Image: Antoinette Hensey
16 July 2020
nipaluna/Hobart
Here we are, in the winter-of-our-discontents.
Sick oh sick, said Lear.
Melbourne under COVID19 lockdown again;
Tasmania beyond the moat: ostensibly pathogen-free, for now, as if …
How do I/we live, and let-live, in our contagious world? This outrageous evil-cell world. The devil and his/her/its music!
Did I ever live in a clean world? A memory: semblance of order: disinfected, reduced, enlarged, complacent, terrified, ambivalent, hopeful, despairing, denying, dirty, sanitized, pretending …
When will it end? Will it end? What is “it”? How will it be, when it ends, if it does? What will be next? How will the virus wipe itself from the map of our immunities?
I’m looking towards trees, scattered leaf litter, fallen branches, skeletal frames of the deciduous awaiting revival, dove skies, lost birds, broken rocks, starting bulbs, budding wattle, proud hellebores, daffodil memories.
Spring will come. And then?
Back room music during the plague
