Livingston, TX: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 888: Voting

Propped-up building across from courthouse. Livingston, Texas. June 2020.

NOTE: My COVID-19 posts are all over the chronological map for now; I'll number them down the road.

Typically, a Texan run-off election that follows a spring primary occurs in May. My Plan A had been to be in Livingston, Texas, to vote in person for the run-off. (I'd voted absentee in the spring primary.)

But!
Because of COVID-19, I'd stayed in Tucson a month longer than planned, and I didn't apply timely for an absentee ballot.

But!
Because of COVID-19, Texas postponed this year's run-off until July, and the early-voting period began on June 29.

Huzzah!
I was in my new hometown of Livingston, Texas, at just the right historic moment to vote in person!

I arrived mid-morning. A clutch of candidates waved and greeted me from a corner, mindful of legal campaign distancing limits for election-day protocols.

Inside the courthouse, COVID protocols were evident, with proper spacing for voter queuing taped on the floor, and masked election workers.

Two COVID-related practices caught my attention:

1. The first with trepidation, and then delight; and
2. The second with rueful acceptance. 

The first: The woman at the final voter-processing station sat before a large, white, fold-up case. In front of the case, laid onto the table, were cotton swabs atop l-o-n-g, thin, wooden sticks. As I proceeded along the line, I eyed these swab sticks with a bit of decision anxiety. COVID testing at the polls? Kind of like being able to register to vote when you get a driver's license or library card? Those long swabs - they hurt, right? Knock up against your brain pan to pull out sinus cells? Should I get tested? Yes? No? I mean, I'm right here, right? But this doesn't make sense, does it? COVID testing right here? I don't know ..... Cognitive dissonance.

Upon arrival before the woman and the long, skinny swabs atop those wooden sticks, I learned: Oh! Each voter gets one to use on the touchscreen of the voting machine.

Super clever! I loved it! And myself and I had a big laugh together.

The second: If only two, maybe three, are in the voter-processing area, the set-up was OK for distancing. Alas, the two processing tables were too close together + the two people at each table were too close together, and therefore, voters had to be too close together if each table handled two voters. The problem, in my mind, lay not in the intentions, but the small size and layout of the voting space, including the queue line area.

A better plan, if the weather permitted it (and it did when I was there), might have been to have the first table outside on the sidewalk. Or beginning in the building foyer. Or set up one of those big tents (like for a wedding or beer garden) in the short street to handle the whole thing. Or find a larger space in the building. Or in a different building.

But overall, I was delighted to be able to vote in person!      

On the Road Again: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 28: Flags and Traps

 

Fire and brimstone in an Arkansas tract. January 2012.

 

From Salado Rest Area on Highway 167, on the way to Livingston, Texas, my route included spans on:

1. Highway 167
2. Highway 67
3. Highway 57
4. Highway 595
5. Highway 59
   

My take-away sights

Highway 67 and 57 (Arkansas): Dotted by many flapping Confederate flags that proclaim quasi-American citizens' fealty to a dystopian ghost nation that lurks in the United States like plaque on a heart's arteries

Highway 595: Speed traps! 

Atlanta, Texas: The town of Atlanta, Texas, has a big ol' billboard close to its entrance that announces to all comers: "One City Under God." .... Not to be disrespectful, but by the looks of things there, God don't like Atlanta too much. Depressing.

Between Atlanta and Livingston: More speed traps!

On the Road Again: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 27: Overnighting in an Arkansas Rest Area

 

Salado Rest Area camping area, Highway 167, Arkansas. June 2020.

After a week in Missouri, it was time to strike out again toward the southwest ..... to Livingston, Texas. My goals to achieve there: 

1. Vote in the spring 2020 runoff election, which had been postponed, because of COVID-19, from its usual May time to July
2. Simply spend time (and some money) in Livingston to cement my relationship with Texas as my official home state
3. Meet up (safely) with my Houston and Livingston friends

 

When I left Missouri, I knew I'd overnight in Chez P at Arkansas' Salado Rest Area on Highway 167, a bit south of Batesville. 

I have a history with this pretty rest area. Every time I swang by here on my way up or down to South Louisiana, I stopped at Salado Rest Area. Because it's pretty and because I so love that it is a rest area with actual campsites. 

It was with some excitement that this time, I would actually use one of the campsites! 

