Pandemic Diaries: May - July

I miss crowded dirty city streets. I miss bumping into people on the sidewalk. I miss squeezing into an elevator. I miss standing shoulder to shoulder on a city bus. I miss shuffling from painting to painting with the throngs of people revelling at art at SFMOMA and DeYoung. I miss competing at the bar with the crowd to order a cocktail. I miss the sweaty drunken frat boys spilling their beers on me at The Fillmore. I miss San Francisco.

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My gratitude is not conditional. It does not expect rewards. I am not asking for guarantees or even reassurances that things are going to be ok. I know they are not. I know the other shoe eventually drops. Always. And I am still grateful.

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On Weariness

Weariness is not the same as sadness

Or is it?

I feel like a faded photograph of myself

Blurred at the edges

I feel like a smudged camera lens

A fogged up mirror

A t-shirt that’s been washed too many times

I am fraying at the seams

I have holes

I am pale and dry inside

I am crumbling away to dust

I am a pile of fallen leaves

Scattering in the wind

No that’s not true

That would be freedom

I am a pile of leaves

Stuffed in a black plastic bag

And tied with a ribbon

I am festering

I am fermenting

I am slowly disintegrating

One morning I will wake up

And there will be nothing left of me

Perhaps

Then I will feel relief?