#like the woods down the street where my deer friends live and the ditch i fell into back in the day and all the places i’ve gotten lost

[arthur-r]

tonight is my last night sleeping in my bed. possibly for the rest of my life. and my last time in my room possibly for the rest of my life. and i want to just get a good night’s sleep to be ready for a long day tomorrow but it’s really not working out like that.

[kyidyl]

Not Deer

(This was inspired by that post that was circulating about the Not Deer in Appalachia and the town that I currently live in.  @leftturnat4thandbananas​ I especially thought you would enjoy this little bit of quarantine-induced madness.  You’ll probably recognize some of the things I’m describing.)

“Alexa, stop!,” Macey yelled at the black cylinder sitting on her night stand.  The alarm shut off, and I started packing up my stuff.  I caught her frown as she watched me.  

“What?,” I asked, “It’s almost curfew.  You know how my mom is about curfew.”  

“It’s snowing outside, and it’s dark,” she swung around so she was sitting on the edge of her bed and flipped her long, dark braid back over her shoulder.  

I finished packing my homework into my backpack and stood, “It’s always dark and cold when I go home in the winter.  I’ll be fine.” 

Both the argument and the concern in her brown eyes was familiar.  She was definitely the mom friend in our group, “It’s not always snowing.  People aren’t careful in the snow.”  

“They’re never careful on that road,” we both lived along a back road that wound through farms and woods.  It had a lot of curves, hills, and blind spots - and no sidewalk.  But it was the only way to get home, so it’s the way I went.  She stood up too, following me as I left her room and started down the steps.  

“You can stay the night, you know.  My mom won’t mind.”  

“I know, Mace, but I will.  You know I don’t like getting ready for school here.  All my stuff is at home.  I’ve either got to get up at the ass crack of dawn,” which never happened because we always stayed up late talking, “Or do a walk of shame.”  

I let my backpack down in the hallway with a thunk, and retrieved my coat from their closet.  I’d brought gloves, a scarf, and a hat, too even though I normally don’t.  I was glad I’d grabbed them.  She stood on the bottom step, chewing her bottom lip.  Her parents were out to dinner, so she couldn’t bug her dad to drive me, but I know she would have if they’d been here.  She tried one more tactic to get me to give up on my walk home, “What about your mom? Can she come get you?” 

I shook my head, “Dad has the car.  Listen, I’ve walked home in the snow before.  It’ll be totally fine.”  

She sighed and dropped her arms, “This is what you were talking about earlier, isn’t it.  The worrying.”  

“Yeah, but it’s ok.  I get why you do it,” I gave her a quick hug and hefted my backpack onto my shoulders, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”  

“Text me when you get home?”

“Of course! Later!”

“Later, Apple,” I smiled at her nickname for me and left.  After I closed the door behind me, I heard the lock click into place.  Her parents’ rules: if you’re home alone, you lock the door.  I shifted the weight of my books on my back, and looked around.  

Macey lived on a small farm, and so she had a long driveway between her house and the road.  I started walking, and the sand and rocks of the unpaved drive crunched under the soles of my shit-kickers.  Macey’s dad had salted the drive before they’d left, and the stones glimmered wetly in the moonlight.  It turned out that the snowing had stopped while we’d been hanging out, and the clouds had gone.  The ground was blanketed in a couple of inches of unblemished white.  Just enough to cover the grass, but not enough to get school canceled.  

The moon was out, bright and full, and it illuminated the flat, white expanse of the land that stretched out on either side.  The air smelled like ice and cold, like icicles and sleeping forest.  There was only a little wind, and it blew up swirls of loosely packed snowflakes from the ground.  Everything had that cushioned silence that follows a new snowfall.  

It took a few minutes for me to reach the actual road, and unlike the Romero family’s driveway, it hadn’t been touched by salt, sand, or plow.  Typical.  It probably would be covered until tomorrow morning.  Our little town wasn’t exactly proactive about things like that.  They preferred to suffer, I guess.  I gave an annoyed snort to the empty night,  

I was careful as I turned left onto the empty road, watching for the glow of headlights to give me some forewarning of a car.  None came, and I kept walking.  

Soon, the flat land of the farms gave way to the woods.  Houses, none of them of the new construction that made up the subdivisions further up the road, were set back from the road or behind a screen of trees.  This road had hills, and further along it the side of the road would give way to steep ditches and gullies.  Our here, there were plenty of animals.  My parents have hit deer especially a number of times; my dad even bought these weird things for his hood that are supposed to whistle and chase the deer away.  

As the landscape transitioned into woods, there was an old, broken barn.  Not even a barn, really, more like a two sheds stuck together.  Half of it was beaten, lilting boards and a slice for a door.  The other half was a rusting tin can of a structure, the metal walls little more than rust and the vines that held it together, and a set of open doors that led into gloom.  A barely-there metal roof was slanted over the rested half and pitched over the wooden half, and it was only slightly less rusted than the shed itself.  A useless decaying horse gate was off to the side, slanting drunkenly to the right, and a path into the woods was behind it.  

(picture to break up the wall o text.)

I hated that barn.  

