friend when she died, and this week I lost another, not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless. Another friend had a dramatic emergency surgery, lost a part of their body, and is safely home now. Friends of friends are dying. Some from their illnesses, some from this damned virus. Everyone's life is precious.

In the end, Vanessa did not complain about the cancer that would kill her. She knew it would, said little about it, and her posts were almost 100% positive unless someone made her really mad. She had a son she had given up for an open adoption, is severely autistic, and who she adored. She would catch the bus from Antioch to Oakland with a ton of food she had cooked especially for him0. She baked a cake for a mutual friend, brought it by bus an hour away to deliver to him and his dad out of sheer generosity of heart. When I last saw her, three days before she died, she was as gentle and sweet as she had been before she got sick, but a little fluttery -- she reminded me of a beautiful butterfly, actually. She never said it outright, but she knew she was at the end, and clearly she was at peace with that. She just had a quality about her, you could not not love Vanessa. No, that woman was pure heart.

Here's a lesson: don't hesitate to reach out to someone you love. Don't skip that phone call because you're feeling reclusive and alienated. I'm the most internal, hide under a rock human ever and it's something that I'm just coming to grips with, and it's hard for me to reach out. I push myself. I push myself to find something positive there, I remind myself that everyone is vulnerable. I remind myself that anger and grief and feelings of helplessness right now, and in other times of life, are normal and acceptable. I do know, though, I cannot act out on other people. My mantra: stay kind.

I remind myself to be more like Vanessa. I guess I care after all.

Here's a picture of Vanessa and Xavier Dphrepaulezz, the genius behind Fantastic Negrito. Also a link to Fantastic Negrito's Tiny Desk, which I hope you enjoy as much as I do.

Day Sixteen & Seventeen: American Hubrus

6.6 million people have filed for unemployment this week.



The Governor of the State of Florida finally threw in the flag a couple days ago, March 31st, and issued a Stay at Home mandate for his State. He went back and forth with Trump, but each wanted the other to make a decision. Neither one of them had the balls to make a decision. I'm guessing it's because neither wanted to take responsibility for that red states backlash.

Meanwhile, Florida had it's normal Spring break and article after article showed packed beaches with breathing bodies. Local administrators closed the beaches, because the governor wouldn't, and by March 18th, 2020, positive test results showed ~330 people had tested positive. Still, if the beaches were any indicator, Floridians, the state with the highest percentage of retired people, were congregating, business as usual.  Today, Florida has about 7,000 confirmed cases which is about 6800 more than California did when our Governor mandated stay at home.

Good luck, Florida, I think you're in for a bumpy ride.

This is not to say there isn't over-reach going on out there, and here's a POV from a person I know and respect, and whom I often do not agree with. However, she makes some good points. Pay attention to the domino-effect of draconian shut-down measures which can create more pay, suffering and cess-pools of disease.

"Corona Virus over reach part 843.
I'm not a huge fan of those that manage our park district even while I am an incredible fan of the parks they manage. That doesn't mean I don't respect the work of the boots on the ground - though some of them clearly wish they had become police officers instead of park rangers, and some in their little private police department clearly wish they had applied to a 'real' police department instead.
There are some on the board who have used that role to advance a personal agenda that has no place in a park system which provides open space to an incredibly wide ranging set of families, sports enthusiasts, nature buffs and which has to safeguard the natural world we are privileged to share.There are some who have blatantly used a position board as a stepping stone to further their ambitions to higher office and there are some who have understood perfectly that bringing bike fanatics, dog fanatics, bird fanatics and all the other fanatics to the table is a necessary and often ugly part of the process.
While promoting a segment on our local NPR radio station yesterday the District boasted about how they are keeping the parks open for use by the people in this area who are desperate during these times for some open air activity and exercise - with their kids, with their dogs, with their living companions, and with their friends (while keeping social distance). Yet, the fencing went up at Point Isabel yesterday, the largest off leash dog walking open space in the nation.
And I can tell you exactly how that impacted the park I use every day - the Albany Bulb - and the chaos it caused in the tiny parking lot - made worse by the fact that bad corporate neighbor Golden Gate Fields has closed it's gates to through traffic even though this is a public right of way, and the Park District is still running months behind on the parking area behind the beach and one cannot park there.
But one community this has had effect on is the large homeless community living in RV's along Rydin Road, the road leading to Point Isabel, where until yesterday there were toilets to use and water to access.
The bushes along Rydin Road are now becoming a new open sewer. We may not like the vast communities of homeless in our area. But they are here. And they are our collective responsibility. They are being pushed from one place to another, they are growing in numbers. Every action taken by the Park District impacts far more than the thousands of dog owners at Point Isabel. Well done East Bay Regional Park District."

The U.S. is full of people who are far more concerned with their individual comfort than they are the safety of the community as evidenced by the numbers of people reported at these public open spaces with their bikes, trikes and families. Everyone tries to stay six feet away from other people, but that's impossible to maintain when the parks are packed.

Stay the Fuck at Home, like Samuel L. Jackson says.