Friday, November 5, 2021

Mobile, Alabama: A View From My Window

Mobile is lush. 

Live oaks, magnolias, rain, crepe myrtles, ivy, rain, azaleas, rain.

A view from my window

Mobile Alabama view from a window. September 2021.
View from a window in Mobile, Alabama. September 2021.


Views from windows past

View from my apartment before the teardown. Birmingham, Alabama. August 2020.
View from my apartment before the tear down. Birmingham, Alabama. August 2020.

View from my apartment after the tear down. Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.
View from my apartment after the tear down. Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

View from Tucson apartment. May 2019.
View from Tucson apartment. May 2019.

 

View from apartment terrace. El Paso, Texas. September 2016.
View from apartment terrace. El Paso, Texas. September 2016.


View from my Antigua host's house. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
View from my Antigua host's house. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.


View from Opelousas apartment window. Opelousas, Louisiana. March 2015.
View from Opelousas apartment window. Opelousas, Louisiana. March 2015.


View from apartment. Lafayette, Louisiana. November 2013.
View from apartment. Lafayette, Louisiana. November 2013.

View from apartment. Alamogordo, New Mexico. October 2012.
View from apartment. Alamogordo, New Mexico. October 2012.

View from apartment. Alamogordo, New Mexico. October 2012.
View from apartment. Alamogordo, New Mexico. October 2012.

View from my bedroom in Old Rustavi. Caucasus Georgia. September 2011.
View from my bedroom in Old Rustavi. Caucasus Georgia. September 2011.


View from my bedroom in New Rustavi. Caucasus Georgia. August 2011.
View from my bedroom in New Rustavi. Caucasus Georgia. August 2011.



My bedroom window at Azeb's house. Nazret (Adama), Ethiopia. February 2011.
My bedroom window at Azeb's house. Nazret (Adama), Ethiopia. February 2011.


View from Playa del Carmen condo. Mexico. November 2010.
View from Playa del Carmen condo. Mexico. November 2010.

 



Thursday, November 4, 2021

Mobile, Alabama: The Rainiest City in the Continental US

 

A rainy Alabama afternoon. July 2020.
A rainy lunch in the car. Alabama. July 2020.

  

Mobile, Alabama, is the rainiest city in the continental United States.

Wait, what?!

Mobile, Alabama, receives more than five FEET of water every year, with an average of 59 rainy days per year. 

Seattle isn't even in the top 20. 

I have pulled out my vastly under-used yellow poncho that I bought 10 years ago when I lived in Caucasus, Georgia. 

yellow rain poncho
Yellow rain poncho. November 2011.

 

Because after a year and a half in COVID isolation, I am not going to let rain keep me inside. 

 

Some other rainy times and places

 

Sources


Wednesday, November 3, 2021

Mobile, Alabama: My New Home Sounds

In my Birmingham sphere, I heard these sounds:

  • Wail of the fire engine and EMT truck from the next corner
  • Ringing of the bell from the Orthodox Church
  • Rumbling of the train on the track on the other side of the highway 
  • And always always always the whirring rolling thrumming of the car and truck tires on the highway pavement above me

In my new place in Mobile, it is quieter except for two constants. 

One is the nostalgic, soothing heartbeat of an ordinary, inexpensive, battery-operated wall clock my mother gave me a couple of years ago, which had been hanging on a wall of her petite dining room. 

 



tick   tick   tick   tick   tick   tick   tick   tick   tick   tick

 

And there's another sound, more assertive:

Dock

Donk

Dunk dunk

Dick

DUCK

Dick

Dack duck

That is the drip onto the top of my window air conditioner/heater from the window air conditioner/heater on the floor above me.

My dripped-upon window unit. Mobile, Alabama. September 2021.
My dripped-upon window unit. Mobile, Alabama. September 2021.

Omnipresent.

It's not a bad sound. It's just a never-ending sound. 

Kind of like the constant humming of the white-winged doves in Alamogordo. 

 

Nesting white-winged dove in Alamogordo, New Mexico. March 2013.
Nesting white-winged dove in Alamogordo, New Mexico. March 2013.


As we enter fall, I'm sure the drip will cease as the air conditioner upstairs eventually goes dormant.

Occasionally, a lumbering plane flies low and loud across my horizon. Not anything like the sonic booms of my Alamogordo apartment, but so low and loud - a rumbly loud - that sometimes I wonder if the plane is about to plow into a neighboring building.  None has, yet.