It creeped me out.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose every time I got close.  Even as a little kid I hadn’t been curious enough to overcome that particular fear, and it hadn’t gotten better over the years.  Every time I walked home I crossed the street to avoid walking too closed to it and sprinted passed it.  But tonight, the snow and slickness made it dangerous for me to do either of those things.  My heart rate ticked up and I took my hands out of my pocket.  When it came to fight or flight, I was very much in the fight category.  It seemed like the wind blew a little harder, and suddenly I thought I could hear all kinds of noises that I hadn’t heard before.  

The cracking of a stick somewhere in the woods, almost like a gunshot in the dark.  

The fump has a pile of snow was pushed off of a branch somewhere.  

The flap and tumble of some unlucky bird.  

A barking dog menacing me from one of the homes nearby.  

These sounds were normal, but as I was walking in front of the sad, lonely little structure, they all seemed sinister.  They were living things, pulsing in the darkness when I wanted to be alone.  The sounds of my steps in the snow answered.  Shit kickers aren’t stealthy.  

I walked past that structure as fast as I could, the fear tightening my shoulders more with every step.  I clenched my teeth and my fists, and walked.  The stillness was oppressive now, where moments before it had been soothing.  Fear makes you see things in shadows.  

Which is why, when the winter-bared bones of the bush in front of the shed clacked and scraped together in a gust of wind, I screamed and ran.  Damn the snow, damn fight or flight, I was not looking to fight some supernatural entity tonight.  

Apparently, though, the laws of physics still applied to me.  I ran, but I didn’t get very far before I tripped have a big branch on the side of the road.  My feet slipped in the snow, and I went down face-first onto my hands and knees.  

In case you have ever wondered: snow does very little to cushion a fall onto rocks and rough pavement.  It only makes your clothes wet on top of giving you road rash.  And that ish hurts.  

“Great, Alisha, juuuust great.  Skinning your damned knees like a five year old because of some wind,” I grumbled aloud to myself as I stood and started brushing debris off the now-wet knees of my jeans.  I checked under my gloves, and while my hands stung, the gloves had saved me from the words of the skinning.  In fact, the worst was the throbbing on the back of my head where my backpack had slid up my back and smacked my head.  Well, that and the knowledge that whatever goblin lived in that shed was probably having a laugh at my expense.  

The fall did do one good thing, though.  It broke through the worst of my fear, and I laughed to myself as the adrenaline started wearing off.  I started down the road again, stomping in protest, my cold hands jammed back in my pockets.  

From here, the road got darker as the trees reached overhead.  Even in the winter they blocked most of the light from the moon, and out here in the country they didn’t bother with street lights.  The embankments on the side of the road rose and forced me to walk directly on the road instead of off to the side.  This was the most dangerous part, because this was also where the tight curves started.  I felt my adrenaline spike again, but this time there was nothing supernatural about it; I was alert for headlights bouncing off of the tree branches.  

As I walked, I listened to the world around me, my caution making my senses stretch further.  I heard the same things as before: the cracking of sticks in the forest as some creature shuffled around them, the huffing of a dog that probably just wanted to play, the whispered hush of snow rearranging itself in the trees, and the occasional noise of some small creatures settling in for the night.  They were the same noises I always heard around here at this time of year, familiar as the nose on my face.  It’s funny how the mind plays tricks.  

I found a good walking speed that wasn’t so fast it was dangerous, but wasn’t so slow that I’d be frozen before I got home, and the time passed quickly.  Before I knew it, I was almost at the little bridge before the turn off for my house.  Really, bridge was a generous word for the small overpass that took the road over the little creek.  It was just a flat stretch of road with a thin shoulder and a low concrete guardrail.  On the other side, the road curved out of view.  

(another pic to break up the wall o text.  Both images are screenshots of Google street view edited in PS.)

Here, the trees pulled back some and the moon was able to shine clearly on the flat surface of the bridge.  There, standing in the middle of the road, was a huge buck.  I’ve seen a lot of deer living out in the stix, but this was easily the biggest one I’d ever seen.  I’m 5′2, and this thing looked like its shoulder would be somewhere around my head.  I didn’t even know they could get that big.  The moon painted its orange-brown coat with silver, and threw the shadows created by its twisting antlers into sharp relief.  They were as big as him - thick and heavy, and wickedly sharp.  I couldn’t count the points from here, but it had to be at least twelve.  

Wait...antlers? It was February.  My dad liked to hunt, and even though I’d never gotten into he, he’d taught me a few things about deer.  One of those things was that the bucks dropped their antlers earlier than this, and it was a good time to go hunting for the shed racks in the woods.  This deer shouldn’t have any antlers this late in the season.  

I stopped in my tracks, and as I did, it whipped its head around to look at me.  There moonlight was a sharp little blade in the dark eyes of this thing as it stared at me from the other side of the river.  It stared, and stared, and as it did, the same fear grabbed hold of my guts and scratched its way across the nerves of my skin.  My heart was pounding, my muscles clamped tight.  This was nothing like the fear I’d felt while passing the shed.  It seemed like a cozy little refuge, now, as I started down this deer.  

I couldn’t understand why I felt this way - it had done nothing but be big and not shed its antlers yet.  That logic didn’t matter.  I wasn’t getting a single step closer to that thing.  I ground my teeth as I stared at it.  I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.  Right now, my actions were being guided by a part of my brain that kept my ancestors alive.  

Predator, it screamed, that is a predator!

