Here we are once more, friends.
We welcomed you back, neighbours beyond the ring of steel, now we say hooroo again.
We haven’t used those words, this time, have we?
There’s something less fortress-like, now, in the ambience.
I don’t feel like being a warrior battling through, do you?
There’s not much to write, this time.
This is writing about nothing, because there is nothing to write, smothered in The Nothing. Our Neverending Story.
Wish I had a Falcor to wrap me in shiny pink scales and give me hope as luckdragons are meant to do.
My head is one of those cone silencer things you jam in the end of a trombone.
Anyone else feeling a bit fuck-fuddled?
Facebook and Insta are dull as dishwater. Or is it ditchwater?
Whatever, it’s boring as bat-shit. It’s mind-numbing.
The adult variety of First Day of School photo with stamped Pfizer or Astra Z cards.
I posted one. It got a lot of likes.
Important to be reminded of vaccinations.
Good to get likes, I guess. Makes you feel liked.
My hair was grey though.
Over on Twitter, @patskarvelas and @mjrowland68 are checking in on us. Thank you. Someone has to, I guess.
@davemilbo tells us he is drinking Cranberry and Pomegranate tea because he is fucking bored, @thewildgoose’s kids are playing body races along polished wooden floorboards with their chins, and @annaspargoryan has a custard eclair mushed into her skull.
It’s going simply wild.
The school mums’ WhatsApp chatter is uncannily quiet.
There was one message about a 6-year-old’s home learning description, of the Macrauchenia with a penis nose, sent to his teacher.
Don’t know what that is? Look it up, you’ve got time.
We giggled hard, then retreated.
Tedious on there too. Who wants a tête-à-tête on Learning Intentions, anymore?
The Commonwealth could do with some hotel quarantine Learning Intentions.
‘Class, your Learning Intentions for today are:
to understand how to avoid leaks; and
to make sure there are no leaks,’
from your teacher.
A Concept Unit on ‘Aged Care’, or ‘How to support those missing pay checks who cannot afford to eat’ perhaps.
We are reaching out to those missing pay checks, that’s lovely. No one should go this alone, should they?
At the vaccination centre, the fire alarm shrieked.
Nobody moved from their allocated chair.
We’re playing it low-key, this time. We’re cool, chillaxed. Or are we dazed?
And also, we wanted to get vaccinated, because they said it’s a race.
I’m in total slo-mo, are you?
The fig tree in our yard has almost lost all its giant golden leaves. Some keep on clinging.
Others drift noiselessly down, probably thinking, ‘Fuck it,’ ‘I’m pretty done here!’
We’ve oscillated between the grieving stages, each lockdown, haven’t we?
Are you at acceptance, now? I think that’s where it’s at.
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross wrote that acceptance should not be mistaken for a happy stage.
It is almost void of feelings.
I’m annulling this week and next.
We don’t know past that yet, do we?
I’ll keep my options open, I guess.
The New York Times told us the word is languishing.
Maybe that’s where I am. Languishing. Lackadaisical.
The blood moon was pretty, wasn’t it?
I hope we don’t reach melancholy.
My brother taught me that word, melancholy.
It was after I fell on my face at primary school and bled, a lot.
We are a bit scabbed, aren’t we?
I hope you’re doing ok, this time.
I’m just going to pop myself under a soothing weighted blanket, for now.
I hear they do good things, for this stage we’re in.