December 21, 2021

It’s happening again

Last night I found out that a restaurant we ate at with some friends on Friday, closed due to a staff member coming down with Covid. All of us were vaxed and boosted, so time and circumstances make it very unlikely that any of us will end up with Covid . And yet, there is this persistent anxiety. With breakout cases, new variants, there is always a risk.

In this case I feel more anxiety because the place we went was my suggestion, so I feel some responsibility for any ill outcome for my friends. This seems a new phase of the pandemic, whether there are any forced closures, or stay at home orders or not, the anxiety I feel makes me want to isolate, stay safe, keep others safe.

As the new year looms, I see events coming up on my calendar that I’m not sure will happen. This is, not sure I want to host or attend something that will cause these days of anxiety - not sure its worth it. For the moment, its one day at a time as I listen to my freinds, follow the news and see how this all plays out.

December 13, 2021

 December 13, 2021

I started following poetry accounts on Instagram, which goes against my general rules for following an Instagram account - no memes, images over text, and process over product. But now I’ve found that is one of the best ways to sample poetry. Captured as an image from a printed page you see it’s structure, but also the print pressed into fibers of a physical page, a page that may be yellowed with time, or carry the smudges of repeated reference. 

The other joy is it is a never ending anthology, each page giving me a taste of another poet. A quick quiet moment in my perpetual scroll, that sometimes causes me to pause, and think, and embrace the poem. Poetry can be intimidating, daunting, full of unfamiliar references, difficult to connect to beyond the words - but surprisingly, in my stumbling, I’ll find a poem that connects in ways I didn’t think possible, that its poet and I share a private history or understanding - the inside jokes leap from the page and I hunger for more. 

The unpopularity of poetry and the wisdom of librarians ensure that I can always find a book or two on the Libby app ready to check out and read. Today it’s Catherine Barnett. I am drunk on her words  - and maybe some bourbon. But I am enjoying all these serendipitous adventures. 

 December 8, 2021

Yesterday I went to the audiologist. She confirmed what I already knew, my hearing has gotten worse. That I likely have difficulty following conversations in noisy environments - I do. Apparently she has seen an uptick in visits. It seems that spending COVID in isolation meant many of us were in quieter surroundings, but now that we’ve started going out in public, many of us are having a harder time hearing - not to mention the face masks which strip away the visual cues of speech.

I’m irked by this slow but constant erosion of my senses. It’s aging. My mortality reaching out to give me a poke, a reminder, to take pleasure in the things I still can. My glasses thicken as the the pile of unread books gets taller. And soon hearing aids will bump the higher frequencies so I can engage in conversations, and hear what my friends have to say. Not to mention the music - the ripped CDs and vinyl, the illicit downloads from Napster, the symphonies and chansons, the live performances that almost certainly contributed to my diminished capacity.

The music will go on, stories will continue to be told, and poetry will be writen well beyond my stay here. And as voracious as my appetite for sounds, for art, for experience is there is much I’ll never taste. As much as we contemplate and long for the infinite, it is the limits, the boundaries, and decisions we make that define us through their filters. Which is really to say, or remind myself, to be grateful for all my past indulgences and the pleasures I have now - and yet, I remain irked.