- Lia Vernescu
Raw thoughts from the lockdown
- How come that no astrologer, no tarot reader, no contemporary "prophet" predicted this pandemics this year, and the economic disaster to follow? How come this major global event was not at all visible in their complicated future predicting charts, cards, visions?
- At the end of this pandemic - if there is an end, and if there will be people left - we are all going to look like savages in desperate need of a hairdresser. There will be a mad rush not to the shops, but to the beauty salons. A frantic booking for urgent hair removal treatments. Hairs grown wild, grey hairs overgrown - a sore sight for the, until now, unaware husbands (as some horrified French husbands anonymously admitted on social media). We will finally be so close to the animal condition that the darwinists will be thrilled to see humanity as it was in the beginning, just coming out to light from the caves. We will be again the cave-people, learning to walk again, straightening our spines, looking into the sun. Aa, yes, how tall the trees will seem...
- Taking the rubbish out became a dreaded task. We're all cosmonauts walking on alien planets, dreading the alien bugs that one might catch if even a bit of skin or dress or hair is left exposed. Well, not "we". I go fully covid death dance costumed, and just as I put the plastic bottles in the recycle bin, a man unmasked, ungloved, right in front of my face merrily smiling and saying "hola!". Horrified (and dehumanised), I turn around and run for the block entrance but, just brushing past me, a young woman unmasked, ungloved talking on the phone, TALKING on the phone, like they all do all the time. I am caught between two covidiots. And this is just a short trip downstairs to take the rubbish out. I am doomed to be the victim of the covidiots. Do not they know that this virus is contagious through speech and breath? I am doomed. My life or death depends on the others, on the choices the others are making, not me; my life is at the hands of the others. I am not the master of my life. Today, nobody is the master of their life.
- I have cut my fringe myself, drastically; pressed and flattened by my improvised helmet (a transparent plastic packaging of a duvet cover) it was going into my eyes constantly, potentially thrusting bugs in my eyes, so I had to cut it short, half length of my forehead. And I coloured it black, for lack of choice (the only colour I could grab in the supermarket, blindly, through misted glasses and misted plastic bag); it seems to be the colour of pain, death, mourning, illness. The colour of these days.
- A teenager walking three dogs (dogs are allowed to "exercise" outside, humans not). He was in his shorts and T shirt. And wearing his slippers. I looked at him, from my balcony, dumbfounded. He was in his slippers. Going upstairs after walking the dogs, with the same slippers - from the street to the bottom of his bedroom. And my life or death depends on the decisions such covidiots take. It's not fair.
Humanity is hopeless.
- A street-cleaner. In his uniform, picking up rubbish blown by the wind. No facemask, no gloves.
- A man, masked, gloved, a rubbish bag in one hand, a letter in the other; he must have just picked up the letter from the letterbox. He goes to the rubbish bin and, in order to free one hand, takes down the mask, thrusts the letter in his mouth between his teeth, throws the rubbish bag in the bin, closes the lid, takes the letter from between his teeth, puts the mask back on his face, and goes back home. Why on earth did he wear mask and gloves in the first place?!
- I refuse to call it corona. It’s a too nice name for it. Horrid covid is what it deserves to be called.
- I might have it.
- I don’t have it. Yet. I might have it, and not know. I might have it, and will be manifest only in five days, or two weeks. I might have it, and be not manifest at all. I might have it, and die. I might have it, and survive. I might have it, and infect my husband (THAT I could not survive), and other 255 people. I might not have it, and still die because of too much disinfection (I sank the bread in chloride, and everything I buy, part of the food cannot be eaten and ends up thrown away being contaminated not with covid but with disinfectants), or I might die in a mental illness fit by too much lockdown, or a heart attack, or ....
(that's me in the photo, geared up to go food shopping)