MY UNEXPECTED HOUSE GUEST

Or, what to do when you have Covid, again, but this time it kicks your ass and stays for way too long.

It was January 2, 2020 the first time Covid made it's presence known.  Of course we didn't know what it was then, and I was virtually asymptomatic of all the supposed symptoms, so I never gave it a name.  In July of 2020 when I was hospitalized in Atlanta GA for food poisoning, they asked me if I had had it.  They told me that my lung xray showed that both lungs were covered in a white lace pattern that was particular to Covid.  Alas, it finally had a name [that weird January illness] even though it had been far too long for me to test positive for either the virus, or the antibodies.  So even though I lost my taste and a couple of other things I had hardly paid any attention to, the fact that I had never had a classic case of it meant that in my mind, it was history.

So when I tested positive on April 23rd with full blown symptoms, it seemed almost impossible given my "history", not to mention the pin cushion my arm had become with each new vaccination and booster shot.

It's now been 2 weeks.  After 5 days my temperature had gone up to 103 degrees, and then dropped again without 24 hours.  I thought I was out of the woods.  I had caught up on "Gentleman Jack", watched the final episodes of "Ozark", caught up on "Outlander" and watched several other streaming series from beginning to end.  It made sense.  It hurt my eyes too much to read, and standing up for longer than necessary showed me just how screwball my bedroom looked when I was too dizzy to remain upright.  Eventually the entertainment ran out, and my head ceased to feel like a concrete block perched on a toothpick.  So just as I thought I might have enough strength to go out for a short walk around the block, I was advised that it was time to go to the hospital to check on my heavy lungs to see if there was a blood clot.  Oh fun.

I'm back in bed again.  But this time, I'm back to my favorite form of entertainment, YouTube University.  I have so far followed a hiker through the Scottish mountains to Ullapool, watched several shows on how to plant an apple orchard, watched a young woman in southeast asia restore an entire house left to her by her grandfather - doing all the building herself, and two men build an A frame house in the woods while shooting footage of the various wildlife that hovered around during the build, written notes on growing potage gardens, saved videos on how to make fabric dyes from fruit and vegetables from your garden, dying wool from sheep and how to spin it into yarn... are you sensing a pattern here?

When I was in my early teens, I had a dream of building myself a house in the woods using all indigenous materials, right down to throwing pots and dishware from clay found in the local streams, looming fabric from locally grown fibers, and of course, growing all my own food.  I was one part hippy, one part survivalist, but unaware that I was either.  Within nanoseconds of graduating from high school, I found myself back in NYC, living in the east village and going to School of Visual Arts at the exact moment punk ruled the lower east side, soho lofts were filled with very young artists, and the city became the island of misfit toys.  Myself included.  All dreams of building homes from locally felled trees went by the wayside in lieu of homemade outfits from Canal Plastics, and staying out all night.

So here I am, in my Covid haze, reminded of the full circle that life creates and how desperately I want out.  I wonder if sitting here day after day trying to find any energy I can has left my brain to simmer on the things I want most and least have, and if so, is this something we are all doing?  Is it Covid or is it the state of change that Covid has created?  

Or is it just getting older.  

A N D Y W A R H O L

 I finished watching the Andy Warhol Diaries the other day, and then started to notice a lot of interesting questions from younger people, or those who weren't there. So I am going to try to describe it here [to the best of my ability].

Back then, keep in mind there were a LOT of young people in lower Manhattan. And everyone pretty much knew of everyone else at the very least. Within the larger scene, there were smaller circles, that all crossed over with other ones. Think of high school, but without the bullying. And everyone did something. In fact, everyone did many things. Musicians were also painters, and painters were writers, and writers were DJs, and so on. You were always known more publicly for whatever was your major activity, but amongst friends, there were always a myriad of other things you did. And opportunities were plentiful, so just showing up at a party one night and running into a friend, might lead to writing an article, or DJing at a club for a special night, or being in a music video. You get the idea. If you were broke, all you had to do was show up, and chances are somebody needed you to do something that would pay the next month's rent.

OK, the famous. Andy is always the best example. Everyone met Andy Warhol. Some people were acquainted, some had friendships, but everyone had a story. This was the same for so many of the rich and famous who spent their time in the downtown clubs as that was the height of cool back then. You went for the energy, for the scene, to be seen there...to experience the unique, the new. [This was before being "unique" became a buzz term for simply being "trendy". We loathed the word "trendy", because downtown was about invention, not following the latest.] So the rich and famous came out to play, and we were all chuffed to show them who we were.

It was also a numbers game. There were so many of us, and everyone was connected to everyone else, who were ultimately connected to somebody who could give you a leg up in your chosen art. Therefore the number of our circles who became famous was a large amount of people. Many of whom know each other, and many of whom are still friends with many of us, who might have already had our 15 minutes years earlier.

