It is Monday. I'm not sure I ever write well on a Monday. What is there to say after a Sunday night? Sunday's are lethargic days, lumbering, pedestrian days big and empty as a balloon.
The profound quiet of a Sunday night.
After a lifetime of work, I cannot avoid the anticipation of the coming week. Retirement has not been a vacation. It has had its own routine.
I experience the Monday dullness with regrettable familiarity.
I just read that one in twelve people in my county have had Covid-19. One in twelve. Those are state reported numbers which many who would know claim to be low. It is shocking to me. The death rate is nowhere near that which probably explains many people's cavalier attitudes toward it. The sudden 77% reduction in Covid deaths has so far been unexplained by government officials. There are scientists outside the official governmental Covid teams who say that we are reaching a herd immunity, of sorts, and that infection rates should be very low by April. Still, Fauci, et. al. are telling me not to move. Not yet. Wait. If I move, they say, I will incite the virus. I could start another wave of infections.
I wish I had something to say, but after sitting here for so long now, wheels spinning, I am finally buried up to the axels. I'll need a tow truck to get back on the road. Either that or I need to start digging.
I'd better start digging.