It made no sense.  It was a deer.  Sure, they’d eat meat sometimes if it was around.  They looked at gut piles like they were treats this time of year, but they didn’t kill and eat humans.  That was another thing my instincts were saying - hungry.  This thing was hungry.  I still couldn’t say why or how I knew any of this, but I knew it down to the red marrow of my bones.  

It was strange - the longer I stared down that deer, the more of a tug I felt to keep walking.  To cross the river.  But the terror was useful; it kept me from following that impulse.  The deer huffed, and its breath didn’t fog in the cold.  My brain filed that detail away automatically with the height and the antlers.  The animal sounded frustrated, although it shouldn’t have been possible for me to identify that emotion so clearly.  

Then it started pacing.  I watched in fascination horror as it moved with an awkward, stuttering gate.  It didn’t seem to know how to place its hooves, and it swayed back and forth, all while not taking its too-intelligent eyes off of its prey.  It didn’t know how to move properly, and I remembered that my dad had told me of an illness.  Chronic Wasting Disease - mad cow for deer.  He told me how to spot one, and to steer clear of it.  He told me it was neurological; that it made it hard for them to move.  

But this wasn’t that.  No, this deer moved like it was something else wearing the skin of a deer.  Like it was new to that body and didn’t know how to use it.  Its fumbling reminded me of the way a toddler moved - wobbling and unsure of what its muscles should do, but enthusiastic about being up and walking instead of crawling.  It was like that, but with far less innocence and far more jerks and twitches in its movement. It almost looked like it was adjusting its deer suit as it paced on its side of the river.  

It huffed again and then growled.  Not like a tiger or a dog would growl, more like a cat growling if that cat had the vocal cords of a high-pitched cow. I screamed in surprise and covered my ears at the sound.  

Come.  Here.  I could feel its anger and frustration pressing in on me, looking for purchase, looking for a crack in my terror.  

There was none.  It was all-encompassing.  It was terror of the sort that fueled strength.  Terror that sharpened your mind, that made time slow so you could think faster and survive.  It was the same kind of terror that had saved the earliest of my kind on the savannahs in Africa.  It was terror that whispered to me with a small, comforting voice, do not cross the moving water.  

Of course - it hadn’t even attempted to cross the stream, pacing back and forth over where the edge of the stream was rather than where the edge of the bridge was.  It couldn’t cross the moving water.  

As soon as I had the thought the creature’s growling was honed into a scream.  It stood on two legs, making it tower over me.  It was trying to be more threatening, but I knew now.  I knew as long as I stayed over here I was ok.  

“No,” I said, my voice stead and calm.  I wasn’t loud, but my voice carried in the snowy stillness and into the moon-bright night, “I won’t cross.  You can’t have me.”  

It screamed at me again, eyes narrowing in an almost human expression of incredulity.  Inside my clothes, my skin was hot from the anger coming from the not-deer, sweat trickling down my spine, but I planted my boots and fisted my hands and would not move.  I could taste ice on my tongue, and I took a deep breath through my mouth, letting the cold soothe me.  

Then, there was a sound.  High pitched and clear, it came from somewhere in the woods or fields around us.  It was sweet, and some of the heat of the not-deer’s anger seeped away from my skin.  Its had flung around awkwardly towards the sound and it went back on all fours with a loud thud.  It snorted and pawed the ground, but it hesitated.  Then, the call came again, louder this time.  With a final, angry look at me, it took off into the forest away from me and the road home.  

I stood there on that road waiting, too afraid to cross, until I was sure that I couldn’t hear it crashing through the bushes anymore.  Then I took off like a shot, snow be damned.  I ran across the creek, my feet sliding as I took a sharp right onto the road that led to my house, down that road and up to my house.  I ran straight in the front door, locked it behind me, and pounded up the steps to my room.  

I texted Macey when I got my backpack off, but I knew it was going to be a long, sleepless night.  

[bowieandqueen11]

Upside Down / Mike Wheeler Angst

Request: One with Mike Wheeler and the reader has no idea about all the stuff to do with like Hawkins Lab and the upside down and stuff and the reader tries to find out about what happens but Mike gets sick of it so he tells them to leave him alone and the reader takes it the wrong way and just angst really. I need an imagine to match how I’m feeling atm T-T. If not it’s all g :) 

Thank you my love @disneyfan567 I’m sorry if this is terrible because you deserve the best XD <3

Hawkins was just that sort of town. The sort of place where nobody really pays any heed, but there’s a certain darkness that lurks behind every arcade and every shopping mall. A kind of chill that makes the adults pull down the rims of their hats and hurry on by, shooing their children off to amuse themselves in fear of being caught. The town had been built on a grid, and no expense was spared. The roads were perfect grit spitting rivers of tarmac that traffic lights blinked along to allow the schoolchildren to pass safely. The air was muggy and foggy and yet seemed crisp to those who drank it in. On occasion a deer would gallop through the streets or a bird fall on the tall black lampposts, but the canyon made sure that nothing but cold air tugged on the hearts of the residents living there.