Tuesday, November 2, 2021

10 Years Ago: Sighnaghi, Caucasus Georgia: City of Love and Crunch

 Original post here. 

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Sighnaghi: City of Love 'n Crunch

"Oh, whoops, budishi! Are you, like, getting married right now? I'll just take this little snap and be on my way, then." Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
 
Mission: Visit Georgia's City of Love and eat Mexican food. If necessary, look at a church.

Sandy came in to Rustavi from Gori yesterday to spend the night so we could get an early start from Tbilisi to Sighnaghi. We were to meet Marie and Eberle at the Samgori metro/marshrutka station, where we'd take the 9:00 a.m. marshrutka to Sighnaghi. This was a 1.5 hour trip. Six lari.

I'd learned already that there's a marshrutka from Rustavi to the Samgori station in Tbilisi, and Nely had cautioned me, when we flagged down a driver, to ask, "Tbilisi metro Samgori?" and not just "Samgori?" because there is also a village named Samgori.

So in the dark and rainy dawn of our departure, Sandy and I pulled out some lari from the ATM on the square, then walked toward Rustavi Bazari for the right marshrutka. There's one! It has #15 on it.

We hailed it to a stop, and opened the door. "Tbilisi metro Samgori?" I asked the driver.

"Ki, ki." was the reply. "Yes, yes."

As we got on, I asked again, "Tbilisi metro Samgori?"

"Ki, ki!" was the reply from both the driver and a passenger.

Sandy wondered aloud at my purpose in repeating my question when the answer was so obviously answered affirmatively the first time.

Sidebar: It is a blessing/curse that my brain is a factoid-attractant. Some of my family members, both nuclear and extended, enjoy/suffer the same gift/affliction. (And, as you can see, there is also a need to be precise in one's language.  I happen to think the two are connected as part of a syndrome, perhaps Asperger's Lite.) 

I replied that it had been my observation in life that people's brains operate similarly to the auto-complete computer application. (Which has been confirmed by research.) That is, we think we hear what we expect to hear. So if the driver hears my accented voice, his brain is going to struggle a bit, but catch up in time to hear the last word I say, "Samgori," and maybe conclude, erroneously, that we're looking for the village and not the metro station in Tbilisi. So I just ask twice to give him time to process the entire phrase. And save myself stress.

Sidebar: Another blessing/curse that runs in my family is to give tediously detailed thorough explanations in response to questions. Sometimes, though, based on prior negative thoughtful feedback from more normal people, we catch ourselves in time, and just say, "Umm, I dunno." Which creates other problems, but ... 

So while I'm responding to Sandy's question, I'm not noticing where our marshrutka is heading until I realize, "Hmm, this is a different route than usual through Rustavi .... uh, oh, .....this is feeling like a ride on Marshrutka #22 or, God forbid, #4. ... why are we turning here ... and wait ... are we going over that bridge there?"

And out of my mouth to the driver: "Budishi [excuse me], Tbilisi metro Samgori, yes?"

"Ki, ki." [Yes, yes.] said the driver and two passengers.

OK, then. And I see that we're back on familiar territory, albeit a new route for me via marshrutka. ... and then, we take a turn, heading for not-Tbilisi and not-Rustavi .... whoa. And then we go by the cemetery ... now I'm really getting tense ... and now we've passed the cemetery into new lands that are decidedly rural and going-to-the-village-and-not-Tbilisi-metro-Sambori-like, and....

"Budishi," I say to the driver, "Tbilisi metro Samgori?"

"Ki, ki!," responded the driver and several passengers.

And then we turned left and entered the Azebaijani-Georgian village, whereupon the mashrutka slowed to granny gear to pick up villagers. By this time, I've resigned myself to accept wherever the marshrutka takes us.

I tamped down my concern about getting to Tbilisi by 8:30, using Sandy as my cue. After all, she was calm and apparently unconcerned. .. and then she asked, "What time is it?"

When we looked at the time, we saw we only had 15-20 minutes to not only get to Tbilisi, but get to the metro station. No way was that going to happen; we were still out in the hinterland. And I told Marie that very thing when she called a second later.

But miraculously, the universe tilted in a certain way and we spilled out from the village onto this highway and into Tbilisi and into the metro station only 5 minutes late. Wow.

Fast forward ... Sandy, Marie, Eberle and I are on the marshrutka to Signhaghi. Six lari one way. The Signaghi marshrutka leaves Samgori station every two hours on the odd hour.