I arrived before dinner, and chose my site for:

• Attractiveness
• Proximity to restroom 
• Relatively short distance for a rapid exit, if needed
  
• Proximity to night time light source for a feeling of security (not actual security, mind, but the feeling of security)
  

 I backed Chez P into the campsite driveway so I could shoot straight out if necessary.

View from my campsite, Salado Rest Area, Highway 167, Arkansas. June 2020.

 For dinner, I pulled out a can of Chunky soup, a bag of carrots, some crackers, and an apple. An unexpected visitor arrived and I shared some soup with her.

Dinner guest at my Salado Rest Area campsite, Highway 167, Arkansas. June 2020.

After dinner, I anticipated that other overnighters would begin to roll in on this Friday night. I welcomed the additions, as I feel safer in the middle of a herd of other overnighters in a rest area.

But no one came. No. one.

Anxiety about being the lone camper in a rest area that attracted stoppers-by throughout the night punctured my buoyant camping spirit a bit. I reminded myself of this: The vast majority of humans simply want to go about their business, neither wanting to be molested nor wanting to molest others, so get a grip on reality, girl. 

When I arose the next morning, I saw that a couple of other travelers had, after all, stopped for the night, including one in a tent. 

Every time I pass a night like this, it makes the next time easier. Which is good because I aim to camp in the future in a dispersed camping area on public lands, where I'd be far from a main road and facilities. 

When I say "easier," I refer to a process that moves me toward right-sizing safety fears. It is out-sized fear that keeps us from doing so many things.  

 

A campsite at Salado Rest Area camping area, Highway 167, Arkansas. June 2020.

 

On the Road: Kansas: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 26: Minneola and the Confederates

 

Trump and Confederate flags fly together forever. Minneola, Kansas. June 2020.

 I left maskless Meade, with its coded "Situation," and just up the road a bit, passed through Minneola.

On this road trip into the Midwest, it has been so disconcerting to see how people twin Trump with the traitorous Confederate States of America, founded to protect the practice of enslaving women, men, and children.

It is raw racism, unmasked and unashamed.

I can get that this is part of the Trump brand. 

But how does one reconcile the pairing of the United States flag with the Confederate flag, as if they were equal? Isn't this action on the level of burning the American (that is, the United States of America) flag? 

 

On the Road: Kansas: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 25: Meade and The Situation

Meade City Park in Meade, Kansas. Campground and playground. June 2020.

En route from Tucson to Missouri, I stopped in Meade, Kansas, for two nights.

On Wednesday evening, I visited the pleasant city park. There is a campground there, making it a welcome and comfortable retreat for RVers passing through.

There is a pretty playground, too, and it gave a nod to COVID.

Meade City Park in Meade, Kansas. Playground. June 2020.

Meade City Park in Meade, Kansas. Playground and COVID sign. June 2020.

Meade City Park in Meade, Kansas. Playground and COVID sign. June 2020.

I noticed a clutch of people with musical instruments across a parking lot from the playground. Ah! A small outdoor concert! Fabulous - a safe event outdoors with everyone able to choose their physical distance and still enjoy the music and (careful) conviviality of being with other humans IRL. If they chose to be careful, that is.

The musicians: Talented! Old-timey Christian songs, pleasantly nostalgic.


The music ended, and I learned that several clergy had pulled together to host this event for the purpose of offering solace and fellowship in this Difficult Time.

I reckoned, at first, that the clergy intended to talk about COVID, and maybe also some about the Black Lives Matter protests. 

COVID didn't come up at all. They talked about the protests. But they didn't use the word "protest."



Here are words I heard from the four ministers, all uttered with calm, reasonable, and pastoral tones of voice:

• Race riots
• Fear
• Mobs
• Riots
• Fear
• "The events"
• "The situation"
• Fear
• Arson
• Looting
• Criminal acts

As I listened to the four members of the clergy from Meade, I felt confused. It was like they spoke in code. I understood the words. I understood the usual meanings of the words. But there was an overlay of meaning that kept me asking myself: "What is he really saying here?"

A minister of Meade, Kansas, at Meade City Park. June 2020.

There was much talk by each minister about how the protesters (my word) should turn to God and find peace and healing. There seemed to be an assumption that protesters (or, as the Meade ministers might call them: "rioters") are not people of faith. It seemed to be further implied that people of faith do not protest (my word). Maybe the thinking is: They protest (my word), therefore they have no faith. 

