Written 19 May, 2020.
My over-exuberant auto-immune disease goes wild, I think because two days ago, when I dragged the water tank through scrub, a tick bit. I got the tick out, but the bite glows scarlet, and now I’m lame in one foot, and can only swallow liquids. My auto-immune system. At least the worst hasn’t happened. And at least it’s making me stay inside and write that chapter.
At 11, I have a zoom meeting with ANU and NIDA about me teaching the neuroscience of creativity to composers and musicians, in preparation to next year submitting for a big grant to repeat the tiny but successful NIDA experiment. Though this is hush-hush. No one should know.
At least on zoom, no one sees that you can’t walk. But this is why I must not get co-vid 19 until there’s a cure. If I get it, i fear the worst.
Dy comes in the afternoon with a gift of a oyster shucking knife. He sits on the deck and has a cup of tea and we yarn about making a communal garden in the common area, which we call “the park”, next to A’s house. He’s found out the land belonged to Parks and Wildlife who would never have approved it, for they want the bay to go back to natural bush, but now the land belongs to the council, who are more people-friendly. He’s discovered that they formally did a report on whether they could put in a jetty for a ferry. The report discovered it was mud flats. We could’ve told them that.
He smiles a lot more now, a wide smile that transforms his face. I think he feels safe here. As I do.
But for now, my lameness will pass, and standing on one foot plus a heel, I make soup, and we all swallow it with pleasure.
And in the US, Trump throws the world into disarray by saying he’s taking hydricholoquinine. But is he?