You weren’t stupid, that’s for sure. You had known as soon as Will ‘Zombie Boy’ Byers had returned home, that all your friends had begun acting suspiciously. You barely see him anymore, his mum dragging him home whenever you greet him entering the school doors, or her telling you he’s still so very ill, okay sweetheart, when you go knocking on their door with all the physics homework he had missed that day. Dustin and Lucas weren’t much better. You had tried to drag their secrets out of them, managing even to rustle Steve into the mix in the arcade. Thumping your hand down on the dusty Dragon’s Lair machine, knocking Dustin’s hand off the control stick, as red as a cherry, he shouts a loud ‘hey, y/n, jesus, what the actual f-’

‘Dustin!’, Steve coughs from behind him, two hands placed sternly against the light blue cotton covering his hips, slouching down onto his left foot. His eyes are wide and disapproving as he looks down at him. ‘Y/n here has left me sixteen messages, ten of which were missed calls because apparently neither of you two, idiots, would answer her. I had to driver her all the way here, and let me tell you, her mother was not happy with me.’

‘What is it, y/n, we’re busy’, Lucas sighs, twisting around again to place another quarter into the game.

‘I know something fishy is going on with you guys, and it’s not fair for you to keep me out of it. I have as much a right to know as any of you guys!’

The three boys throw each other concerned glances, Steve making as if to move forward, his pointer finger out, mouth slightly agape, but the words only stick in his throat as he blinks, curls falling over his forehead.

‘It’s..it’s not safe, y/n,’ Dustin finally says, much to your dismay. Groaning lightly, you turn on your heel and run out the door, tears welling up in your eyes.

And then there was Mike, your best friend, who hadn’t spoken to you in nearly a week. Anytime you saw him, his eyes were blotchy and red as if he’d spent all night lying on his bed crying, his eyes cast down onto the ground without meeting anyone’s gaze, his backpack nearly falling off his slumped shoulders, not even noticing the little Star Wars keychain you had bought him for his birthday digging into his skin. Anytime you went near him, he had brushed you off, throwing your hand off his shoulder, not answering your walkie talkie during the night, pretending he was over at Mike’s when you had clearly seen him cycle into the woods whilst waiting for him behind the bushes on his front lawn. It was as if he had become a ghost.

That’s why you found yourself outside Hawkin’s Highschool late that night, determined to find out what in these haunted woods had everyone so frightened.The sky is a rolling blanket of cloud the colour of wet ash, and the ground its dank reflection, each trembling step a prayer for some kind of answer, some kind of key to unlock this secret the whole town seemed to be conspiring to keep from you. The lights flickered as you stepped past the last few overhead lampposts like flickering daydreams, dying underneath the blanket of night. The chill wind tugged at your clothing and whipped loose hair about your face, bringing with it the first of the rain that had been promised since supper. The newly wet skin offered body heat to the frigid air, only to find its appetite was insatiable. 

The hills that lie friendly in the day - like the pillows of the land - are darkly ominous by night. The paths that were illuminated just hours before become lost in a blackness that even moonlight cannot help. The trees that are magnificent in sunshine tower over you as you step across the borderline between the seen and unseen. Steeling yourself to keep moving past the growls that seem to encircle you, your hair stands on end as if the forest was on the enemy’s side. 

Yelping lightly, you tumble to the ground, your flashlight rolling out of your hand and tumbling across the dirt, spinning lightly as it illuminates in pale flashes of light the nearly translucent face of Mike Wheeler as he turns around in confusion, wondering what had managed to trip over the tire of his bike that lay abandoned in a nearby ditch.

‘M-mike’, you manage to mutter out, your teeth clenched as a ripple of pain ruffles through you. Looking down, you can’t see, but can feel the stickiness between your fingertips as you move it away from the tear in your jeans. Standing awkwardly in front of you, Mike manages only to drop his box of Eggos, the rain pouring silently down his face like tears as he pouts a little, his raven hair slick against his head as it pelts down upon his unprotected skin. His striped shirt is nearly see through in the cold, and you can’t help but wondering what the hell is wrong with him, standing in the middle of the rain, shivering lightly, at nearly ten past midnight.

‘Y/n, what-what are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same thing, Mike.’ Glancing around him to the wooden box his foot kicks against backing away slightly, you ask ‘why is your favourite hoodie on the ground?’

‘I dropped it y/n, jesus, it’s none of your business anyway.’

‘Mike...’, you manage to stumble to your feet, approaching him slowly so as not to scare him off, him staring at you like a deer caught in the headlights, his arms flush by his side and unmoving, ‘Mike, what’s going on, please just tell me.’

Placing one hand on his shoulder, your thumb moving uncomfortably against the damp material, he bows his head a little, a deep breath rumbling through his chest. There’s a tense silence for a moment,as the two of you just stand there in the downpour, unsure of what to do or say. What you don’t expect, however, is for Mike to grab your hand, throwing it down onto your stomach with a dull thud.

‘You wouldn’t understand!’, he begins to shout, his hands coming up to fist into his air, ‘there’s a reason we haven’t told you, y/n! It’s because we don’t care about you! You have no idea what it’s like! No idea what it’s like to lose everything! Jesus, just leave me alone!’

As he stomps past you, his sneakers nearly slipping on the damp pine cones that crunch under his feet, little wood chippings sticking to his slipping socks, he thumps against your shoulder without a care, his eyes downcast and a pained expression flashing through his face. As you just stand there, confused and lost, the only thing you could think, no matter how ridiculous, was that you weren’t sure if the streaks running down his flushed cheeks were little dew droplets of rain, or burning, throbbing tears.