This talk of fear. Fear .... that Meade residents have? 

Fear of what? This wasn't explained. But maybe for Meade residents, it was understood.

A minister of Meade, Kansas, at Meade City Park. June 2020.

When a Black clergy woman strode to the stage, I had two thoughts:

• "Oh! I am pleasantly surprised at Meade! A person of color is at this table!" (Because I have my own biases about small Kansas towns.)
• "I want to hear what she has to say! Surely she'll bring some balance to this talk about riots, arson, looting and the lack of God in the protesters' (my word) lives." (Yes, I profiled her perspective based solely on her complexion.)

But no.

The minister, originally from Kenya, described a harrowing experience back home in which white folks shot at her husband while he and she were in their car, and threatened to cut off her hands! The minister related how she called to Jesus in her mind, and felt supreme confidence that Christ was not going to allow these men to harm her and her husband any further, and they did not! ..... And, she declared, it's this kind of faith and confidence that all of us should embrace.

For one, oh my gosh! What a horrific experience to have suffered! I cannot imagine the terror she must have felt.

But: George Lloyd called out for heavenly intervention, and the police murdered him anyway.

What is it the minister from Kenya - and the other Meade clergy - want African-Americans to do?

Be quiet, keep their heads down, pray?

Maybe the message is for African-Americans to do nothing. Maybe the message is that age-old one that colonizers and oppressors and their compliant missionaries disseminated to the oppressed: Accept your lot and get your reward in heaven.

I puzzled over this during the event, and afterward, and again when I arrived at my friend, Kate's, house in Missouri, who is a faithful follower of Christ, and who also protests in the streets, alone and with others. She is not a quiet Christian. Kate couldn't decipher the code either.


There was only one time when any of the ministers used the word justice.

One time.


Meanwhile, the ants on a tree went about their usual business.

Ants at Meade City Park. June 2020.

On the Road: Kansas: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 24: Maskless in Meade

Highway 54, New Mexico. August 2013.

Highway 54. Two nights in Meade, Kansas.

Crossing the threshold of Meade's Thriftway grocery store thrust me back to pre-COVID times.

No one wore a mask.

There were no plexiglass shields between the cashier and the customers.

Checking into the motel - no masks.

Stepping into the smoke-sodden air of a Meade convenience store - no masks. Oh, I did witness one masked fellow entering the attached restaurant. An out-of-towner like me?

It was all a bit of a culture shock, actually.

On my second day in Meade, I did observe three instances, perhaps, of mask-wearing.

Gosh, it would only take one, asymptomatic, drive-through tourist to set off a viral spark in sleepy ol' Meade.

In the unlikely case I'm infected-but-asymptomatic, it ain't gonna be me to light that spark.

I wore my mask.

On the Road: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 23: Highway 54, New Mexico: Changes

Stone building, Highway 54, between Vaughn and Santa Rosa, New Mexico. June 2020.

June 2020

Back here, I knew that my first stop after leaving Tucson would be in Las Cruces, New Mexico. But I didn't know where I'd head from there.

Then an important day for one of my descendants popped up, and that event determined my second destination: Central Missouri.

COVID-19 had an opinion about how I was to get there.

Should I take the route I yearned to take - Highway 54 through New Mexico? Revisit past scenic and cultural touchstones, perhaps for the last time, as I have no idea when I might - if ever - return to the Southwest? But knowing it would be a challenge to find a spot to overnight in Chez P because of state and national park closures, and the dearth of rest areas on this route (which weren't open, anyway)?

Or should I drop down to El Paso, then shoot east through laissez-faire Texas and up through Oklahoma, interstates all the way, hopeful of open rest areas and truck stops where I could overnight in Chez P instead of a motel?

Romantic nostalgia won out over clinical practicality. Highway 54 it was to be. 

The first time I traveled on Highway 54 in New Mexico was in 8888. The last time was in 2013.

Things have changed. Some then and now photos below. 

Carrizozo junction

The junction of Highways 54 and 380 in Carrizozo (near Valley of Fires), at my traditional pit stop, where I went to the bathroom and bought a banana.

