Phantom of the Virus

My friend, Mark, sent the film above to me. We are both one type of homosexual cliché: The Broadway Musical Queen. (Click on it to enlarge it.)

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Yesterday was really warm. I had the doors and windows open in the house and the kitties loved that. (The doors and windows are screened so they can’t get out.) Thankfully, the Fern Garden (FG) is in the shade.

I like weeding now that I can see results! I get down on my hands and knees (instead of bending over) and I don’t use gloves; I prefer working bare handed. And I follow the adage: if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. 

My only problem is my left arm. For almost two months, that forearm has been hurting with a burning pain when I do certain things; I can’t sustain the pain of pulling or lifting with it. So, I have to do both the levering and then the pulling using just my right hand; I have to keep moving the weed lever from hand to hand, over and over. Consequently, progress is slow.

Last year, I ignored the FG. I didn’t pull one weed, and now I’m paying for it. There are weeds that explode. As soon as I touch one of them, its seed pods pop open and seeds shoot out everywhere as though spring loaded. And I use a plastic bag to harvest all the Dandelion seed heads as if it were dog poop.

When I stood back and looked at first the FG and then the whole yard, I was energized by what I saw. The yard looks great! And now the Ferns are visible in all their verdant glory. Before, all you saw was weeds. Now that I can see progress, I’m keen to carry on. 

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There are no flights anymore, so I hear nothing of civilization where I live. 

I hear the kids next door only infrequently. I hear the f’in’ dogs two lots away, barking every day around five when they are fed. Sandra has five miniature Dobermans and they all bark relentlessly for about five minutes. (It make me think about guns.) 

Sometimes I hear a distant chainsaw. I hear Ravens, other birds and Sea Lions almost every day, but all is quiet in the heat of the afternoons.

And I hear the sounds of my own work. That’s the entirety of the auditory repertoire here. Mostly right now, without airplanes, I hear nothing. So, when I work, I take my radio outside and listen to beautiful music (thanks to CBC 2—on my knees, weeding on a stunning day.     

(And … I’m losing weight from all the lifting, toting and bending. My stomach is looking less like the Hindenburg and more like a modest pregnancy and, I confess, it feels good.)

I went to Conspiracy Park in the afternoon because I didn’t on Saturday—it was a spectacular, twenty-six degrees! Anna, true to her word, did not arrive. Here’s what I think of that: I think it’s weirder to be ashamed of what you believe in than it is to believe in conspiracy theories.

I don’t care what she believes, but she seems to. But then, perhaps she likes to feel victimized for her beliefs. It might help her authenticate her belief in herself as an outsider. She seems to take pride in being non-mainstream.

Whatever.

Everything’s gotten so complicated at the park. But not yesterday. It was just Gunther and me and we declared the day a Covid-free day. I asked that we not talk about it. And when I got home, I made myself some cookies. Yum! And then, of course, I had a spa.

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Last night: The midwives and then World on Fire. I feel nothing watching it, but it has a black hole of an actor in it: Helen Hunt. She’s absolutely dreadful. The best I can say: No commercials, a handsome lead and a female lead who sings. (It ends next week.)