Bat Shit

Yeah, I know, said a bat in Human Land.

Over centuries my relatives developed a super efficient immune system against any viruses. I mean SUPER efficient. They passed this DNA through generations and like magic here I am.

The sad unpleasant fact is that Wing Free, one of my relatives shit in the forest. Normal shit. Another animal friend named Pangolini, a species with scales like a reptile ate some delicious berries flavored with the shit.

Pangolini will eat anything. The jungle is a vast repository of succulent treats.

The shit had a virus named C-19.

A hunter - like all of us - trapped Pangolini and sold it to Wet Market Woman in Human Land. She killed it, sliced it up and served it a New Year's Eve party attended by thousands of voracious two-legged animals. 

Their mantra was "Eat Fast or Starve."

They were happy because 1) it was delicious and 2) they were leaving Human Land for a two-week national holiday.

They didn't wash their hands. Their bland joyful faces were masks.

Millions went to the train station, bus station and airport. Bye-bye Human Land. 

They travelled to all parts of a blue spinning rock called Earth. Except cold Antarctia where penguins dance.

They enjoyed their holiday without knowledge or fear. Many became sick and died. Many strangers in remote yet accessible villages, towns, cities, countries and continents got sick and died.

Survivors freaked out. Their lives were turned upside down, inside out and permanently changed.

Forever and a day.

So it goes.

Profit Before People

A global virus has a long term effect. Humans adjust priorities.

Big busine$$ restructures their operations. Oil, banks, pharmaceuticals, travel industry, automotive, and airlines.

It's a numbers game, said Profit Before People.

Story time...

...He unlocked the door. Five empty freezing rooms.

The kitchen counter displayed empty soda bottles, a black plastic bag of cheap harsh stale tobacco, a box of lavender herbal tea flowers, 1/2 jar of Nescafé, one white coffee cup, one spoon, a sharp knife, a fork in the road and one bright yellow plate.

On a white laminated shelf was a first edition of Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, signed by the author.

“Read this,” said Silence, the loudest noise in the world.

Next to it was a black key for a teachers’ cabinet at TEOL.

“Call Trabzon,” the German man informed Ebru. “We have an MIA.”

She rang Sit Down in Trabzon.

“Lucky Foot took a hike,” she said.

“Call out the SWAT team and dogs. Hunt him down. Kill him with extreme prejudicial kindness.”

She called SWAT. The line was busy.

The German returned to TEOL and gave Ebru the key. She approached the cabinet. A rancid smell smashed her nose. “What’s that god-awful stench?”

Gagging, she threw up all over a teachers’ desk littered with empty tea glasses, cell phones and half eaten Simit pretzels. Regaining her composure she approached The Cabinet of Dr. Cagliari (1920).

She heard a ticking sound. Maybe it’s a bomb. I should call the bomb squad.

They arrived. A man in a bombproof origami suit applied a stethoscope to the front panel. Yes, something is ticking.

He drilled a hole and pushed a microscopic eye into darkness. A mirror inside the cabinet reflected a thin piece of pulsating metronomic metal. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.  

“We’ll have to open this with thrilling caution. Get the Die Rector.”

The Die Rector, an economist, knew what to do. “Let’s assume there’s no fucking problem. Give me the key.”

Ebru handed it over. Everyone backed up hard drives.

The Die Rector, 56, who was scheduled for a heart-valve transplant in January, unlocked the door.

Inside was The Language Company by Zeynep, class rosters, green, yellow, orange highlighters, a

magnifying glass, telescope, world globe, hourglass, a bag of hazelnuts, radioactive isotopes, a red rose with

thorns, a dissolving image of a smiling ghost playing with Lone Wolf in a mountain meadow, a mirror, a

dozing Black Mamba, a high voltage Dream Sweeper Machine from Hanoi, a Honer blues harp in the key of C,

a magic carpet, one sugar cube, a glass, spoon, dry tea leaves, an empty bottle of Xanax, a ticking

metronome, a bamboo forest, dusty footprints and rusty Communist loudspeakers squawking:

We are Authority, Power and Control. Surprise!

51 Days in Turkey

The Language Company

Study currency with a friend.

How did I grow?

Awareness

As Hunter S. Thompson said, “When the going gets weird the weird turn pro.” 

Strange days are upon us.

Governments have long mastered stifling any internal seismic news which could upset their domestic control over the sheep. 

W.H.O. failed to recognize the severity and lack of information from Human Land when the initial virus case was identified. The lack of transparency taught the world a sad long term lesson. 

S. Korea took prompt efficient action. The U.S. didn't.

So it goes. Perfect gardening weather with social distance. 

People wear masks. Masks eat their face.

A Japanese friend says their TV shouts, “The Martians are Coming.”

Someone wrote to say - “The money is gone. The plague is here. Time to write poetry."

This minuscule part of Earth has been spared the contagious onslaught. So far.

This is the new Brave New World and a huge wake-up call for humans. 

I limit my virus propaganda consumption to 10 minutes a day.

Live Forever.

Life gives us the test first and lessons later.

It gave everyone a big test and heavy deep real lessons. HDR. It was only a matter of time coming and will be a long time gone.

Everything is under control.

A virus has no social affiliation, race, religion, gender, nationality, bias, prejudice, expectations, politics, economy or wishful thinking.

I’ve written about this disaster potential in my books so I’m not surprised, knowing how Big Brother and media influences sheep. Bah.

I walk through world dust playing my blues harp & singing about loss and reality.

The Plague by Camus

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