In 2013, the c-store/gas station was an Allsup's. Next door sat an old building, C&A Stromberg Trading Post.  That giant square of color against the New Mexican sky always cheered me. 

Stromberg's at junction of Highways 54 and 380, Carrizozo, New Mexico. September 2013.

 In 2020, Stromberg's is gone. The refurbished c-store expanded into the space Stromberg's left behind.

Junction of Highways 54 and 380, Carrizozo, New Mexico. June 2020.

 

Eyes of Duran

I saw the eyes for the first time in 2013. 

Eyes of Duran, Highway 54, New Mexico. September 2013.

Here's what they looked like in 2017.

Eyes of Duran, Highway 54, New Mexico. July 2017.

And in June 2020.

Eyes of Duran, Highway 54, New Mexico. June 2020.

You can read a tragic history of the people who used to own this building in this City of Dust story. 

The stone building

This stone building breathed both desolation and life to me each time I met it on Highway 54, between Vaughn and Santa Rosa. 

Here it is in 2013, like a painting.

Stone building, Highway 54, between Vaughn and Santa Rosa, New Mexico. September 2013.

 

And in June 2020. 

 

Stone building, Highway 54, between Vaughn and Santa Rosa, New Mexico. June 2020.

 Crows played about the building, as did the ubiquitous wind. 

 

 

Related posts on Highway 54 in New Mexico

• August 2017: Missouri Flash Trip, Part 4: Come Ride With Me (in videos)
• August 2017: Missouri Flash Trip, Part 5: Duran Duran
• October 2013: New Mexico: Goodbye to Highway 54. (I took a video of that stone building then, too. Yellow flowers bloomed.)
• August 2013: Highway 54, New Mexico: Summer Party
  
• July 2013: The Ride Back Home: Raton to Alamogordo
• February 2013: Magic Between Two Mountain Ranges
• February 2013: Three Rivers Petroglyphs Site
• January 2013: New Mexico: The Freezing Fog

 

Here is a slideshow of  Highway 54 across the years, 2007-present.

###

Flashback to 2016: Antigua, Guatemala: The Scourge of Pee

Travel does, indeed, expand one's knowledge, as evidenced in this post back in 2016.

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

Antigua, Guatemala: The Scourge of Pee

I learned something in Antigua that was gobsmacking.

Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Men's habit of peeing on the exterior building walls in Antigua is damaging the buildings. Antigua is a UNESCO World Heritage Center, so this is serious business.

It's not just in Antigua. Consider Germany's Ulm Minister, the church with the tallest tower in the world. "Persistent peeing is damaging the historic structure."

Peeing on the limestone walls of the 250-year-old Alamo in Texas is a serious crime because of the damage it does to the historic structure.

In Berlin, the city created a force of "urine police" to protect historic buildings. "Human urine is so abrasive and corrosive that, over time, it acts like a sandblaster," said a scientist.

It's also a problem in Chester, England, which sits atop Roman ruins.

And in Plymouth, England, for a 250-year old synagogue.

There is apparently a Facebook page that has photos of men caught in the act of peeing on walls in Antigua. It's a shaming page. I haven't been able to track it down.

Word of the Year 2020: Build 6: Elevation

On Build thus far

Word of the Year 2020: Build 1: After the Floods
Word of the Year 2020: Build 2: Fronterista
Word of the Year 2020: Build 3: "House"
Word of the Year 2020: Build 4: Chosens
Word of the Year 2020: Build 5: It Takes a Village



Until I began this post, I'd not heard the term, post-traumatic growth.

It is when a person arrives at a post-traumatic mental place where they thrive after a transformation in their worldview.

Following trauma, a person may regain their pre-trauma equilibrium. (And that, by itself, is a tremendous positive.)

Post-traumatic growth, though, from Association Between Resiliency and Post-Traumatic Growth in Firefighters .... : 

PTG is more than just a return to equilibrium after an experienced traumatic situation. This phenomenon indicates that as a result of an experienced situation a person underwent some kind of transformation and achieved a higher level of functioning than before the trauma.

 
And:

.... distinguish the two concepts of resilience and PTG, emphasizing that development following trauma results from transformation, which means cognitive rebuilding [emphasis mine]. Resiliency assumes an ability to move forward with life after adversity, whereas PTG involves a movement beyond pre-trauma levels of adaptation. Moreover, researchers stress that resilient individuals do not necessarily have to experience PTG, as not all traumatic events are subjectively identified as challenging.