[dcnativegal]

Day 55 of Pandemic, & I’m sick

Monday, May 4, 2020. Day 55 of the global pandemic (declared by World Health Organization on March 11th.) We as a planet hit 3,500,000 cases today, and 250,000 deaths. There are many more than that, but the planet doesn’t have enough tests.  But then, there was this announcement:

So obviously we’re in good hands. [Sarcasm alert.]

 The entire planet has slowed down, such that seismologists can detect the quieting of the earth: less shuddering of industry, cars, construction. Check out the drop in electricity usage:

Here’s a bit of perspective from Instagram:

The Lesbians of Paisley have been fertile ground for viruses. Valerie is nearly recovered from the viral pneumonia she was diagnosed with on March 26 at the emergency room at Lake District Hospital. She’d begun to feel feverish and achy, with violent coughing on March 15th, 2 days after what turned into my last day in my office at the hospital’s primary care clinic, and a day and a half after we’d dined with our friends Toni, Al, Bonnie and Bruce in person, sans masks. We began 100% isolation from the outside world the minute she felt sick. She recounted the ER adventure to a friend thusly: We drove in and they have organized a system that resembles getting on a [military] base after 9-11. We sat in the pickup at the checkpoint until a somebody in protective attire had taken my temp and saturation levels and asked a bunch of questions. Then they slapped a red sticker on the dash, told us to park in the ER lot and "don't get out of the pickup." Five hours later I had donated blood and been CAT scanned. I had two pneumonia shots that were current and two flu shots, also current. They checked the blood against 14 different virus strains and came up blank. The chest showed white lungs and my saturation levels were iffy. So they used one of the tests they had been sent, gave me antibiotics (just in case) and sent me home. Took me three days to sleep off all that fun.”

Me and Griffey the poodle waited in the pickup for her. At every sound, he got up from the passenger’s seat and looked at the ER entrance where she’d disappeared. No Valerie? Back to sleep. I walked him 3 times.      Hope, her RN daughter, told us that her flow through the ER was great practice in maintaining distance and perfect hygienic process through the CT scan, taking blood, even pushing her food on a tray to her. Lake Health District Hospital is prepared, and still, technically speaking, zero cases in the county.

I was so anxious about her health, her ability to breathe, that I gave up all thought of working from home. I listened to her breathing and coughing, brought her tea, and finally, asked her to write out her last will and testament. She did, and put it away. I figured, her kids are wonderful and won’t fight about stuff but, better for her to express her wishes, even if the paper wouldn’t be legally binding.

Apparently, I get the FrankenDodge (the pickup which has hit one too many deer and who’s grill is sewn together by wire). I’ll take it but I’d much rather have her.

We waited 10 days for the nasal swab results. While we waited, she got better. Never had that cytokine storm, nor that respiratory crash. Storms and crashes; pretty apt words for the medical horror of end stage COVID-19. Once her test came back negative, despite the warning of her PCP who says that nasal swabs miss between 30 and 47% of positive cases, I was able to go to town on the 10th of April, get some software downloaded onto the computer so I could work from home, and hit Safeway while wearing a mask. I also dropped off one of Valerie’s homemade masks to a friend, along with some toilet paper illustrated with Trump’s kissy face. The moment of levity was greatly appreciated.

I started feeling lousy six days after my jaunt to Lakeview (April 16th). Cough and release of gook high up in my chest. Headache. No fever. Who knows if I have COVID-19. We listen to a British gentleman, Dr. Campbell, daily, as he reviews what’s going on globally, and he interviewed a woman who had exactly my illness course, before she moved on to fever and gastrointestinal symptoms. She never got tested. Too much hassle. Which is so ridiculous, criminal really, and in the USA, a direct result of American hubris and incompetence. Fine. Anyone with any symptoms of any illness is isolated until we have a vaccine and treatment, is my prediction. I’m still feeling shitty, though better. Started taking antibiotics just in case and in the hopes of recovering SOMEDAY.

 My son Jonah and his girlfriend June escaped just in time the terrible plight of New York’s COVID19 deluge of infections and hospitalizations. They’ve been in Baltimore at June’s mother’s beautiful home. He spent his 26th birthday in the basement because they were still in quarantine. See adorable picture, below. Now they’re allowed upstairs, enjoying the quiet. Apparently, writing and directing music videos is not an essential service during a pandemic, but he’s writing pitches and living off the most recent lucrative gig with Kesha, thank goodness.

One of the most moving things that is happening in the USA during this time is the 7pm clapping ritual for medical workers and first responders in New York City, in all the boroughs:

There’s a firefighter in DC who’s going to hospitals and nursing homes to play the bagpipe.

That’s where my daughter Clara lives, in DC, but right now she’s staying with a friend in Laurel, MD, since her group house dynamics are stressful and had a symptomatic guest at last report. She’s working from home to make sure the Latinx school children are getting the tutoring they need now more than ever. We worry about her husband Jose and his country, Guatemala, since there are COVID-19 cases down there, and refugees seeking asylum are being dumped there, with and without the virus. Over 700 cases in Guatemala as of today. We hope he will get to the USA this year. However, Trump referred to it as a shithole country, which doesn’t bode well.

