Life (& Christmas) in times of COVID

LIFE (& CHRISTMAS) IN TIMES OF COVID

I miss the slapstick comedy and camaraderie of daily life, the tickles and the tugs, the usual fluster and bluster of humans trafficking without the need to mask up and distance, the hustle, the bustle.

Now we must light the wicks of slow-burning votive candles, making shadows dance in the waxy glow leaving childish dribbles that harden as we pray for better

The rough edges of frustration and patience rubbing into blisters with the wait as we slowly buckle under the ominous weight of it all while the year folds into Christmas.

We may have shovelled fluffy snow into hopeless melting men, shoved in two coal-dark eyes, a carrot nose, pebble-dashed an upturned mouth and poked in twiggy arms to greet Santa in case he might miraculously appear.

There was before and there is now. A now unlike any other in recent times as timidity and terror take-on the tremendous tenacity and calm advance of an ignoble foe that literally takes away the breath of some as it relentlessly chips away at the spirit, nest-eggs, lifestyle and dreams of the rest.

We are seeing dreams dashed into smithereens, such that no sovereign’s stallions or batallions could reassemble them even for a King. Is this perhaps then the Winter of our Disinfectant or just the ways ‘Of Bats and Men’ faced with ‘The Lychees of Wrath! For sure Steinbeck would have known how to tell this story of Chicanery and Woe!.

Then there comes the third act with the fascination for vaccination and the coming post-jab euphoria which will have us emerge onto a devastated, boarded up, wracked and ruined stage where the fortunes of the fortunate have weathered and grown whereas the fortunes of the less fortunate lie withered or blown.

As sure as eggs is eggs, we shall gather our skirts, gird up our loins, dig in our spurs and ride on. We shall strut and fret, re-group and rumble until we are heard from no more but simply pass on the baton for others to bat on, battle on, batter down the barricades against which we should otherwise stumble.

After all, the world is a stage and “life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” At times like these I ask myself who took over responsibility for the scriptwriting and tried to kid us it was anything more than just that!

Done dining Now unwinding In front of the telly Rather full belly Glasses of wine Feeling fine! Just us three No decorations No lights, no tree Just the candle Dianna and me And her mum of course Rather odd days In so many ways Hard to express More or less A sense of undoing Unscrewing everything That once held together Coming apart at the seams Or so it seems Like the Tower of Babel Collapsing, disabled Too high too fabled It will never be the same Put up, win the game At least for me What I see Is a new beginning Maybe less is more Not like before When excess was for sure Now we must lick our bones Rub stones Clear the road Light a fire Warm our hands Understand This needed to be. No tree No lights Just a candle In the night