JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Pandemic art: The Triumph of Death by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1562. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

Summer is approaching full blast, and from my window everything is glowing. I have moved my daily standing-in-the-sun to 11am because the noonday sun hurts. Indoors it’s like sitting in a turbo broiler, but outside is killer (and not just from radiation). We can only hope that this intense ultraviolet radiation vaporizes the coronavirus, as there is no evidence.

Today’s viral story was about a trans woman who was catfished. The virtual lynch mob came for the perps, but whether they desist from their assholery remains to be seen. This terrible story took social media’s mind off the pandemic for half an hour.
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Lali, Mother of Muji (gorgeous white rescue cat with Persian locks but a decidedly non-Persian face), had the answer to my question: Without public transportation, how do the workers get to the groceries, pharmacies, and other essential businesses where they work?

Answer: If their employers can’t provide them with some sort of shuttle service, they sleep on the premises. And if their employers do not allow them to sleep on the premises, they sleep ON THE SIDEWALK.

I should point out that grocery, pharmacy, bakery, market workers are also frontliners in this pandemic, protecting us from starving to death or expiring from other health issues. They have been called “retail heroes”, but they can’t sleep on empty compliments, can they. What they really need are a means of transportation, or proper accommodations so they can go on performing their indispensable jobs for the general public.

A friend (of a friend, squared) of Lali’s discovered to his horror that the staff at the supermarket he regularly shops in were sleeping on the sidewalk so they could get to work in the morning. He sent an official letter to their office asking them how they could let this happen. Then he posted a letter on the supermarket chain’s Facebook page. That is how it’s done: Register an official complaint, and let them know that everyone is watching.
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St. Corona, who is buried in Northern Italy, the former epicenter of the pandemic (It’s New York City now). Isn’t that Alanis don’t you think. Image from Wikipedia.

Quarantine may keep us from infecting others and getting infected ourselves, but it comes with its own health problems. Walking is my main form of exercise, and since I can’t walk outside I’ve taken to doing those Walk At Home videos on YouTube. I feel stupid, but it’s better than nothing. At noon after I feed the building cats, I stand in a patch of sunlight for ten minutes. Experts are divided on which time of day is best for soaking up the sunlight the body needs to make vitamin D. Some say avoid the sun from 11am-1pm because that’s when the UVB is harshest; some say that’s precisely when you should get sunshine because it’s more intense so you need less exposure. (Many dermatologists say avoid the sun altogether.) So I slather sunblock on my face and stand in the sun in short sleeves and shorts and hope it’s enough. Again, I feel stupid, but embarrassment is non-fatal.
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To detoxify from Wednesday’s emotional overdose, I proposed that we take a break from the news and social media for 12 hours. Understandably the chat group was quiet for the duration, besides reporting on our latest experiments in making food more edible. This way I avoided hearing of the latest contender in the Ultimate Douchebag Reality Competition: another self-own, who assured everyone that their entire family and their staff had been tested for Covid-19, reminding us ordinary people who have no access to the test that the privilege is reserved for the powerful. Meanwhile we hide in our houses, washing our hands till they are raw, disinfecting surfaces, worrying about how long this lockdown may last and whether hunger and mental illness will kill us if coronavirus doesn’t.
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Petard, as in “Hoist with his own petard.” (Shakespeare again, bitch knew all.) A bomb-maker is blown up—lifted into the air—by his own petard or bomb. Image from Wikipedia.

My weekly parole—the one-kilometer walk to the supermarket—was cancelled. I was so looking forward to it, but I’m committed to my paranoia. While I was getting ready to go out, I got that message—the one about how we mustn’t go out, not even to buy bread, because the incubation period is over and it’s the most infectious stage of the disease. Before I’d even pondered the logic of the message my survival paranoia kicked in and I cancelled my own parole. However, I still needed some supplies before I switched to bomb shelter mode so I went to the convenience store in the next building. On the way there (mask, gloves, cloth bag) I walked past a soldier in fatigues patrolling the street corner. He nodded politely and did not ask for my quarantine pass (“Your papers, please”).
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In my neighborhood I am well-acquainted with the barangay office’s public address system. Every night at 9:30 or so the barangay captain or their representative reminds everyone of the 10pm curfew for kids 17 and below. If any kids are caught on the street after 10, their parents will be penalized. There are periodic reminders about drinking outside, smoking in public, and illegal parking. I am reminded of those megaphone-toting traffic policemen in the late 80s, who gleefully insulted the pedestrians who were jaywalking or crossing the street while the lights were green. On one hand it’s unseemly to treat adults like children; on the other hand shaming works, for the ordinary people (hampas-lupa) anyway. Privilege, we are constantly reminded, inoculates the powerful against shame.
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