En route to Sighnaghi, we whizzed past the monument to the First Tractor in Kakheti, which I only knew about because Nely had pointed it out to me when we went to Kardanakhi a few weeks before. The monument is the actual tractor, ensconced upon a pedestal.

We also, thank God, whipped briefly down and to Bodbe Monastery where St. Nino is buried, thereby technically speaking, complying with Nely's wish that we visit that sacred site. My protestations to her of church overload had fallen on deaf ears.

A hot chocolade

Yes, -lade. Hot, thick, chocolate-y to the max. A pudding, really. A demitasse-sized, sensory experience for the delicious warmth of the cup and the intense chocolate taste. We consumed this in a restaurant/hotel in a courtyard adjacent to Signaghi's cultural museum.

Mexican food

Homemade chips, maybe even fried with lard. In a country with very good food, but a shocking lack of crunch, this was the highlight of the meal. Crunch.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.


Wait, the second highlight was the spiced coffee - cinnamon, cloves, orange peel. Fabulous.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.


Beautiful view of the mountainside and faraway valley, framed by a happy orangey wall.

The museum

The museum was nice. I wish I could be more descriptive, but I'm just not a museum person. You'd think I'd learn that by now, and just go have a cup of coffee while companions take all the time they wish looking at important historical stuff in glass cases. Yes, I know this is sacrilegious, but I'm not getting any younger, and I think from now on, I'm going to take a pass on such things. I can count on one hand the museums that made an impression on me.

Terrific, postcard views from one of the windows, though.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.

 

The church

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.


Even though all of us were pretty done with churches, Signaghi's old church was compelling. So much so, we walked up the stone steps to check it out. And then, damn, we heard singing emanating from within.
 
And walked into a wedding.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.




As we left the church, another wedding party was arriving.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.


The wall

One of the things Sighnaghi is known for is the remains of the 8th century wall that originally surrounded it completely. The photo below is poor quality, but you can make out the wall.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.


Pheasant's Tears

I'm not going to talk about the taxi ride that ultimately was for a distance about 500 feet but which cost 4 lari. I've released that incident. Pretty much.

Pheasant's Tears winery is brimming with the ambiance of living a good life. Good food, good wine, good friends and family. Traditions held dear. Fire in the fireplace. Brick and stone work. Lovely blue baticky (but not) tablecloths.

Menu read beautifully on the chalkboard on the wall. Still sated from our Mexican (chip) feast, we had coffee and tea. It was a great way to enjoy the pleasing environment without putting too much of a dent in our wallets.

I was hoping to get a photo of the co-founder, John Wurdeman, to take back to Nely, but he was not in town.  

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Pheasant's tears kitchen. Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Pheasant's Tears pantry. Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.

Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.



So, summarizing Signaghi. Certainly it's a tourist town, and one could argue that it's been a town Disneyfied. It's also an expensive place to visit, with most eateries and lodging being upscale. Overall, though, I was pleasantly surprised at how much I saw that still felt "authentic," whatever the heck that means.  It was definitely worth a day.


Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.
Sighnaghi, Georgia. November 2011.


Monday, November 1, 2021

Word of the Year: Joy 11: Scentsuality

 

Wild honey nectar candle. Source: DW Home
Wild honey nectar candle. Source: DW Home

Mmmmmm, the sensual joy of fragrance.

To borrow from a past post, there are so many aromatic characters:

  • Spicy
  • Floral
  • Citrusy
  • Tangy
  • Sweet
  • Sour
  • Musky
  • Crisp
  • Clean
  • Pungent
  • Light
  • Sharp
  • Fishy
  • Metallic
  • Herbal
  • Earthy
  • Moldy
  • Musty
  • Buttery
  • Nutty
  • Rotting
  • Barnyard 
  • Minty


Below are scents that have delighted me in this time of COVID, inviting me to 

breathe deeply, 

to dwell in the moment I'm in.

  • Wild honey nectar candle
  • Rosemary needles captured in the wilds of residential Birmingham and Las Cruces, which I plucked, inhaled deeply of, and bit into.

 

Rosemary from across the street. Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.
Rosemary collected from across the street. Birmingham, Alabama. November 2020.

  • Fresh basil growing on my windowsill

 

Basil growing in my kitchen. Birmingham, Alabama. May 2021.
Basil growing in my kitchen. Birmingham, Alabama. May 2021.


