Life by a thousand cuts

  Picking up litter, piece of cake. Before The Arm's insurrection, of course, and implicit dereliction of duty. A heavy blow to carrying out trivial tasks, like collecting various objects strewn all over the place (personal bad habit) or other people's leftovers (their bad eating habits, irrespective of age). The Arm and its Hand used to be able to pick even tiny bits of paper or specks of dust fluff (but that's another story, the OCD one). Much faster than the vacuum cleaner and instant disposal, true? Now The Arm is just hanging there, apparently recovering, although no traitor should be ever given the benefit of doubt. It has been replaced by a tool mostly seen outdoors, where brave people do their best to keep streets and parks clean by cleaning after lazy people's rubbish. Besides an increased sense of appreciation for cleaners' work, The Grabber comes with an unexpected benefit. It's a focus aid, it trains the eye and the working hand to turn picking up in

Out in the wild, an injured leg or just paw bring about a quick exit from life. Hunting or foraging becomes difficult and soon after the predator turns into prey. Mankind has many flaws but limb injuries don't automatically mean an early death. They just transform living into a quasi-continuous experience of pain combined with sharp bursts of despair. This is even before dropping everything, realizing that lifting a paper towel is pretty hard and stains are the very sign of regression to baby-style eating. No one is totally in love with their body, but there must have always been an amicable relationship with the right arm, if born right-handed. After all, it's there for so many small and big actions. To have that right arm become  a disobedient and quarrelous servant, a traitor in one's own camp, that is so unfair. Double unfair, actually. Firstly, to its twin limb, now forced to do a crash course in tasks previously unknown (yes, wiping is among them). Then it's unfai

Do not lie to yourself: In the heart of the heart of the house No memories abide No flickering shadows reside No secrets there to hide. A house is a box full of toys, Long forgotten, half-broken, Once full of noise Now in a precarious poise. Look, the doll is hanging out Hair entangled, mouth in a pout Beady eyes forever half-shut One push and it would fall, but There is no one around to put it back So leave it on its rack A martyr to this place of joy and loss. Time keeps tabs on the dross.

Bought more than a decade ago, a fridge magnet became a source of comfort. That and chocolate. Free advice: no expectations is the cheapest way to avoid suffering. That and instant coffee.

The carefree and the cautious, the well-behaved and the morons, they all walk up and down the same pavements (sidewalks if you prefer). Whoever wrote a book on how people behave when they approach a stranger, needs to add a new chapter. It could be called the Virus Effect. Before the pandemics, there used to be a kind of social ballet, especially on narrow lanes. One step to the right, maybe a bit of backtracking, eyes averting direct connection. At times, so many of us have been fooled by the fellow passer-by's moves (neurons mirroring someone else's neurons , as they do). We would move in the same direction, ending up in an amused half-collision. Nowadays that benign bumping into each other is not on at all.  Social distancing, or physical distancing rather, has altered pedestrian behaviour. People scan the approaching human traffic and assess pretty fast if they need to stop, step to the side and wait. A lot depends on how rushed or distracted the other party seems to be. Wa

Lockdown reflections 1.3 Update: How could I miss that street litter can end up as ocean litter? * There was a meme a while ago, widely shared, about people having to fight two pandemics: the corona virus one and stupidity. I forgot about about the quip until I saw a disposable latex glove on the ground.  It's not that I have never seen other objects of personal use discarded nonchalantly in a very public place, like a street.  Condoms for example, although very very rarely (it can't be that comfortable, using a small wall as a prop, I'd guess). There have been as well the odd sock, a T-shirt, cigarette butts.  This is not fly-tipping  as such, we are talking small stuff, not humungous fridge-freezers or king-size mattresses. Small things do get lost or forgotten or thrown away.  In the middle of a pandemic though? A disposable glove of the type that has become associated with precautionary measures meant to defend us against the Virus? I can understand someo

Lockdown reflections 1.2 It's not easy to spell the adjective "manichaean". The word that has ended up meaning "black and white thinking" has its origin 17 centuries ago.  At the time, it was not that simplistic. I think it is definitely worth looking into Manichaeism, the religion founded in the 3rd century AD by a Persian prophet and the idea of a battle between light and darkness. Modern use of "manichaean" is pretty much divorced from the ancient belief system. Rarely employed in writing, it has the undertone of a rebuke. These days, it is not exactly a compliment. Could it be that we are so in love with nuances? There's always a "but..." dangling from the end tail of a sentence. To be more precise, there used to be a "but", before all nuanced conversations went out of the window. Or were rather locked down. Duality in its strictest, most dogmatic form is reigning supreme. It's an either/or situation,  no mid