However:

[PTG] does not exclude the occurrence of adverse effects of experienced trauma. Post-traumatic growth does not mean that the experience of trauma is desirable or necessary to make significant changes in life. It is not equated with a sense of happiness, either. It is, however, an opportunity for a more meaningful and valuable life. [Note: "valuable,' I'm assuming, in the eyes of the person who experienced the trauma]

Another source framed the cognitive rebuilding succinctly, in Resilience and Post-Traumatic Growth: A Comparison: "Post-traumatic growth is manifested in several clearly defined behaviors and thought patterns not necessarily present prior to exposure. [emphasis mine]"

For some of us - maybe most? - it is a 100% good outcome to regain the equilibrium or the life movement we had pre-trauma. There is nothing intrinsically superior about attaining some higher level of consciousness following trauma, in my not so humble opinion.

But for others of us - take me, for instance - when the original equilibrium may have stood on unstable land, then that "cognitive rebuilding" - the mental rewiring - the post-traumatic elevation - is definitely a goal to reach for.

On the Road: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 22: Into New Mexico

COVID signage outside Walmart. Las Cruces, New Mexico. May 2020.

After leaving Tucson, I headed east on I-10.

In addition to the Welcome to New Mexico border sign, there was another, emblazoned on a giant LED board, which I remember as:

Face coverings must be worn in public settings.

(When, oh when, will I learn to stop and take photos of these documentary things?)

I already knew that New Mexico took COVID protections more seriously than Arizona. The signage impressed me right off, not only for its literal message to inform travelers, but for the sign's implied message: We walk our talk about our concern for your health.

My experience in Tucson was that stores took COVID seriously: plexiglass barriers between cashiers and customers, sanitized shopping carts, and eventually, cashiers routinely wearing masks. But the percentage of Tucsonans wearing masks while shopping was slow to rise as COVID unfolded, and at best, I estimate only a 70% mask-wearing rate at its peak.

In Las Cruces, New Mexico, mask wearing is de rigeur. When I entered the above Walmart, everyone wore a mask except for one scofflaw dad and his under-the-age-of-informed-consent daughter.

I stayed in a Las Cruces motel for three nights. COVID constraints closed the indoor pool, prohibited visitors to motel guests, and required masks in the lobby. This felt reassuring. 

I met with friends in Las Cruces.

In one case, a friend and I met outside only, in a covered breezeway, with 15 or so feet between us. In another case, we met indoors and maskless, but with at least 10 feet between us.  In the third case, we met inside, maskless - most of the time with at least six feet between us, but for a brief time, we sat together at a dining table for lunch.

No hugs, no handshakes.

A level of confidence among all of us that we'd each practiced pretty-safe behaviors before meeting up.

If I were to apply a sexual-encounter analogy, I'd say the three personal meetings - in their aggregate - were similar to using a condom: pretty darn good protection against infection, but not without risk, and certainly not the 100% protection that abstinence brings.

Gosh, it was good to see some folks face to face!

And a rueful shout-out to my El Paso friend and treasured role model, who I couldn't meet while in the area.   :-(

Tucson, AZ: Goodbye: A Soft Close

My Louisiana coffee mug in my Tucson apartment. April 2019.

Yesterday was my last day in Tucson.


I expected an unexpected, unpleasant surprise on my move-out day.

Although there was an annoying location glitch in dropping off my internet provider's router, it was relatively mild, so it didn't rise to the unpleasant surprise level. After I accomplished that mission, I thought, wow, it looks like this will be a smooth exit!

But then, when I traversed a side street on my way out of Tucson, I didn't see a speed hump quickly enough to ratchet down my speed to prevent a clunk as I went over the hump. And I thought, oh, HERE is my move-out surprise! Vehicle damage!

But, no, Chez P(rius) incurred no damage, and I was on my way.

The move-out gods granted mercy this year.    

Tucson, AZ: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 21: Masks

Two of my COVID masks. Tucson, Arizona. May 2020.

Getting some

I bought a set of three masks. My decision-making process was a recipe of

• Two parts --> best-scientific-thinking-at-this-time +
• One part --> Emotional attraction to the sage green color, which overrode a third important best-scientific-thinking-at-this-time feature (multiple layers of fabric).