So for those of you who are too young to know, or were not part of the scene, I hope this makes some sense. It made sense to us, a long time agol

g r o w n

[I wrote this a long time ago... not sure when.  But found it in my drafts folder and thought it was an interesting take on how we become who we are - an odd opinion, so I wonder what I was thinking about at the time.]

By the age of 9, I was a scientist, an engineer, a naturalist, a dancer, a woodworker, a painter, an astronomer, a gardener, a biologist, a writer and a singer.  I began as all children do, with a myriad of interests diverse, curiosities varied.  But as we grow we are asked, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Our parents, having also given no choice but to pick something at an early age, were given to certain occupations according to their skills, and the interests of their own parents.  Guided by familiarity, and family connections where they exist.  So the interests and curiosities are focused into funnels by which we all study, directed in a straight line toward a goal.  A goal that will earn us a living, point us in a direction of success, give us a place in the world.

Some of us as hard as we try, find that no matter how focused we try to be, remain a scientist, an engineer, a naturalist, a dancer.  How irresponsible of us in a world that wants to categorize you so they know where you belong in the order of things.  So the diversity we once held so close, becomes a hobby, or completely invisible.

COVID 01 : SALLY 00

Lady Corona paid an unexpected visit.

I have an issue with talking about health; or more specifically sickness.  This might be the result of having close relations for whom all various ills and impediments were the subject of every conversation.  Not just what was wrong, but how it could be resolved with remedies that were clearly smarter than what doctors had to offer.  [The same philosophy that led several family members to also believe that they were smarter than all their teachers and when appropriate, college professors].  So in my own speech, other than a quick report when and IF asked, generally I try to stick to talking about everything and anything, but.

So when the emergency room doctor announced to me that I had Covid pattern scarring on my lungs which is of course a sign that I had already had coronavirus, well... I immediately became aware of the fact that this seemed almost impossible as I had no symptoms.  Or had I?  Had my neurotic denial of all health discussion colored my view of my own lack of wellness?  Am I not alone in this, and all versions similar to, like being too busy just trying to make a living to pay attention to taste buds, smell, and the number of headaches in a week.  

Have we all been sick the entire time?

Dec 24, Knoxville TN.  2020 is slowly fading into the white of the snow blinded horizon, and a fleet of grounded flights never to get home in time for Christmas.  It's not the kind of year that is terriby condusive to celebration anyway.  No parties, no carolers on the streets, no gifts and no family and friends.  It's hard on every and anyone.

So I'm in Knoxville TN in a Hampton Inn, watching Christmas rom coms and eating cookies I shouldn't.

Jan 6, 2021, Raleigh, NC.  Cold.  

VOICES

Wichita, Kansas, today.

I've always had the uncanny ability to shut my eyes and imagine the sounds and shadows of years gone by.  The echoes of laughter and crackling of long skirts in the hallways of Versailles... the crunch of leaves beneath the feet of Indian tribes tracking in the forests of the northeast... the muffle of faded conversation and rolling wheels on the prairies of the American west.  I figure it's the gift of an active imagination, though some time ago a friend of mine referred to me as "spooky" in that way.  I suspect she probably was herself.

I'm in Wichita on a windy fall day, picturing all the signs of modern life around me gone, tumbleweeds blowing across the fields, and little else to see for miles.  I figure it's a gift, as sometimes it is the only thing I can hear or see on the lonelier days of travel.  Being a flight attendant is far more solitary than most people imagine, and especially in covid days when so many places are shut down, and at times there is nothing more than my gift to rely upon to keep me company on long layovers.  The whistling sound is haunting when there is nothing else to break it's consistency.  I heard it last on a hilltop in Montana where there was an iron fence surrounding a plot of land with only a few gravestones on it bent and crooked with time.  Some plastic flowers placed by someone in the past several years, now dirty from the dust shifted by the wind and deposited there.  Again, as I looked around, there was nothing but my imagination to create life.

I haven't written in a long time.  I think that wind stole my voice for a while.  It was so much louder than what I had to say.

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/117336311/frank-parish

THROUGH OTHER EYES

Over the years several people have suggested that I write my life story.  Seems like a common thread... so many of my peers also have stories to tell, as or more colorful than my own, but all interwoven threads.  I always thought that maybe it wasn't such a good idea since I am not good with criticsm.  It's part of the reason I took an exit left of the nightlife world to embrace what an old boyfriend referred to, as provincial.

Never could have children, so much of what would have made me "provincial" went out the window in that bucket of dreams.  But I wanted to return to a simpler life anyway, and still am working toward a cottage on a small farm away from the city.  Not to abandon all that I've known, but to enhance that which will make me happy.  Also a common thread... many of us have already done that with an eye to the fact that we have already led such full lives that there is little to look back and say, "wish I had done that".  We did.

But still, the idea of writing it all down has taken several decades to germinate, and now I find that I am finally writing it down.  But I've noticed that I seem to be writing my life story through the stories of those around me.  So is it a presumption of who I am through their eyes?  Or who they are through my own?  Or some combination of both?

Maybe the point of it all, is just to write it down.  I'll think about it later.  xoxo