Las Cruces, New Mexico: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Caught Again?

 

Gaza. COVID art. October 2020. Source: REUTERS/Mohammed Salem

"So sorry to have to send this text to you. This morning I tested positive for COVID. ..... " 

This from Diana, who came to El Paso with her husband, Pete, to volunteer at a migrant receiving shelter for a couple of weeks. We'd spent such a good time together on Sunday and Monday, with so much laughter.

Not a text I wanted to receive. Especially since I've been visiting daily with Drake's dad, Beck, who is physically vulnerable on at least three levels. 

It doesn't matter that:

• I'm pretty careful with my mask protocols; or
• I have abstained from trips to zydeco dancing venues, feeling as holy (and deprived) as a virgin saving herself for marriage; or
  
• I was pretty confident about my friends' practices, and that of the place where my friends volunteered in El Paso for the previous two weeks; or
• I've had one, two, and three vaccination doses in 2021, plus the first bivalent booster in October 2022; or 
• Had one bout with COVID in early 2022; or 
• I successfully avoided contracting COVID when my Jefferson City hostess came down with it.
  

And it sure doesn't matter that I had this on my list of things to do: Get the second bivalent dose. 

I last saw my friends on Monday afternoon. Diana's test was positive on Wednesday morning. I waited until Thursday afternoon to take my own rapid test to allow time for a sufficient quantity of viruses to accrue. The little fuckers. 

My Thursday afternoon test result: Negative. 

My Friday afternoon test result: Negative.

And finally, my Saturday morning test result: Negative! Hallelujah! 

My third and final negative test result. January 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

Jefferson City, Missouri: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Brown Paper Bags and a Jug o' Green Sanitizer

 

Brown paper bags with N95 masks inside. November 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 Over time, since the onset of the pandemic in 2020 (presumably), I've retired various of my cloth masks as they've shrunk in the dryer (whoops) or otherwise just seemed too tired to carry on. Or better said, put on. 

Awhile back, when they were plentifully-available at the Big Box pharmacies, I collected a supply of the government-subsidized N95 masks. But I didn't use these unless I had to because they:

1. Are kind of uncomfortable;
2. Are awkward to don and to take off;
3. Mess with my hair in the back of my head; and
4. Do not lend themselves to attachment to and hanging from a lanyard, which I prefer to use at times when I don't need the mask on, such as when I'm outdoors or going to a restaurant (I don't want to place my mask on a restaurant table and I don't want to scrunch it up into a pocket or purse - these kind of defeat the purpose of having a mask to begin with, given the dubious safety of surfaces it would touch)

When my hostess came down with COVID, the cloth masks weren't going to cut it. I pulled out my supply of N95 masks to wear inside the house. 

I had a limited supply, so I looked up how to reuse them, which is where the brown paper bags come in. 

The N95 bags are reusable, but the best practice is to:

• Drop the used mask into a brown paper bag;
• Close the bag; and
• Let the bag sit for a week. 

I like this North Dakota guide to healthcare staff because of its use of both "don" AND "doff." To don a mask feels fairly contemporary, but to doff one's mask is charmingly anachronistic, to wit: 

The mask can be placed on a clean paper towel or in a breathable container [e.g. a brown paper bag] when removed for breaks/eating.

Best storage for reuse during a shift would be a labeled breathable container to prevent contamination when redonning and doffing.

Continue to practice social distancing.

Hand hygiene should be done after doffing and before donning and again after donning.

I also bought a giant bottle of green sanitizer and a demi of disinfecting wipes. 

Giant green bottle of sanitizer. November 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Medium bottle of sanitizer and a demi of disinfecting wipes. Credit: Mzuriana.

While none of these would protect me from zombies or vampires, they were my weapons of choice against my hostess' COVID. 

They seemed to have been successful. We're both in the clear now.

Jefferson City, Missouri: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: The Seduction of Denial

 

Preface

I am a mistress of denial. I have skills in denial. I excel at denial.

So my comments below - about what appears to me as denial - is not about being judgy or belittling - and in no way - not even a microscopic bit - disdain. It is simply about who we often are as humans. 

The Seduction, Chapter 1

Both my hostess and I took trips over a long weekend. I went to Livingston, Texas. My hostess went to Kansas City. 

One of us came back with COVID. 

My hostess knew that her sore throat and general not-up-to-par-ness pointed to a common cold. She knew it.   

Nevertheless, I pulled out one of my government-used vanilla and orange sherbet test packets so she could take a test. 

Free rapid COVID tests from US government. March 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

So she did. And here's the power of denial. The C line was, of course, clearly evident. That's the control line. The T line (for test result) was faint. 

Because it was faint, much fainter than the control line under the C, my hostess felt that the test was likely negative. Because it couldn't be positive. Because she knew she just had a Before Times cold. 