My sister and her husband are well, thankfully. They work fulltime from home in the company of Pepper the cat and Darcy the chocolate lab. Yuuki, 25, stays there, too, mostly in their room; they are out of work and applying for unemployment. Kohji, age 28, works from home in DC and makes more money as a web designer than I ever will after 34 years as a social worker, but who’s counting. (I remember well the admonition of a field instructor back in 1987: don’t go into social work for Power, Pay or Prestige.) His girlfriend is probably out of work; she works for a nonprofit that plants trees in DC. Probably not essential work right this very minute. Makoto, 23, is out of quarantine and looking for something to do; he’ll be a senior at the University of Delaware this fall. As far as I hear on Facebook and email, the rest of the folks with whom I share DNA are well. So that’s good. I worry about my Aunt Mary Lee who is 87. But she says not to:  she’s fine and her ritzy retirement community in McLean, VA is on “lockdown.”

Psychologically, in the experience of quarantine and ‘social distancing’, there’s me, and then there are my clients.

My moods go up and down, but a little further down than usual. The terror that Valerie might die of COVID-19 has passed, but I figure I will always need therapy.  I have “Facebook messenger” video chats with my therapist, Darcy of Bend, every other week now, which helps. Having ‘Generalized Anxiety Disorder’ and a tendency toward major depression, I find therapy to be a corrective. A bimonthly tune up. Without it, I naturally veer toward negativity and neurosis, and a hypervigilance that served me well when I was a child, but is exhausting, overwrought and over-thought as an adult.

Psychologically, Valerie is always fine. Seriously. She was once told as a young woman by a therapist who’d tested her with the MMPI (the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory) that she was outrageously and puzzlingly normal. Now that she’s feeling mostly well again from the pneumonia, she’s been tearing up the joint, fixing the sump pump that apparently keeps this little house from drifting down main street on the wetlands it’s built on. Digging out the leaves from our irrigation ditch, chopping and clearing the wood from our front yard.

The BEFORE picture:

The AFTER Picture.

 And this happened one morning in March. Just a cattle drive past our front door.

Valerie’s planning a garden at her daughter’s place, which has a deer-proof fence and lots of sun up on the hill above us. A delivery of horse manure is scheduled, and the garden bed has been rototilled. Val’s granddaughter Jessica and her husband Alan are living up there now, working from home for their Portland-based gigs. They’re almost finished the 14-day quarantine since they moved down here. The new normal: anytime anyone leaves one locale for another, they disappear into strictest quarantine, not to leave their abode. Groceries are delivered to the doorstep. A recent day turned out to be Jess’ 25th birthday: I’d bought a canvas bag with a picture of a pug on it, like her dog Archie, and Valerie found something gluten free flour mix with fresh jam to give her. Birthday gatherings are suspect at the moment.

Here’s a lovely idea for quarantined birthday celebrations:

What a kind and generous offer.

Even in isolation, Val and I do socialize, on zoom. The one pictured below is church.

We ‘visit’ with our fellow parishioners from St. Luke’s on Sunday evenings. Then we say Compline together, from the Book of Common Prayer. My favorite prayer of all time is this one from that service.

Yes, shield the joyous. Because joy is fleeting.

Our writers’ group, Easy Writers, ‘meets’ on zoom every Monday now. I wrote this bit about my yarn for the prompt, ‘write something in your home that means a lot to you.’

I am doing a great deal of crochet and a little knitting.

Yarn is my comfort and my joy. It is the raw material I create blankets and scarves and hats with. My tools are hooks and needles made from wood and plastic and metal. My fingers are also my tools.

Some of the yarn is like cotton candy: spun mohair from a goat is said to have a ‘halo’ or ‘aura’ because of the gentle cloud of color you can see an inch or two away from the spun thread. Some yarn is like twine: you can see every string of ply. My favorite is merino wool and single ply. A unity of color that will not split. All for one and one for all, the fuzzy stuff is twisted and bound into a single string of strength…

My clients are stressed out. The pandemic adds a layer to the stress they were already experiencing. I listen and knit, from within the cocoon of the yarn room which my folks can see behind me.  One of my clients wanders about with her phone in her hand while I get slightly dizzy. I like this kind of counseling since I get a glimpse of my clients’ homes. Reminds me a little bit of being a geriatric care manager. You can tell a lot about a person from their home. From my home you can tell that I have a lot of yarn, and I work multiple projects at a time because there are piles of them alongside my recliner.  

One of the sad weights of being present for my clients is their level of estrangement for most if not all social connections, especially people with whom they share DNA. And every single one has what is called in the mental health world “complex PTSD” from multiple traumatic experiences.  I sit with them, on the phone or via video. I hope to model for them what Carl Rogers called ‘unconditional positive regard.’ I breathe deeply to release my own distress at their sadness. We explore one tiny step toward reducing their isolation, the sense of trust. All during a pandemic where other people could be carrying a potentially deadly virus.

It’s no wonder I’m pawing mohair out of screen for my own comfort.

Sometimes I email clients links or articles on how to keep their spirits up, or about good things that are happening instead of the dire predictions they’re listening to or watching. There is much to share that is hopeful.  I sent one to a client on creative ways to care for everyone and she shot back:

“I believe this is Liberal rhetoric. 

Esp the paragraph below:

 This current emergency provides the possibility for a new emergence—the birthing of a truly civil civilization dedicated to the well-being of all people and the living Earth. “

Oh well. We can’t have a truly civil civilization dedicated to the well-being of all people, now can we?

