Sunday, April 19, 2020

“My Crickets: A Little Decameron #24”

Isolation does strange things to people. My hair, which I was gradually losing, has grown so long that I'm beginning to look like a hoary old man out of Lear.
      Last night, when as I was holding Howard, he falling into sleep, he suddenly mumbled: "They're raking them out of the sea. So many people are dying!" Yes indeed.
      This morning, when I recounted it to him, he didn't even know what I was taking about.
      I have taken to the habit of reading both the Los Angeles Times and The New York Times, both of whose deliveries we receive every day, a day late. CNN keeps me abreast of the daily news, and I prefer reading the most tragic and analytic aspects of the news a bit after it has occurred.
      I can say, after all that meat and cheese we've been eating recently, I have never enjoyed Cesar salad so very much. I ate almost everything on my plate. And yes, Howard, after acquiring some bread, did make the croutons himself, as Pierre Joris suggested he might.
      But Howard had forgotten to get me more fresh fruit (I had asked for strawberries), so our poor cricket—still busy thrashing his legs last night as he begins his 7th week living in our house—went hungry. But they can survive, so I read, without food or water for several days.
      I might have fed him salad, but I don't think lettuce infused with eggs, oil, vinegar, lemons, anchovies, and Parmesan cheese, etc. would be good for him.
      James Sherry suggested I might have washed the lettuce, but I'm not sure; and we both swallowed most of it down in any event. We were hungry.
      Although he stopped his chirruping rather early, he was busy for most of the night.
      Howard and I ate so early, at 2:00 in the afternoon, that, like toddlers, we fell into bed by 5:00. I tried to watch TCM's showing Network, but after watching earlier in the day French director Maurice Pialat's The Mouth Agape (about a dying woman whose husband and sons had abandoned and cheated on her) I was just too depressed to watch it. And I've never been much of a fan of writer Paddy Chayefsky's kind of realism, rooted as it was in the 1950s and early 1960s.
      Instead I continued reading a little of the Genet book, The Criminal Child (with his fascinatingly mixed views of the artist Alberto Giacometti) through which I've been slowly making my way through before falling asleep. I got up at 2:00 this morning, which explains why I'm writing this entry at 5:15 a.m.
     We have no idea what we intend to eat today. We do have some beautiful packages of pasta that Pablo Capra brought us a few weeks ago for our anniversary, and we have several jars of good sauces, as well two large cans of tuna, and that tin of sardines I insisted Howard buy for me.
    Just now the mourning doves began their cries at 5:24, very early. It appears that they and our cricket have also been adjusting to earlier hours, the cricket beginning in late afternoons, and the doves still in the dark before daylight. Our pool lights don't turn off until 6:03.
    So good to see governors in certain regional areas working together to provide their citizens what Trump is unable to, guidance and protection.

Los Angeles, April 19, 2020
Reprinted from Facebook (April 2020).

No comments: