Apparently Americans can watch the debacle in the US House of Reps on C-Span. Nothing I’d rather less do than watch these kindergarteners fight, except that it is good to know Dems are having such a triumphant moment of solidarity. Who’d have predicted this turn of events, this log-jam of absurdity? Only a few months ago, the Red Wave, the decimation of the left, etc. predicted. But no. Human decency and good sense still exist, though still not much in evidence down there.
Good news up here: It’s been eleven days since symptoms started. I just took another home test, and it’s negative! Now I can go out and share my germs with the world. I’ve not been outside in a week — not just quarantine, but because the weather has been impossible, not cold at all, but dark and damp and uninviting to sodden lungs. I’m not feeling much better, ironically, but I’ll get there; this thing has moved through, leaving havoc in its wake.
Watched a film called Miss Austen Regrets, about Jane Austen’s love life, or lack of it. Nice to see her portrayed as feisty, sarcastic, fiercely independent — a woman who knew love but rejected several suitors because she wanted to write. It’s sad in the final scenes; as her brothers’ fortunes collapse and she, her mother, and sister risk being ejected from their cottage, her mother accuses her of selfishness for not marrying well and so leaving them all vulnerable. Money is safety! she cries — marrying it being the only way a woman without means could achieve security.
To think such a genius wasn’t recognized by her own family … but it happens, I’m sure more often than we know. Oh that she had not died so young.
So tomorrow is a new day. I’ve been stuck in a tunnel since Christmas, getting through but without much pleasure. Have managed to do Nicky’s dance party and Gina’s Essentrics class on Zoom once or twice, though, so the body wasn’t completely stagnant. But mostly. Time to MOVE. I’ve been working on the essay book manuscript. Getting there? I hope so. Maybe. Maybe not.
I will call my housemate Tiggy Stardust. Hope David Bowie doesn’t mind. He was British, so it’s sure he loved cats.
Surveying the estate from afar and keeping an eye on the pace of work in my office.