Good evening my wondrous friends. I come to you this evening in surgical mask and latex gloves.
Of course, much has happened to change our lives over the past few years since we last got together. I would very much like to know where each of you find yourselves at this time. I have read likely all of the posts our hardcore communicators have written, but too many of us have gone onto other avenues of expression and this I am also interested in - your take on the YOU of the PRESENT.
A few years back, my keyboard was blown out by a coffee spill. The laptop is still good for reading, puzzles, games and photos and that's all. The backup is a typer, but no music, photos or vids. We're on the typer at the moment because
I can't stand by silent any more:
Social distancing has done this. They don't want us grouping and they don't want us to leave the crib.... You would think they would graciously airdrop our individual quotas of toilet paper, etc. Heh. Will the grocery deliveries be done in hazmat suits or perhaps by drone? Should we be so fortunate...
As soon as this dreaded "thing" got going locally, there was a certain familiarity beyond 911 to it all:
THE SECOND COMING
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with a lion body and the head of a man
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare bya rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
William Butler Yeats