  • Sentimental, vintage scent of White Shoulders, an enormous bottle of which I stumbled upon in a friend's closet, who had received it as a gift, and which she re-gifted to me. The fragrance is light and pretty. In a pandemic, anointing oneself with a spray of pretty is a sweet joy.
  • Community Coffee's Pecan Praline flavored coffee, mmm, delicious smell. It also reminds me of a time I shared with my mother, when I took her for a pre- or post-op check with an opthmalogist. We had a coffee together in the medical building's little breakfast bar, chatting about nothing in particular, but enjoying the time together. Pecan praline-flavored coffee was on tap that morning.
  • Super-fishy essence of fish sauce, anchovies, sardines. Their aggressive umaminess brings forth a perverse pleasure in the coupling of revulsion and attraction. Somehow, their aroma smacks my senses in a way that reminds me: I am alive. As they were, once, and it is as if I smell their essence of both death and life. The joy does not come from any pleasure in their demise. It comes from a reminder to me that I am alive in this moment. And that I'd better goshdarn notice that, appreciate it, and be in it. 

 

Small fish at market. Batumi, Caucasus Georgia. April 2012.
Small fish at market. Batumi, Caucasus Georgia. April 2012.

 

Related posts

2020: Tucson, AZ: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 10: Creature Comforts: Smells

2018: St. Louis: For the Senses: Seafood City

2016: Colorado: Boulder: The Scentsual

2013: On Mangoes

 

Joys so far this year

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

 

 

Saturday, October 2, 2021

10 Years Ago: A Pig, A Cow, and a Dead Woman's Nightgown

This experience from 2011 in Caucasus Georgia still makes me laugh. 

Dmanisi: A Pig, A Cow, and a Dead Woman's Nightgown

Vodka and chacha in Dmanisi, Georgia


Sandy and I went to Dmanisi to spend the weekend with Jennifer. Plan: Check out the birthplace of the so-called first Europeans.

But damn it was cold and rainy. Cold rain. Brrr.

Upon our arrival, we saw a pig follow a cow down the road. If we lived in a fairy tale, both would have been princes, cursed by a bad fairy they'd offended.

Dmanisi, Georgia


Jennifer has a gorgeous view from her bedroom balcony.

Dmanisi, Georgia

The rumor was that a woman died in Jennifer's flat. A teacher. In Jennifer's bedroom? Or the second bedroom, where Sandy and I slept?

Dmanisi, Georgia

 
I don't know. But when I pulled back my duvet and lifted the pillow, I found a woman's nightgown under there. Wah!!! I tossed it across the room as if it were a snake. 

So I said Dmanisi was cold and rainy, yes?

We spent the weekend in Jennifer's cold flat, sometimes in the kitchen and sometimes in Jennifer's room, but always with the lone space heater cranked by us, drinking a bottle of pretty good wine, nail polish remover cheap vodka, and chacha. We ate khinkali, crackers, cheese, sausage, and cookies. We experimented with adding cherry jam to the vodka and the chacha to see if we could offset the paint stripper effect, and learned that this was fairly effective with the vodka, but did nothing to dampen the chacha's exuberance.
 
Dmanisi, Georgia


Jennifer made some excellent Turkish coffee on Sunday morning.

Incredibly, we sat in the kitchen and talked from the time we arose in the morning til about 3:00 p.m.

Then we piled on all of our cold-weather gear and hied off for the marshrutka back to Tbilisi.

Whereupon we stumbled on an interesting cultural something-or-another.

Sidebar: It happens that I have a fondness for small acts of insurrection. I believe an empire can be toppled by a sufficient number of micro-rebellions. 

We arrived at the bottom of Jennifer's side street and crossed the main drag to await the marshrutka on the other side. Ah, there is a private student of Jennifer's, also waiting in the cold, holding a bag.

We engage in a little chitchat, then note there is a marshrutka up the street about 500 feet. Ah, maybe that's ours. We wait for it to continue its way toward us, after what we thought was a pause to drop off or pick up a passenger. But no. It just sat. Ah, but here comes another one! Maybe that's our marshrutka. But no. It stops in front of the first marshrutka.

This was all quite puzzling. I ventured a guess that perhaps new marshrutkas will continue to come, and each will stop in front of the previous one until eventually there will be one in front of us and we can get on it and it will go to Tbilisi. 

Oh, and by the way, I asked Jennifer's private student, where are you going? Tbilisi? "No," she replied, "I'm going to give this bag to my sister."

"Oh?" I asked. "Where is she?"

"She's on the marshrutka up the street."

"You mean the one right up there? That we're looking at? Your sister is in there right now?"

"Yes."

"OK, wait. Are you telling me your sister is in that marshrutka right up there, right this minute, in the marshrutka, that we are looking at right now?"

"Yes."

This turn of events was so fascinating to me that I completely forgot my prior fascination as to why these marshrutkas were just sitting up there to begin with, not to mention why we continued to stand and wait where we waited while they sat where they sat.

".... mmm, so have you considered walking up to the marshrutka that your sister is in and giving her the bag?"

"No."

I pondered all this while we stood, shivering, in the cold rain while those marshrutkas up the street idled, no doubt with the heaters on.

I said, "Let's do it. Let's walk to those marshrutkas and see what happens."

And we did.

The student gave her sister the bag. Sandy and I got on the marshrutka. And we went to Tbilisi.

Note: There was another story about the marshrutka that has to do with a television (where? we don't see a television) and Sandy being told to sit on the pull-down seat and us not understanding why when there were regular seats still available, but later we did understand, but .... I'm tired now.

Friday, October 1, 2021

Word of the Year: Joy 10: Let in Light

 

 

Leaf in light. UTEP campus, El Paso, Texas. March 2017.
Leaf in light. UTEP campus, El Paso, Texas. March 2017.

 

A morning ritual sends a small joy to my soul.

I open the wide slats of my white window blinds, push the blinds up to the window tops, and let in the light of the day. 

My morning ritual also connects me to my mother's morning ritual. She had white, wood window shutters, which she, too, opened each morning, in her bedroom, in her living room, in her dining room, in her tiny kitchen. This daily connection with her pleases me.

Light through Carol's living room windows. January 2011.
Light through Carol's living room windows. January 2011.


Feel the light



Morning light through kitchen window. Ferguson, Missouri. March 2018.
Morning light through kitchen window. Ferguson, Missouri. March 2018.

Morning light in my Rustavi, Georgia (Caucasus) window. July 2011.
Morning light in my Rustavi, Georgia (Caucasus) window. July 2011.

Light through my living room window in Opelousas, Louisiana. March 2015.
Light through my living room window in Opelousas, Louisiana. March 2015.

Light through my El Paso kitchen window. October 2016.
Light through my El Paso kitchen window. October 2016.

Light through my living room windows in Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.
Light through my living room windows in Ferguson, Missouri. April 2018.

Light through my dining room window in my rooted house. Featuring Princess. May 2007.
Light through the dining room window in my rooted house. Featuring Princess. May 2007.

 

Joys so far this year

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

 

 

Tuesday, September 28, 2021

11 Years Ago Today: I Went Rootless

 

Milkweed seed pod, Missouri. October 2010.
Milkweed seed pod, Missouri. October 2010.

 

I birthed this blog on September 28, 2010.

In September 2011: I was in Tsalaskuri, Caucasus Georgia. 

In September 2012: Alamogordo, New Mexico.

In September 2013: About to relocate to South Louisiana.

In September 2014: Lafayette, Louisiana.

In September 2015: Opelousas, Louisiana.

In September 2016: El Paso, Texas.

In September 2017: Transitioning from El Paso to Ferguson, Missouri.

In September 2018: Preparing to leave Ferguson for Tucson, Arizona.

In September 2019: Tucson, Arizona.

In September 2020: COVID World ... and Birmingham, Alabama. 

 

I don't know what the future holds, of course.

My current game plan is that I will root myself when I turn 70 so that I can begin the construction of my aging-in-place, third act. 

Some time between now and then, possibilities include:

  • A spell with the Peace Corps
  • Resuming my original rootless plan of relocating yearly in other countries instead of staying in the U.S.
  • A year (or six months?) as a tenting fulltimer
  • Volunteering for a season at a national park or monument in exchange for accommodations
  • Housesitting for a few months in different places instead of my current yearlong tourist-in-residencies
 
 

 

 

 

 


Wednesday, September 1, 2021

Word of the Year: Joy 9: A Tomato and Onion Sandwich

Tomato and sweet onion sandwich. August 2021.
Tomato and sweet onion sandwich. August 2021.

 

Is there not something joyful about a simple tomato and onion sandwich? 

Especially if the tomato is from a home garden. 

My descendant does not like tomatoes, but she has them in her garden. I was the lucky recipient of a day's harvest. 

When an earthy, red tomato rests momentarily on your tongue, it is the warmth of a summer afternoon sun that rests there. This is mighty fine. 

Add the crunch of a sweet onion, the soothing scratch of toasted bread, and the black pepper kick, well, now you've got some joy. 

 

Related posts

 

Thursday, August 12, 2021

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
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
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. 


Monday, August 9, 2021

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

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