Before I bought the masks, I did use the folded-over-bandana-mask-with-two-hair ties model. That actually worked pretty well, except for five buts:

1. My bandana mask had a tendency to slide down my nose, which exposed two COVID entry portals, also known as my nostrils. 
2. Ergo, I had to touch the outside of my mask to nudge it back up over my nose, which meant I may have been touching a contaminated surface. 
3. I couldn't wear my earrings with the bandana mask because the hair ties got caught up in them. 
4. Sometimes a hair tie slipped off an ear.  
5. The bulk of the folded-over fabric obscured my looking-down vision, making it treacherous to negotiate steps. (This is a real thing: Recently, I read of someone who broke her arm when she stumbled due to impaired vision caused by her bulked mask fabric.)

I coulda joined the legions of crafty souls who have made their own masks, selecting from any of the plethora of so-called easy templates, but I'm neither skilled nor interested in such things, which is why my mother pretty much made my 8th grade sewing project for me, which was a lovely mossy green jumper made of a faux suede. The color was my favorite and the texture so soft.


I regret that I won't have that COVID Era cultural memory of homemade mask making that so many people around the planet will, but, well, whatever.

Around the ears or around the neck and head? 

I opted for a design that has two slender elastic strings, one circling the top of my neck and the other circling my head above my ears. Because a good fit without gaps is important, I liked that I could adjust the fit of either elastic string.


A little titillating

It amuses me that my masks remind me of old-timey halter tops from the 70s. To wear a halter top on my face makes me giggle.


The fabric is from athleisure wear, so it feels comfortable to touch.

Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 20: Where Am I Going?

Lake Fausse Point State Park, Louisiana. November 2013.

Well, I am in an interesting pickle. 

With COVID, there is uncertainty about what will be open and what will not - for sleeping, gassing up, eating.

I will leave Tucson on May 29. 


What I know:

I will get into my car and drive east.


What I don't know:

Anything else.


OK, OK, that's a bit hyperbolic. But, really, not much. I have squishy ideas of where I'll stop the first night, and I have a couple of smooshy possibilities of a route I'll take to ..... maybe one place for awhile or maybe another place for awhile but both "one place" and "awhile" are only dimly lit. 


As Bones said so many years ago: In ignorance, I await my own surprise.

Tucson, AZ: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 19: Naked Toes

Benson Sculpture Garden, Benson, Colorado. May 2016.

On one hand, you could say that cosmetic maintenance in this time of stay-at-home COVID is a superficial matter - and it is, literally.

Art Castings, Loveland, Colorado. May 2016.

On the other hand, we humans, no matter how low or high our incomes, find comfort, satisfaction, pure plain pleasure in having our hair, skin, and nails groomed. We want to look good and thus feel good. It puts a swag to our step.


It has been thus for millennia.

Benson Sculpture Garden, Benson, Colorado. May 2016.

Heck, animals groom each other, and it's not just about removing insects, it's part of group socialization, bonding, mutual support.


So with stay-at-home-ness keeping us from our visits to salons and the skilled groomers who primp us, oh, it's a loss that is more than skin deep.

Today I stripped the red polish from my toes. The pedicure I had two months ago (longer?) looked so bedraggled. I can't remember when I ever had naked toes in the warm seasons.

Niels Chr. Hansen, Four Foot Sketches in Pencil, around 1892. Source: Invaluable.com via Art Coffee

When we were children, my mother used to tell us that our toes were shaped like the statues of ancient gods and goddesses, our toes curled daintily just a bit, with each succeeding toe shorter than the one before.

This always makes me smile, although I can't say that my naked toes today look like those of an ancient goddess.

Tucson, AZ: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 18: Signs of these Times

COVID masked dinosaur, McDonald's at Grant and Tanque Verde, Tucson, Arizona. May 2020.

On today's weekly hunting-and-gathering foray, I saw signs of the COVID times. They ranged from the whimsical to the utilitarian to the ... ironic? wry? earnest? apocalyptic?

COVID mask and gloves bucket, Food City, Tucson, Arizona. May 2020.

COVID shopping carts, Food City, Tucson, Arizona. May 2020.

COVID biotech sticker, Sprouts parking lot, Tucson, Arizona. May 2020.

