Jed Wolf

Three nights ago I awoke thinking it was time to throw out my sex toys. We have weekly pickup around here but after watching the trash guys come across them, I was at my leather and lube table having a tag sale on the Titanic when I remembered, tag sales are a thing of the past.

Of course this virus is upsetting but these days, at 65, supposedly more adept at navigating through my imaginings, my subconscious is having a field day while I look on like a useless parent.

Each day after day in backyard quarantine, after coffee by the pool with the same old hummingbirds, I feel my days dependent on my capricious moods rather than anything substantial.

“Is this a dream?” I ask, knowing Dave, God and my kitties are all part of it.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” I hear as my abusive inner demon slams me his way. “Think of the suffering out there!”

But without an acrylic diving bell or sealed lounge lizard suit, I’ll likely never sing for people with dementia again.

I do sing however, at one last place where my mother once lived, where I know the residents, but it’s questionable for how much longer. I perform from outside the smoky glass front doors and though the pathetic rapture is seductive, I must quit or move to safer windows in back because my health is at risk. Aids and doctors pass too close and it’s only a matter of time before the me or the audience I’ve loved for years show symptoms.

“How can I stand this,” I stammer, as my life’s calling abruptly ends unearthing ancient, low self-esteem.

I lay out in it a few nights ago pondering how my service was nothing more than armor – the peace and safety I felt among brain-damaged people, a sham.

“Spa-bathing in security while getting paid to control damaged people’s emotions through song was a cushy job, but no more,” my demon hissed. “Pretending to be a good person while blessed with natural charm and charisma – quite an achievement,” he murmured.

Theses days I must try to laugh, keep calm and sleep. I know I’m not alone but I’m extra careful not to project my inner Hell too far beyond the four or five different pairs of tinted sunglasses I hide behind lately. “I’ll be fine,” I tell myself as I watch the outside world scrambling for hope as well.

“These masks work miracles,” I think, wondering who I am, anticipating a shitty answer.

I used to be able to affect other shoppers with a wry smile or clever quip but no longer. Now behind a mask, I’m getting threatening looks from some who refuse to wear them.

Noticing how big social distancing was letting my love handles grow, I felt rather deep on our front porch last evening, witnessing my shallowness when I saw my neighbor’s daughters across the street painting his brick and vinyl house, with it’s royal blue tin roof Titty Pink.

He calls it, Antigua Coral. “The whole thing?,” I asked. “Yup,” he said yanking five gallon buckets out of his Suburban. “I may never be without shades again, “I thought recrossing the street.

Once short term rental bans are lifted, we’ll be promoting our Airbnb on our website with its gorgeous, sterile pool, medicinal gardens, secluded patios, secure pathways and merciless UV rays as a Covid-safe sanctuary. ‘Till then, we’re wrestling with unappealing adjectives.

And we both need other work as well so I called the guy who built our pool and offered to do labor for him.

He knows what a beast I am behind a shovel and offered me a job last winter, but I was someone else then.

Now it looks like my husband might be doing his book-keeping and I’ll be digging for honest dollars soon…

“Shoveling will utilize just enough of my mind while toning my physique,” I think, “even with a mask, my muscles might continue to control others from a distance during the time I have left,” I hear…

On good days, I regularly ride my bike while practicing singing like Julie Andrews. Biking while vocalizing takes up useless brain power which might choke my throat otherwise.

“I’m practicing for heaven,” I think as people look up and/or away.

As Covid 19 effectively lifts the veil over everything useless, I continue to seem to need at least three different plates spinning while meditating on our well ventilated waterlilies but lately amid this turmoil, I’m noticing what hope looks like while I ever more consciously fill each plate.