Sigh.

 Brilliant writing is being penned right now, since the entire planet’s human inhabitants are barely one degree of separation away from this virus, which is apparently ‘barely alive’ and therefore hard to kill, as it spreads onward to make millions miserable and hundreds of thousands die.

I’m saving articles from The Atlantic, The NY Times, and the Washington Post, and following a historian named Heather Cox Richardson who writes a daily blog called Letters from an American. In a recent post she writes:

“The big news … has been the ‘protests’ of state governors’ stay-at-home orders and mandatory business closings to try to contain the novel coronavirus …These protests are a classic example of trying to control politics by controlling the national narrative. The protests are backed by the same conservative groups that are working for Trump’s reelection. …These are not spontaneous, grassroots protests. They are political operations designed to divert attention from the Trump administration’s poor response to the pandemic. Even more, though, they are designed to keep the American public divided so that we do not protest the extraordinary economic inequality the pandemic has highlighted.

These protests have diverted the national conversation by turning a national crisis into partisan division along the lines the Republican Party has developed since the 1980s... The change of subject protects not just Trump but also the ideology at the heart of his Republican Party. Since 1981, Republicans have argued that the economy depends on wealthy businessmen who know best how to arrange the economy—the makers-- and that it is vital to protect their interests. Under their policies, wealth in America has moved upward. The pandemic has highlighted how these policies have removed economic security for ordinary people. They cannot pay their bills, and they might well turn against an ideology that uses our tax dollars to bail out corporations while they must risk their lives to pay their rent.”  [Emphasis mine]

I am so glad someone smarter than me can reveal the interconnections of what’s going on politically.

There is food for thought on Facebook and Instagram: in the guise of a rewrite of Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese, this poem.

Mary Oliver for Corona Times (after Wild Geese)

by Adrie Kusserow

You do not have to become totally zen, You do not have to use this isolation to make your marriage better, your body slimmer, your children more creative. You do not have to “maximize its benefits” By using this time to work even more, write the bestselling Corona Diaries, Or preach the gospel of ZOOM. You only have to let the soft animal of your body unlearn everything capitalism has taught you, (That you are nothing if not productive, That consumption equals happiness, That the most important unit is the single self. That you are at your best when you resemble an efficient machine). Tell me about your fictions, the ones you’ve been sold, the ones you sheepishly sell others, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world as we know it is crumbling. Meanwhile the virus is moving over the hills, suburbs, cities, farms and trailer parks. Meanwhile The News barks at you, harsh and addicting, Until the push of the remote leaves a dead quiet behind, a loneliness that hums as the heart anchors. Meanwhile a new paradigm is composing itself in our minds, Could birth at any moment if we clear some space From the same tired hegemonies. Remember, you are allowed to be still as the white birch, Stunned by what you see, Uselessly shedding your coils of paper skins Because it gives you something to do. Meanwhile, on top of everything else you are facing, Do not let capitalism coopt this moment, laying its whistles and train tracks across your weary heart. Even if your life looks nothing like the Sabbath, Your stress boa-constricting your chest. Know that your antsy kids, your terror, your shifting moods, are no less sacred than a yoga class. Whoever you are, no matter how broken, the world still has a place for you, calls to you over and over announcing your place as legit, as forgiven, even if you fail and fail and fail again. remind yourself over and over, all the swells and storms that run through your long tired body all have their place here, now in this world. It is your birthright you be held deeply, warmly, in the family of things, not one cell left in the cold.

-Adrie Kusserow

 Not one cell left out in the cold. Yes.

There is so much to be grateful for. I have a place to live, and even while paying off my bankruptcy debt, I have plenty. Enough that I can make small donations here and there. Here’s one cause I found: supporting foster children who were in college and now have no place to go. (Terrible visuals for the logo: it’s “Together We Rise.”)

Soon, the nights of below freezing temperatures will pass, and both Lesbians of Paisley will be healthy at the same time.  Perhaps I’ll get my Tricycle-for-Grownups serviced and toodle around for exercise. Perhaps the Stitch & Bitch knitting/crochet gatherings will resume, maybe in a park for physical distance and social connection.

And maybe I’ve already had Covid-19, and so has Valerie. Looks like 50-70% of all the people on the planet, not quite 8 billion humans so maybe 4 to 6 billion people, need to catch this thing in order to give our species herd immunity. Or WILL catch it because we have no way to stop it, only to slow the infections so that health care is not overwhelmed. We live and Love in the Time of Coronavirus, to paraphrase Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I maybe a libtard, a snowflake, a lily-livered liberal, who’s heart bleeds. But I agree with this sentiment, found on Facebook, our American ‘commons’:

Love absurdly and abundantly, my people. And wash your hands. 

[moonchildlulu]

A New Familiar? Or A New Spirit Animal?