Two artists for the above sticker? The second unknown to the first?

"Biotech is Godzilla" is a cultural reference for fans of 1980s-90s thrash metal, which presaged death metal.  The Brazilian band, Sepultura, who birthed Biotech is Godzilla, was a thrash metal band. There is even an Arizona connection here, as the band spent some time in Phoenix writing songs for its Chaos A.D. album.

From a 2017 article in Revolver, 5 Things You Didn't Know About Sepultura's 'Chaos A.D.':

Dead Kennedys frontman Jello Biafra wrote the lyrics to "Biotech Is Godzilla"

As a longtime fan of early punk-rock bands, including Black Flag, Bad Brains, Circle Jerks and especially Dead Kennedys, Cavalera was excited by the idea of having DK frontman Jello Biafra contribute to the album. He didn't want him to sing, he just wanted lyrics. "I don't think Jello is a bad singer, I just think his lyrics are so great. They're so sarcastic and smart. So I asked him to write the lyrics and he said, 'What should I write about?' I said, 'Anything you want to, man.' So he came up with 'Biotech is Godzilla,' which is about the 1992 Rio Summit, where all these politicians got together and talked about technology. Jello's big theory was that AIDS was invented by scientists in laboratories. It was a disease created by us."

The lyrics to Biotech is Godzilla: 

Rio Summit, '92
Street people kidnapped
Hid from view
"To save the earth"
Our rulers met
Some had other
Secret plans

No
No
No
No

Biotech
Biotech
Biotech
Say what?

Strip-mine the Amazon
Of cells of life itself
Gold rush for genes is on
Natives get nothing

Biotech
Biotech
Biotech
Is Godzilla

Mutations cooked in labs
Money-mad experiments
New food + medicine?
New germs + accidents!
Like Cubatao
"World's most polluted town"
Air melts your face
Deformed children all around
Bio-technology
Ain't what's so bad
Like all technology
It's in the wrong hands

Cut-throat corporations
Don't give a damn
When lots of people die
From what they've made

Biotech
Biotech
Biotech
Is A.I.D.S.?

Stop!



So you just never know what you're going to discover from a simple sticker slapped onto a pole in a grocery store parking lot.

Flashback to 2015: Jefferson Island, Louisiana: Rip Van Winkle Gardens

I remember the pleasure of standing under cover of bamboo, listening to the softness of the rain and the creaking of the boughs.

A flashback of those moments, and others, in this 2015 post.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Jefferson Island, Louisiana: Rip Van Winkle Gardens

Jefferson Island, Rip Van Winkle Gardens, Louisiana

Yeah, I know, looks weird, yes? It's a slug. Or roly poly, maybe. I like her upturned mouth.

Time's awastin' on my 2nd Louisiana year, and today I wanted to put to bed the Rip Van Winkle Gardens on Jefferson Island. It was my second visit, the first being abbreviated back in October 2014.

Jefferson Island, Rip Van Winkle Gardens, Louisiana

Gosh, what a pretty place. With so much shade, it's a pleasant escape from Louisiana heat. Many spots to sit and be contemplative.

Jefferson Island, Rip Van Winkle Gardens, Louisiana

There was a short afternoon rain while I was on the paths, and I took cover under a stand of bowed tall grass and bamboo. A taste of this rain below:

At another spot, I sat in front of thick bamboo and listened while it creaked and the peacocks complained loudly to each other. And my belly rumbled a couple of times, too. Here it is below:

When I was here last fall, there was some exciting snake action, which I caught on video here:

Can you see the snake in the picture below? It's a copperhead.

Snake in the bamboo, Jefferson Island, Rip Van Winkle Gardens, Louisiana

No? Let's get a little closer:

Snake in the bamboo, Jefferson Island, Rip Van Winkle Gardens, Louisiana

And let's get a real good look:

Snake in the bamboo, Jefferson Island, Rip Van Winkle Gardens, Louisiana

Hahahaha, I like snakes.


As I said here, I much prefer the gardens on Jefferson Island to the gardens on Avery Island. That is, if one is ambulatory. Jungle Gardens on Avery Island is a driveable experience, so it works much better than Jefferson Island for people who find walking difficult.

A slide show below of Jefferson Island's Rip Van Winkle Gardens:

#30

Word of the Year 2020: Build 5: It Takes a Village

Kazbegi, Caucasus Georgia. May 2012.