Unfortunately, if you can see the T line, no matter how faint, that's a positive result. But don't take my word for it: 

• March 2022, SF Gate: What Does a Faint Line on Your COVID Rapid Test Mean? 
• June 2022, NBC News:  What to Know About COVID Tests: Accuracy, Inconclusive Results, Faint Lines, and More
• February 2022: UC Davis Health: How to Do an At-Home COVID-19 Rapid Antigen Test Correctly: 

"After 15 minutes, you’ll look for two things:

A line under the “C,” which is the control. 'It’s imperative that you get a line under the “C.” It lets you know that the test is working. If there’s no line under “C,” you’ll need to re-test,' Alvarado explained.

"If the area under the “T,” or test section, has no line at all, that means it’s negative for COVID-19. If there’s a line under the “T,” then the test is positive for COVID. 'It doesn’t matter how faint or how bright the line under the “T” is, if it’s there, it’s a positive test for COVID,' Alvarado said. [Underline added by me.]

 

Faint line on COVID test card - positive. Credit: SF Gate via Getty Images

 

My hostess' response: "Well, shit. .... Shit." This from a person who rarely swears.  

 

A sidebar on the CDC

You may wonder - and you should wonder - why I don't have a link to the CDC's guide on the at-home rapid test results info. I wanted to. And I looked for the information. But the information is for shit. 

The accompanying text for this video, for example, says it tells you how to interpret the result, but it does not. It slides right over to: "If you have a positive result ..." 

And this video, which the CDC linked to for my orange sherbet and vanilla test, which purported to have usage information by the manufacturer, was .... I don't know what the hell it was. But it didn't tell me how to interpret any results. Hell, it didn't even tell me how to conduct the test. 

Another test that the CDC links to, for a different manufacturer, was a link to an error page. 

Finally, in the third link, to the Abbot BiNox Now test kit link, I found actual instructions. Including this: "Even a FAINT line next to SAMPLE is a positive result." The video even included a magnifying glass image to reinforce the need to look closely at the test result.

I used to have great confidence in and respect for our country's Center for Disease Control. Both of these evaporated when Trump bullied and politicized both the agency and the pandemic itself. 

I only just today pulled up this 2020 Pro Publica article on same: Inside the Fall of the CDC. I make this point about the timing because I had come to my own conclusion about the CDC's loss of legitimacy as I watched Trump's rhetoric against the CDC and his appointments unfold in 2020. 

A dismal excerpt from the Pro Publica article:

"When the next history of the CDC is written, 2020 will emerge as perhaps the darkest chapter in its 74 years, rivaled only by its involvement in the infamous Tuskegee experiment, in which federal doctors withheld medicine from poor Black men with syphilis, then tracked their descent into blindness, insanity and death."

Note: The article is not just a thrashing of Trump and his subjects - it's about vulnerabilities within the CDC that already existed, and which exacerbated the failure to fulfill its mission to protect the public health of the United States. 

Another astounding excerpt from the Pro Publica report: 

"At a time when the pandemic had killed nearly 130,000 Americans, McGowan spent an hour and a half on the phone with the HHS general counsel and other senior officials to figure out how to make an exception for a dog. All the while, he told colleagues, his mind kept returning to the fact that the same administration was using the CDC’s quarantine power to deport thousands of children at the border with Mexico."

 

 The Seduction, Chapter 2

A few days ago, a New Mexico friend fell sick. When I say he "fell sick," I mean that he felt sick. Felt rather miserable, in fact. 

He, too, took an at-home rapid test. He told me the result was questionable. I asked why he called it questionable. He said "because the test result line is so faint." 

He'd scheduled a PCR for the following Monday. 

I explained, well, there's nothing questionable about your test result. Doesn't matter how faint the result line is: You're positive. 

I explained this wasn't just my opinion - it's in the test packet instructions. 

Just as it was for my hostess, who had to reorganize a number of commitments after her diagnosis, this was a real bummer for my New Mexico friend (in addition to having COVID, that is) because he'd been set to serve as an election worker on Tuesday, the 8th. 

On Monday, he took the PCR. Positivity confirmed.  

The Seduction, Chapter 3

Now to me. 

I was squarely negative when I took the at-home rapid test two days after my hostess' return from her long weekend trip and her positive test result. (It didn't seem to make any sense for me to take it before I'd even been exposed for any length of time, hence the two-day delay.)

In the meantime, I was hyper-vigilant about distancing, sanitizing, masking, and staying in different parts of her house. 

I re-took the test on the evening of the 9th day after her return from Kansas City. 

I had a thought process for waiting for the nine days (and I'm actually drafting this before I've taken the test), which was that: 

• If I've been infected, it will surely show up in the test result after so many days of exposure; and
• If I've not been infected after so many days of exposure, I am probably OK. Because in theory (my theory), each day that passed she was closer to end-of-quarantine time.

Magical thinking? Denial? Could be! I'm gifted at that! 

 

The result:

Negative!

Oh, and my hostess took her test again this evening also - negative. Huzzahs all around. 

Nevertheless, I'll take another test in two days just to ensure there haven't been any viruses sneaking about incognito in more recent days.

 

Negative COVID test result. November 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Mobile, Alabama: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: A Mental Reset

 

Mural, Navi Mumbai, India. Source: Think Global Health

My old assumption:  The pandemic will end.

My current assumptions: 

COVID, because it is a virus, and (arguably) a life form, has an innate drive to survive. On top of that, COVID seems to be extraordinarily talented at adapting to new obstacles to achieve its mandate to survive, thrive, and reproduce. I am reminded of an old article from the Atlantic Monthly, which considers new-at-the-time thinking on infection in Parts 1, 2, and 3 of the series, A New Germ Theory, which focuses on the work of scientist Paul Ewald. Pretty damn fascinating, which is why I have remembered it all these years. 

A core concept from the series: 

"Say you're a disease organism -- a rhinovirus, perhaps, the cause of one of the many varieties of the common cold; or the mycobacterium that causes tuberculosis; or perhaps the pathogen [for] diarrhea. Your best bet is to multiply inside your host as fast as you can. However, if you produce too many copies of yourself, you'll risk killing or immobilizing your host before you can spread. If you're the average airborne respiratory virus, it's best if your host is well enough to go to work and sneeze on people in the subway.

"Now imagine that host mobility is unnecessary for transmission. If you're a germ that can travel from person to person by way of a "vector," or carrier, such as a mosquito or a tsetse fly, you can afford to become very harmful. This is why, Ewald argues, insect-borne diseases such as yellow fever, malaria, and sleeping sickness get so ugly. Cholera uses another kind of vector for transmission: it is generally waterborne, traveling easily by way of fecal matter shed into the water supply. And it, too, is very ugly."

 

A conjecture: There are ugly surprises ahead for just how pernicious this virus is in its skill at insinuating itself in the nooks and crannies of our neurological and cardiac systems, irrespective of the mildness or severity of a person's infection(s). We already know it goes into these areas. We already know it does have some effects, for some people, some of the time, to a greater or lesser degree, for a longer or shorter duration. 

A wild-ass thought experiment: As an almost-life-long science fiction fangirl (and before that, before I knew science fiction existed, a fairy tale and mythology fan) ....... 

Sometimes I wonder if any ancient pandemics such as this, created by novel-at-the-time viruses, changed the course of our anthropological, i.e. biological/sociological/intellectual trajectories, as a consequence of mutations that occurred from viruses that wormed their way into our brains, modifying them. 

In other words, are we who we are today (well, who we were in 2019), as a result of one or more ancient novel viral inundations?  And if the answer is yes, then wouldn't such a phenomenon be possible again?

Mobile, Alabama: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: An Unwelcome Passenger

 

St. Blown Apart, Trinity Park. Taos, New Mexico. October 2007. Credit: Mzuriana

I was going to call it the Dark Passenger, which I first heard from Dexter. Except when I looked it up, I learned the Dark Passenger is a demon that makes one do bad things. So, not that. 

Then I thought to call it an unwelcome roommate, but no, really it's entirely an internal thing. It's a head fuck, to be frank. 

My unwelcome passenger is anxiety.

I loathe what it is doing to me. 

There are the physical manifestation - the clutch in my belly and the tightening of my shoulder muscles. 

There are the mental manifestations - the reluctance - even paralysis at times - to address routine problems. The sensation of irrational worry or fear, which convinces me to stay home instead of explore, because it's so much easier to do so.

The anxiety is a tick sucking my blood, engorging itself on my confidence in all areas.

I don't even know for sure if it's connected to COVID - and all that COVID has wrought - but surely it must be - when one considers the entire spectrum of the pandemic experience since early 2020: 

• Societal
• Political
• Vaccinations (access to and unrelenting superstitious rhetoric about, as if we lived in 1692, in Salem, Massachusetts, during the witch trials), 
• Physical isolation
• My actual COVID infection (that I know about) or maybe other medical conditions that have cropped up for me, which are manageable, but not curable, and 
• So on and so on and so on. 

Add to that an accumulation of other variables since 2016 (!), with:

• Daily dystopian assaults by Trump, delivered personally to our screens at home by what I can only characterize as both his witting (e.g. Fox) and unwitting (all other news media that gave  him so much free publicity prior to his election, probably in the belief that he was entertainment and not real news) co-dependent collaborators;
  
• Fallout from some scary situations centered in South Louisiana; and
  
• Family and friend crises, including the deaths of my mother, two uncles, four aunts, and a friend 
  

Does it even matter what the origin is? 

But that could just be magical thinking on my part, because pointing a finger on a causal agent would suggest that - hopefully - it shall pass at some point, and not burrow in as a new, permanent part of my psyche. And not a function of some organic, incurable neurological thing - whether wrought by COVID or via some other origin, more prosaic, yet just as devastating, progressive condition, as yet to be diagnosed. 

It hasn't helped that just yesterday, I had this startling thought: I am actually going to die. This is a thing that is actually going to happen. To me. 

OK, so don't laugh. Of course, I've always "known" this. But whereas before it was sort of abstract, the other day it was concrete. Which, I don't have to tell you, is a hard surface.

At this point, if I hope to pluck off my unwelcome passenger like that bloodsucking tick, I've got to take action. It's not going to go away if I just close my eyes tight and count to ten. Or a hundred. 

The two actions that are to receive my immediate focus are: 

1. Sheer force of will to resume explorations. To make them a priority. To get into my car and fucking go. 
2. Build a daily meditative routine. 

Ewww. Pulling a suckling tick off (out of) one's body is icky.

This reminds me of what a reader wrote to me once, and he was quoting someone else: "You should do one thing that scares you every day." I was thinking it related to this experience on the Navajo Dam, but no. And then I was sure it must be this. But it wasn't that scary thing, either.  ....... And because one's memory edits real history, further research reveals that what the reader really said was this: "One thing that scares you per day keeps apathy at bay." And it was for the Navajo Dam experience, after all. 

Methinks I want to change that last to: Doing one thing that scares you per day keeps apathy anxiety at bay.

 

Sunrise on Grand. Las Vegas, New Mexico. October 2007. Credit: Mzuriana

 

Other posts with scary stuff

2012 (October): Alamogordo, New Mexico: Oliver Lee Memorial State Park: I Am a Wuss

2012 (November):  Cloudcroft, New Mexico: Salado Canyon Trail, and a Whistle Killer

2015 (May): Fear and Adventure: A Skydive Story

2020-present: Collection of COVID-19 Unfolding posts

Mobile, Alabama: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: The Free Tests Delivered

 

Free rapid COVID tests from US government. March 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

To add to the future archives of COVID-19 history, I bring to our societal photo album the four boxes of free rapid tests. Each box holds two tests. 

 

 

Screenshot of COVIDtests.gov on March 15 2022

 

 

I have taken one of the tests. Negative. 

By the way: The instructions suck because of inconsistencies or weirdness in style, confusing punctuation, and a red-herring alert. 

To wit: 

A.      You may have Test Set 1 or Test Set 2 in the package. Please follow proper steps based on the specific set you received. 

There is no written guidance to tell you which test set you have. To discern which you have, you've got to look at the content images and then the contents of your package. It would have been so simple to state: Test Set 1 has a prefilled tube. Test Set 2 has an empty tube and a bottle of solution. And then the images can support the text. 

B.      Instructions for Test Set 2: Open the package, take out the COVID-19 Test Card in Pouch, empty Tube, sealed Solution and the Swab. 

So you've got a combination of verbal commands and also a series of nouns. And the weird capitalization of the nouns. A lack of articles before the nouns. And silence on the screw-on top for the tube.

This would have been much clearer: Open the package. Remove the contents: a test stick (inside a plastic pouch), an empty tube, a screw-on top for the tube, a bottle of solution, and a cotton swab.  

 C.    Weird information about the TWO EDGES in the empty tube: Please look carefully, there are two edges on the empty tube. Then squeeze the sealed solution completely into the empty tube. 

What? Why are the two edges important? The sentence following this alert gives no guidance. It isn't until after the images that they become relevant. 

This would have been much clearer: Squeeze all of the solution from the bottle into the tube. There are two edges in the side of the tube. Look at the edges in the drawing. The solution in the tube must be at Edge 1 or higher. If the solution is below Edge 1, the test result might be invalid. 

Finally: The technical writers and their supervisors have not followed the principles of plain language. When a target readership is the general public, plain language is a must. Not because the general public lacks intelligence. It's because, in the case of the COVID-19 self-testing kits, most members of the general public have neither experience in lab testing nor exposure to the clinical vocabulary. 

The INTENDED USE section of the test instructions seems directed to health care professionals, based on the polysyllabic clusterfuck in same, in addition to the:

• Use of third person in reference to the test takers; and
• Reliance on passive voice. 

However, the technical writers change the voice in the FAQ to second person ("you" form), which is an improvement in readability for us regular folks. 

 

Lotsa tubes. Exhibit name: Chubasco. Tohono Chul, Tucson, Arizona. April 2019. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Mobile, Alabama: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: I Got Caught

 

Coronavirus image. Credit: WHO

 

I caught COVID.

Backstory

In the wee hours of Monday morning, I felt it. A scratchy throat. A bit of a sniffly nose. A hint of a headache. Later, when I arose, it was definitive. I clearly I had sumthin'-sumthin'.

Well, I rationalized, there are still plain ol' colds out there. Nevertheless, this is the time of COVID ......... AND ........ even if I had caught "just" a cold, it meant that my routine safety protocols had failed. 

In retrospect, I think there were earlier signs. On Sunday, I'd felt sleepy. A tickle in my nose had prompted several sneezes late Sunday afternoon. I'd noticed puffy bags under my eyes which I'd felt curious about when I saw them, as I usually don't get these unless I've indulged in richer-than-usual foods. But none of these early presentations, alone or as a group, sounded any COVID alarms to me. 

Testing: A cautionary tale

In an unbelievable stroke of bad luck, I expected a Tucson friend to visit Mobile for two nights, arriving that very afternoon. I also had a dentist appointment scheduled, which I hated to have to cancel.

I informed my friend of the possibility of my COVID infection and then I set about getting tested. 

By 1:15 p.m. on Monday I had taken three tests: 

1. Rapid response administered via CVS pharmacy drive-through
2. PCR administered via Walgreen's pharmacy drive-through
3. At-home rapid test bought at CVS

Both of the rapid response tests came back negative. Yay! 

It was not until Wednesday afternoon that I received the results of the PCR: Positive. 

My current understanding of the rapid tests is that:

• If the results are positive, then you can be confident you are positive
• If the results are negative, well, who the fuck knows [my own interpretation]
  

Thus, in my mind, the only purpose of having folks get a same-day COVID test before being allowed entry to an event is to weed out the folks who test positive. That is helpful. 

But it's just security theater for all of the rapid test takers who test negative. The negatives don't signify a goddamn thing. 

And remember, I had already exhibited symptoms, so it wasn't as if I were only getting tested because I had been exposed to an infected person, and I hadn't yet presented any symptoms.

 

How I'm doing

My presenting symptoms are mild. Tuesday was my most uncomfortable day, but even then, it was limited to feeling a little draggy, with that scratchy throat, an occasional cough that wasn't dry, yet wasn't wet, either. 

Today, five days after the onset of the cold-like symptoms (versus the possible precursor symptoms), there is a bit of a tickle in my throat on occasion, with a responding small cough + a bit of stuffiness in my nose, and that's it. If we were in normal times, I wouldn't hesitate to get out and about as usual. 

How's my visiting friend doing? 

My Tucson friend left on Wednesday morning. I just checked in with her. So far, no sign of infection from exposure to me. 

But as with negative rapid tests, this may signify nothing. She could be infected, but asymptomatic. Or tomorrow will be the day her symptoms appear. She could have been left unscathed by me, but infected yesterday by a passerby, and the symptoms won't appear until .... when? 

I've asked her to let me know if she does present with symptoms so that I can note the number of days that have passed between our last contact and the onset of symptoms. 

Note: She is fully vaxxed and wears a mask. Obviously, these are not magic shields, but I note this to identify her as a prudent person who gives COVID its due respect.

 

How did I get infected? 

My best guess is that I got too close to a COVID carrier at last weekend's Mardi Gras parades. Having said that, my symptoms would have appeared awfully fast if that's the case: Within 48-72 hours. 

Although I invariably wear a mask at indoor venues, except on the extremely rare occasions when I dine indoors, I don't typically wear a mask outdoors unless I'm in a crowded situation. About that crowded situation. I got complacent last weekend. I did not wear a mask while watching the parades, even when I snaked my way through a crush of humanity. 

Since my diagnosis, I've been looking at Mobile's new-case rates to see if there's been a spike following the first full Mardi Gras parade weekend. A spike is not yet evident in the stats. There is, however, a 30% positive test result rate. 

But maybe that wasn't it. 

Maybe I entered my building's elevator too soon after an infected person had occupied it, and their droplets hadn't had time to sink to the floor. 

Maybe I didn't sanitize my hands carefully enough after touching the door knobs in my building's entrances. 

To a large extent, I surrender to Dr. Fauci's recent statement that COVID is going to find most of us. 

Concerns

I'm grateful that my presenting symptoms are mild, as I write this. 

I have concerns about future effects, however, as heightened risks for cardio-vascular and neurological troubles exist for up to a year following a bout with COVID, irrespective of its severity. 

I don't assume that just because my thus-far mild symptoms are on a waning trajectory today, there won't suddenly be a plot twist in which things go to hell tomorrow (Sunday). I'll feel more confident if tomorrow is another good day.

 

Mobile, Alabama: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Bag o' Masks

 

Bag o' masks for COVID. January 2022.

 

Doing my part to contribute to the historical record for COVID, I present my bag o' masks, above. 

Each has a history. 

My daughter, Kit, made the yellow and aquamarine-navy masks for me. I like the cheery fabrics she chose.

The sage green terry masks below were the first cloth masks I bought, back in Tucson. 

Sage green cloth masks. Tucson, Arizona. May 2020.

 

The Alabama mask is one of three I collected at Alabama welcome centers. 

Alabama state mask. March 2021.

 

I have others, including a Black Lives Matter mask that I bought from an employee who made them, at an enlightened Best Buy in Jefferson City, Missouri. Some employees at that Best Buy wore this mask, and it impressed the hell out of me that the Best Buy management in Jefferson City supported their employees in doing so.

Black Lives Matter COVID mask. Made in Jefferson City, Missouri.

I had a lovely mask that a friend made for me; it had a watercolorish fish design on it. I gave this mask to my mother; it was so beautiful. Alas, it's been lost to the unknown somewhere. 

Other bags

April 2014: My Louisiana Dance Bag

In COVID's early days: March 2020: Tucson, Arizona: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 9: A New Kind of Dance Bag

In Silver City, New Mexico, January 2013, my dear festival bag on the motel room door:

Hat and bags, in for the night. Silver City, New Mexico. January 2013.

I still have the hat. And the small black bag.

 

 

Mobile, Alabama: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Additions to COVID Artwork

 

Banksy?

This work, attributed to Banksy, passed through my newsfeed recently: 

Anarchist's mom during COVID. Attributed to Banksy.

The COVID Art Museum

While trying to confirm the artist of this mural, I discovered The COVID Art Museum. 

You can visit it at this frenetic website or on Instagram. 

My own COVID artwork archive:

Harriet, ER nurse during COVID. Artist: Tom Croft.

Harriet debuted in my July 2021 post: Missouri: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: False Hopes Unmasked.

The work below appeared in my April 2020 post: Tucson, AZ: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 16: COVID Artwork.

COVID art: Ethiopian Orthodox Easter. Tentative artist: Habesha Expat. April 2020.

The friend of an Ethiopian friend posted the Habesha Expat (fka as Habesha in Dubai) image on a social media site several days ago. I was really taken with the marriage of culture and message in the artwork.


Below is a forlorn Mother Georgia stuck at home. It made me laugh out loud. 

Mother Georgia quarantining at home. Artist unknown. Source: I Am Tbilisi. March 2020.

Another art piece via I Am Tbilisi, a picture of a mural by artist Gagosh:

"Less Than 2m," a mural by artist Gagosh. Source: I Am Tbilisi. April 2020.

Via the Washington Post to the Art-Eater (Richmond Lee) Twitter account to the Tensor Chan Twitter account, there is this work on the Ghana Pallbearers' meme, in which the message is: Stay home or dance with us:

COVID art: Stay at home or dance with us. Tentative artist: Tensor Chan. April 2020.

And another take on the Ghana pallbearers below from Yuki Geriawan aka anzuarden.art:

COVID art: Stay at home or the music starts. Artist: Yuki Geriawan aka anzuarden_art. April 2020.

Additions subsequent to original post:

COVID Facebook meme. Artist unknown. May 2020.

Words of the Years: Looking Back and Forward ... and COVID, of course

 

A New Year's Eve fire and wine. Missouri. December, 2006

Tomorrow I'll launch my word of the year for 2022. 

Today is a retrospective, as befits the last day of a year.

I inaugurated my Word of the Year in 2018. It felt a little schmaltzy, but that didn't deter me.

I intended to publish a word-of-the-year post on the first of each month. Mixed results, as you can see below.

2018: Courage

• January 2018: Courage 1: Malala
  
• February 2018: Courage 2: Audre Lorde

2019: Action

• January 2019: Action
• February 2019: Action: Legal Observers
• March 2019: Action: Penpal
• July 2019: Action: Escaping Despair
• August 2019: Action: Lipstick and Salvation
• September 2019: Action: A Refugee Shelter

 2020: Build

1. Word of the Year 2020: Build 1: After the Floods
2. Word of the Year 2020: Build 2: Fronterista
3. Word of the Year 2020: Build 3: "House"
4. Word of the Year 2020: Build 4: Chosens
5. Word of the Year 2020: Build 5: It Takes a Village
6. Word of the Year 2020: Build 6: Elevation
7. Word of the Year 2020: Build 7: Trail Building
8. Word of the Year 2020: Build 8: Money
9. Word of the Year 2020: Build 9: Health 
10. Word of the Year 2020: Build 10: Service and Activism
11. Word of the Year 2020: Build 11: Relationships
12. Word of the Year 2020: Build 12: Creative Life
13. Word of the Year 2020 Lagniappe 13: My Rootless Goals
    

2021: Joy

• November 2020: Reserving My Word for 2021: Joy
  
• Joy 1: Word of the Year: Joy
  
• Joy 2: Music
• Joy 3: Surprise Vista
  
• Joy 4: Happy, Joyous, and Free
  
• Joy 5: The Science of Joy, Interrupted
  
• Joy 6: Color
• Joy 7: Birdsong
• Joy 8: Here and Now, Boys
  
• Joy 9: A Tomato and Onion Sandwich
• Joy 10: Let in Light
  
• Joy 11: Scentsuality
• Joy 12: Remembrances
  

The years since I inaugurated my words of the year haven't been easy ones. 

I know I'm not alone in feeling this.

In 2018, personal things were happening that demanded courage, on top of three years of Trumpian stressors (beginning with his presidential campaign) that enveloped us all in an invisible cloud of radioactivity. An aunt died. An uncle died.

In 2018 and 2019, I could see up close and personal the ravages of our draconian attacks on the human rights of fellow humans who are making the most rational decisions they can to rescue themselves and their families from violence and poverty in their countries of origin by leaving all that is familiar to them and migrating to the US.

In 2020:

• COVID came.  
• A friend died. 
• An aunt died. 
• My heretofore joyful embedment in my new communities - meeting new friends! joining new groups! live music in small venues! - also dead, due to COVID.  
• The overt and covert racism that bloomed under the far right's New Infection, a pernicious systemic virus that continues to drag all of us down, which again, irresponsible representatives of the people discount, dismiss, and not only deny, but exacerbate. (Think of the almost-laughable panic about the possibility of critical race theory being taught in schools.)
  

In 2021 .... Oh what a fucking year it's been! 

• My mother died.
  
• An aunt died a week later. 
• Another aunt died early this month. 
• My daughter, Kit, caught COVID (and fortunately, avoided a hospital stay because of timely and effective outpatient treatments, e.g. monoclonal antibodies therapy and at-home oxygen, but how frightening!). 
  
• COVID dug in deeper, thanks in large part to the viral collaborators who refuse vaccines and such simple actions as masking, in addition to disparities in our global access to vaccines (and, probably, masks).
• An attempted insurrection against our national government that cravenly irresponsible "representatives of the people" discount, dismiss, and even deny. 
• Reactionary movements to ban books in our libraries. 
• A repressive, anti-woman, anti-abortion law went into effect in Texas, with some other regressive states flocking to follow suit. 
• A mid-January 2022 trip to NYC, for which I booked flights and hotel in early November, and which I felt we could safely accomplish with careful precautions - I canceled it a week ago because of the omicron tsunami, projected to peak at exactly that time in New York.
  

Jesus. 

Did the above laments make me feel better? I don't know. I don't even know why they came out in this post. But I'll just leave them there. Inshallah, maybe I'll revisit this in five years and see how things have changed. Or not. 

But moving forward:

We still need to make lives for ourselves. Notice I said make lives for ourselves. 

 

Missouri: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Redshirts

 

Captain Kirk and a cadre of his expendable redshirts. Source:

 

In Star Trek fandom lore, a "redshirt" is an expendable character in a series episode, usually an extra without a name credit. Instead, they might be identified on the cast roll as "First Ensign" or "Third Security Guard." 

The red-shirted extras are the characters who stand a good chance of being killed off by the local malevolent alien that the Star Trek crew encounter on its travels. 

 

Star Trek redshirts dead. Source: Wikimedia

Captain Kirk and his officers are safe from death or long-term disability. Naturally.

 

Star Trek redshirt mask meme. Source: ScreenRant

 

To the elected leaders and anti-protection propagandists such as Trump, DeSantis, and Parsons - let's call them all corona collaborators - we are just redshirts. We are expendable. 

What's the payoff for the corona collaborators? 

In the short term: To amass or protect their power. 

COVID's public health protections offer no less a convenient common enemy than the usual threats to The God-Fearing American Way of Life: Communists, radical socialists, and immigrants.

The payoff to DeSantis, Trump, et al is only in the short term because, inevitably, their political capital will crumble when the number of dead or wounded redshirts reaches some as-yet-unknown tipping point. 

Missouri: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: On Watching The Walking Dead

Carlos Flores, "Refogios," exhibited at the Chamizal, El Paso, Texas. October 2016.

 

I'm visiting Missouri for a time.

My hostess, Kate, has Netflix. All 10 of the past seasons of The Walking Dead are there. 

In October 2016, nearing the endgame of the ever-more appalling Trump campaign and its collateral hate-mongering, I abruptly abandoned The Walking Dead in the middle of Season 7, Episode 1 - in angry disgust at what felt to me like firsthand, sadistic, slow-motion, elongated mental torture, especially, perhaps, because I personally knew women and men who had been terrorized, in real life, by people exactly like this Walking Dead character. I never returned.

Until this month. 

August 2021. 

With the second tsunami of COVID surging over our land, largely the result of too many Americans who opted out (and continue to opt out) of the two most powerful weapons against our real-life viral undead: vaccines and masks. 

So as soon as I saw all 10 seasons of The Walking Dead on Kate's Netflix menu, I knew.

The Walking Dead was exactly what I needed. Need. 

I knew it because: 

I first started watching The Walking Dead in Opelousas. One day, after I had binge-watched the series for some days or weeks, I was in the Opelousas Walmart, and I experienced a fascinating phenomenon. In rounding the end cap from one aisle and into another, my mental antennae bounced up. My brain snapped into alert mode, my senses at the ready for ....... what? 

Oh. Zombies, apparently! 

I laughed at myself, but it made me think.

Watching the fictional The Walking Dead had awakened something in me. I had already discovered how the constant tension and fearful suspense of each episode had been cathartic in releasing real-life tensions I didn't even know I had.  

But this new phenomenon at Walmart - the alertness, the readiness for what might happen - it felt good. It imbued me with a feeling of power. Weird, but ... there it was.

The magic is still there today. In watching The Walking Dead upon my return to Missouri, in this second tidal wave of COVID, it empowers me. That short-lived thrill at the beginning of July, when I relished a summer of dance and live music and meeting with old friends - dead. So, too, is the mourning for what I thought the summer would be. 

In its place, thanks in part to The Walking Dead, is a pragmatic acceptance and a calm determination to just deal with it. I've had the vaccinations. I never stopped wearing masks inside stores. If reliable medical sources tell me a third booster shot is appropriate in the future, then I'll get it.

I walk out of stores where too many employees and too many customers have naked faces.

Not out of fear, hell no. 

No, I carry a pragmatic, calm determination out of the acceptance that:

• The viral undead are just going to do what all viruses do. They don't give a fuck about our faith in a deity, about our age, about our level of fitness, our gender, our politics, or what news channels we watch. They have only one mission: Infect, reproduce, and spread.
  
• At least 50% of the people I encounter on the outside opted out of the vaccines or masks. At this point, I don't care why.
• I walk among infected hosts every time I leave my safe shelter.
  

During this madness, I turn to my Cs: practical caution, confidence, calm, and courage. The Walking Dead boosts my mental game. I walk as if I were carrying a sword like Michonne's.

Michonne and her sword, The Walking Dead. Credit: AMC

Note: But when I get to Season 7, I'll skip the first five episodes. I won't willingly expose myself to abuse again, neither in real life nor make-believe.

 

 

 

 

 

Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: A Good Omen in Mobile

 

 

Masks preferred sign, Ben May Library. Mobile, Alabama. July 2021.

When I set my Maps to Birmingham back in summer 2020, I set it for an Ethiopian restaurant. I had lunch there immediately upon my arrival at my newly chosen city. 

When I set my Maps to Mobile the other day, I set it for the main branch of the Mobile public library system: Ben May Public Library. 

After being amongst COVID collaborators in Missouri for two weeks, the sign on the Ben May Library thrilled me. "Masks preferred" - such a succinct, firm, and pleasant statement. When I walked in, my spirit lifted again because every library employee wore a mask. 

Having already been entranced by the lush live oaks in the neighborhood, which leaned over the shady street with loving arms, and then that masks preferred sign - my brain shot out a swoony splash of good chemicals. 

 Mobile, I like you mighty fine so far.

Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Let the Rain Decide

 

Rain over the Sacramento Mountains. Alamogordo, New Mexico. July 2013.

 

 July 2021

What I wrote to friend Travis (here and here): 

Where am I going? Just last night I decided, after perusing for several days the weather (with rain at ALL destinations for the coming days, flooding in some areas, etc.) --> Mobile, Alabama.

I'll check out the Mobile Bay and Gulf area for possible coming-year residency.

But after a few days, I'll slide over to New Orleans, then Lafayette, then Lake Charles, and then Beaumont.

 

Tennessee: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 8888: Not All Motels Can Be Two-Star

En route from Birmingham to Missouri, I stopped at a motel near Bells, Tennessee, for the night. Highway 20.  

 

No-star motel, Highway 20, near Bells, Tennessee. July 2021.

No-star motel, Highway 20, near Bells, Tennessee. July 2021.