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Shopping in ghost town

I broke isolation today. I thought it was going to be a little treat, a little bend of the rules so I can get ready for Gid’s birthday. I won’t be doing it again anytime soon. I went to a big box store so I could do everything in one stop, I went armed with a face mask and gloves; hand sanitizer at the ready. There were several people in the parking lot, not a single person with PPE on, not a mask in sight. I admit the pressure to conform was immense, and I wish I could say I’m above such things, that I was brave enough to stand out. But I couldn't. I left my mask and gloves in my bag. Wearing a mask made everything feel too real, like overreaction, like panic.  As I entered the store there was a twenty something employee washing down all the shopping carts. I locked eyes with him, he smiled and pointed to a row further down that he had already finished. I thanked him, grabbing my cart and turning to the only open door, the others having been blocked to
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New Normal

New Normal Once again I find myself awake before seven in a state of minor panic. I switch on my phone and obsessively scroll through social media hoping for some good news. It’s more of the same. This has been my normal since they closed the schools. My emotions are running wild. I can sleep at night, because I indulge in cannabis products, without them I lay awake and hyper focus on things I have no control over. Normally when there's a problem or a crisis I’m a doer. Constant forward motion will see results and get shit done. In this crisis not only are we supposed to practise distancing ourselves from others, but my little family is under self isolation for a week. Now don’t get me wrong. I like staying at home. I like talking to no one but my family for days at a time. I have my people and I choose to spend most of my time with them. The problem isn’t staying at home. The problem is staying at home and feeling helpless. The reality is not knowing w
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On writing and art

On writing and art  I know logically the only way to write a book is to sit down and write it. But what happens when you blank? You sit down and stare at the page and have no new ideas. In theory everyone has a story, or a book inside them, isn’t that the old adage? The older I get though the more and more I feel all my creativity is gone. I can still sit, I can still write, but my brain is so full of stress and anxiety and the things that keep adults functioning as adults that my brain has no room left for creative expression. Even when I make art, I do it with almost zero forethought, I just sit down and do it. And it sometimes is excellent, and is often just meh. Often i feel like i'm looking at art and images on instagram and just spewing others ideas back into what i’m doing. Imitation is the highest form of flattery and all that, but still. Has my idea well dried up? Does becoming an adult, becoming a mother use up so much of us that we lose our sense o
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