Comparisons between corona and Katrina are inevitable. But here’s one inescapable difference: In the wake of the storm, there was so much chaos, movement, pandemonium, adrenaline, rushing about, driving and crying, frantically searching – for people, pets, possessions.
It took weeks – if not months – for most folks to finally sit down on the couch one day – whose ever couch that might have been – and take a deep breath and take stock of what the hell just happened. To take stock of the damage done and the task ahead. To take stock of your stocks.
After all, this is no time for thoughts & prayers. Sure, Jesus saves – he’s a prudent guy and all that – but did he put it all into his 401k? The meek may inherit the earth, but the folks who keep their cash under their mattresses shall inherit the market.
How’s that Bitcoin holding up right about now, anyway?
Back then, despondency was held at bay simply because there was too much to do. But now? Hell, there’s nothing to do. We’ve been on the couch since day one.
But at least it’s our own couch this time, so there’s that.
So we look for things to do. Distractions, diversions and delights to stave off the anger and fear. Me, I’ve been writing a lot. Reading a lot. Playing more guitar than I used to. And I have also taken up the shovel as an “instrument” of vengeance and wrath.
I’m angry at the earth, so I have taken to assaulting her.
OK, that may be a bit melodramatic. Actually, in what has been either an act of altruism or insanity – or a mixture of both – I have been digging ditches and moving dirt on my partner’s property in Lacombe, where I/we have been hunkering down (hiding, actually) for the past two weeks.
With her Doomsday Garden now firmly planted – and thriving, so far – we took another step towards self-sufficiency by acquiring a small citrus grove that now needs planting. And therefore more digging.
We’ve got oranges, lemons and limes. She’s got some unspoken issue with grapefruits, so they’re out. Maybe she can solve that with her therapist. He’s offering online sessions now. What, no couch?
This is what it has come to.
Truthfully, I recommend the ditch digging thing. It feels good to sweat and feel the weight of soil in your hands and look upon the dirt under your fingernails at the end of the day and see it as a reward for your labors.
Best part is, there’s no need to rush and scrub them clean. Who the hell is gonna know? There’s probably a cubit of soil in our bed. But we feel the earth move under our feet – and legs and backs and arms – at night and in the morning and therein lies hope.
It’s springtime and the rest of the planets inhabitants are living their spry springtime lives. Birds and bees and all that.
And lastly, if you want a private chuckle, a sublime #smdh moment, turn on the morning news or radio and wait every fifteen minutes for the local traffic report.
“Traffic is flowing smoothly on the High Rise in both directions…the Causeway is clear of restrictions and flowing smoothly…I-10 westbound is clear of traffic…all lanes on the Huey P. Long…”
No shit, Sherlock? Thanks for the heads up.
Ah, humans. They can be so amusing sometimes.