On Build thus far

Word of the Year 2020: Build 1: After the Floods
Word of the Year 2020: Build 2: Fronterista
Word of the Year 2020: Build 3: "House"
Word of the Year 2020: Build 4: Chosens



There comes a time when a solo woman observes that she might have to leave behind the cachet of a "woman of a certain age" and enter the land of a "woman of age."

"Not today," she says to herself. But it's coming some day, not too far away, because from her ship's deck, she can just make out the shoreline, and her boat inexorably inches closer to the beach.

In preparation for landing, she's got to consider aging issues.

I've talked about building a chosen family. A chosen family brings mutual intimacy, emotional sustenance, wise counsel from brains not our own, soft places to fall.

For practical, simple transactional needs that arise as singletons age, it's good to build a real-life or virtual home in a village.

Money Crashers offers a useful article on How to Plan for Old Age and Elder Care When You Don't Have Kids.

The advice isn't just for elders without kids - it's also for elders who have kids, but the grown kids:

1. Live far away
2. Already have care-giving obligations to others, such as special needs children or in-laws for whom they provide care
3. Struggle with personal challenges
4. Are well-intentioned and enthusiastic about being supportive, but just don't have the skill set their parents need
5. Exploit their parents' finances or are emotionally/verbally/physically abusive
6. Don't want a relationship with their parents

The article uses the term "elder orphan," a label with only sad, victim-y connotations that I don't believe are helpful. However, the advice in the article is solid.

Some highlights for what solo elders do to build a village around them:

1. The Village to Village Network
2. Work longer and save more to pay for future in-home care expenses that will help you stay in your own home
3. Choose a supportive neighborhood (e.g. walkable to grocery store, library, park)
4. Consider house-sharing or communal living
5. Make new friends
6. Wellness-tracking or wellness-alarm systems
7. For folks who have the means: geriatric care manager

One of my daydreams is to buy a plot of land that is, literally, here:

In this daydream, I have one or two dogs to provide companionship and safety. I live in a tiny cabin. I might not have any internet access. I have water. I have this stunning view.

Although this might work for a year, realistically, I'm going to want to age in a town, in a walkable neighborhood, with internet, live music, diversity of age around me, a library, pocket parks.

I'll want a village.

Tucson, AZ: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 17: Laundry Economics Revisited

At the laundromat. El Paso, Texas. February 2019.

As a renter who lives in budget apartments that don't include washers and dryers, I use communal laundry facilities. Fortunately, all of my domestic apartment choices thus far have included facilities on-site.

It was in 2013, when I lived in Lafayette, Louisiana, that I first learned some lessons about laundry economics. This was the first time in my domestic rootless life when I had to pay to use a washer and dryer.

Not mentioned in that 2013 post about laundry economics was another lesson I learned. I remember clearly the elation I felt upon this discovery. Which was: Buy more pairs of underwear! What a eureka moment!

Underwear takes up so little space and is so light! By having more pairs of underwear, I could extend the number of days without having to do laundry! I don fresh underwear each day, and although I could handwash it, I don't want the hassle. I do feel okey-dokey about wearing external clothing three, or maybe even four times, before tossing it into the laundry bin. (Since COVID keeps me home most days, four times is common.)

So now enter COVID.

There are two laundry facilities in my apartment complex.

One day, in March, the managers suddenly closed the facilities due to COVID!

They directed tenants to nearby(ish) laundromats.

To protect tenants and apartment management staff.

What?!

Diverting tenants from a relatively low-traffic, on-site facility to one that would be often filled with customers? And where one must hang about said laundromat until the laundry was complete, thereby extending the duration of exposure to and from others?  It was a decision that would result in greater danger of exposure to tenants (and to other Tucsonans), rather than less.

And what about the tenants who had no transportation? Or single-parent tenants with young children, who would have to schlep their kiddos to the laundromats, putting them at greater risk for contagion? 

Fortunately, after (I assume) some consternation expressed by tenants (including me), the management sought and found processes to protect both tenants and office staff, and they re-opened the on-site facilities some days later.

But the closure prompted me to consider strategies to change my usual practice of once-a-week, one-load laundry work to every other week.

I counted out my underwear. Twelve.

I have bought six more pairs of underwear.