Written 2 January, 2021.
So exciting to write the new year. The very 21 murmurs hope. Yet virus numbers are growing in Victoria and in NSW, seven more today, and at last Gladys has mandated masks, after pressure from the AMA. It’s now clear to many that the virus spreads through the air, not just on surfaces. That was emphasised back in March, when we were all expected to turn on taps with our elbows, apparently a misreading of the science by WHO, and the science is still being misread by what Norman Swann calls ‘die-hards” who claim that masks are either unnecessary or even downright dangerous. And virus numbers are growing overseas – almost 350,000 unnecessary deaths in the US, and heading for 67,000 in the UK, with mad leaders too concerned with themselves and their triumphs with the economy to listen to science.
Today, oddly morose. On the sofa, which I’d just then pulled outside on the deck for a summer outside lounge room but rain came again – poured, plummeted, bucketed down. So I pulled it back inside and lay there grumpily, reading another friend’s new fiction manuscript. One of the responsibilities of being a writer is reading your friends’ new works. Last week’s was extraoridinary and I was so moved, I wrote a rave for her to show to literary agents, and then yesterday, still fearing that it wouldn’t get to delight the rest of the world, I wrote her an email to send to the literary agents with my rave. But not every manuscript enchants – as mine may not be enchanting to the publishers I’ve sent it to and what if the manuscript I’m reading seems not to have landed – am I right? Or just in a bad mood because it’s raining?
Out the back, suddenly my heart began singing. I love nature then there’s too much nature here and I begin to yearn for city streets, then a waterfall or a bird or a cicada and i love nature again. While nature is entirely indifferent, I’m raging.