So, for starters, I want to make it clear that I have two great grandmas that were both from different Native American tribes on opposite sides of my family -one on the paternal side and one on the maternal. Both died long before either of my parents were born and neither spoke much about their heritage, in fact, I only know the tribe of one- my paternal great grandmother was Alabama-Coushatta. I feel the need to explain this because I want to avoid the hate mail in my inbox from people claiming that I am stealing Native American terms and spiritual symbols and whitewashing or abusing them. I’m not. It is my heritage as well. And though it was largely hushed up in order for them to “fit in” with white society, their heritage is mine. So when I say, spirit animal. That’s exactly what I mean-A spiritual animal guide. That being said, I’m also French and Irish and their heritages are mine as well. So the instance I am about to explain could be either a new familiar, a new spirit animal, or just a messenger of some kind. I really need some words or input from the pagan and witchy community at large because everything I’ve learned has been through extensive research and self-discovery. My Native relatives died long ago and I had no one to teach me those ways. And I just need some external input cause I felt like I’m gonna explode. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I was on a walk with my dog today. She is a large dog, a deaf Pitbull. So, typically, wildlife avoids us when we are out. However, this time we picked up a friend along the way. Walking at the edge of the road, as there are no sidewalks, I walk on the pavement as I let my dog have the inside for safety & because the grass is softer for her paws (she is recovering from a leg injury from before we adopted her). We turn on to one street and i notice a Whitetail for at a feeder in someone’s yard. This is a common occurrence as our neighborhood has SO many deer that people have pretty bird baths filled with deer corn in their yards to keep the deer from rummaging through gardens and such. Typically the deer scatter when you walk by, or at least snort and stare alert until you pass. This doe was no different. Her head popped up when we turned on the street and she made a point to walk way around and to the back of us like she was going to run away from us and the direction we were headed. I watched her run behind us across the street and assumed she took of down the line of houses like the deer always do. So I kept on my way same as usual. We walk about two house lengths down and a noise starts to draw my attention away from the one earbud I have in playing music. Over the sound of my music in one ear, I pick up the sound of what reminds me of horses hooves trotting on pavement but the sound is much softer. I pull my ear phone out and glance around and sure enough, about the width of a driveway or so, maybe 10 yards at most, the doe is walking inline with us following us. I stop walking and stare at her, squaring off my body because it is the time that does have fawns, and a die with a baby nearby could charge if she feels threatened. However, she merely stopped and watched me. Her ears were not stiff as though alert. She didn’t snort a warning or flick her tail in annoyance, she just stood there. In fact, at one point she nibble at a bit of grass and then glanced back up as if to say “well?” I kinda of chuckled and shook my head before saying “Well alright then,” and continuing my walk. I honestly expected that to be it. For her to decide I wasn’t a threat and just go off to eat some more corn or check her baby or go do deer stuff, whatever. But sure enough, once I start walking I hear her hooves following. Every 2 houses I look back and she is keeping at the same distance, just following along. Finally after about 8 houses, I stop again. And once again she stops but this time, a bit closer. My dog by the way is totally not interested at all. She just sits on her butt each time we stop. This is a dog that is very well behaved but when she sees an animal she usually is standing alert and very curious. Not this time. Now it’s like she doesn’t even care that the deer is there or following or close. Just totally no interest at all. At this point, I look back at the doe and I just get this feeling. She has been following too long to be protecting a fawn. She is not acting like she is trying to chase us off. She just decided to join our walk. Shaking myself off mentally, I start walking again and I get another 4 house down before I just stop. As I look back at her in befuddlement, she stops even closer. She stands there watching me watch her and this feeling sweeps over me. I don’t know how else to explain it other than I FELT something during the whole ordeal. There was a thrill like some kind of energy buzzing over my skin, but at the same time I felt so very at peace inside. It was such a strange contradiction. As this is going on, she gives a swish of her tail and then starts to step forward slowly. I freeze up because I’m not entirely sure what’s going on still and half of me is waiting for her to try to attack of something. But she just calmly walks closer. She gets about the length of an SUV away and then her whole body language shifts. Suddenly, her body is tense and twitchy and her ears are swiveling around. Her head snaps to her left (my right) and I notice a dude walking out of his garage. He sees me standing there and stops cause I’m sure it’s weird seeing a woman and a dog just standing at the end of your driveway. But I just look back at the deer and then he does too cause I hear him say “Oh wow,” cause she is really close to me. And then it’s like his voice is a trigger. She spooks and darts across the street and into the woods were no houses are built yet. I just shrug at the guy who kinda shrugs back and then I turn around and start my walk again. Once again, about 2 houses down, I hear movement once more. This time from the woods across the street. I look and there she is. Walking along side us right behind the tree line is the doe once more. Testing it. I walk. She follows parallel. I stop. She stops. I repeat this several times until finally we reach the end of the very long street. It dead ends into the busiest street of the neighborhood and cars are whizzing by. I’m partly nervous that she might dart out and cross it, but even when me and my dog have to go across, she stays on the opposite side just in the treeline and following along up the busy street and towards the neighborhood entrance where I live. Once the section of woods runs out, she walks along fences or ditches, staying as far from the road as she can but following us as we go. Stopping when I stop and walking parallel as I go. She followed us until we made it back it my house and I headed up my driveway before turning around to see her once more. She stood across the street in the yard of the house there watching. As I made it all the way up the driveway. Finally, when moving further would block our view of each other I stopped. She stood there for a moment staring at me until giving a little swish of her tail and turning around to trot off down the road and off o who knows where. It was the strangest and coolest thing. I can’t help but be curious what would’ve happened if that guy had not of come outside. She had been walking up to me at that point. So very bizarre. And the weird energy of the air and the clam that settles and spread throughout me… it was all so very other worldly.