i left my present day memory card on my night stand and i didn't want to walk back in with my corona shoes (and i forgot my telephone on the night stand too) so i got my old memory card out of the stamp drawer and these pictures of the lagoon and the dark trees and the calm inland sea were there preserved from the time before corona, b.c. 
in the book i'm reading, buddha's brain, it talks about activating the parasympathetic nervous system with breathing, big exhalations, meditations, touching the lips (b.c.), and imagery. i seesaw wildly, emotionally, and imagistically. i deleted the pictures of the mangled squirl with the face like a francis bacon screaming pope. magisterial terror. like munch's the scream, it gives a particular release, the inner voice, the inarticulate, silent shriek. but i know cracking on the sick fuck trump is not an aid to calm breathing and meditation. but we live in a land of profitable sabotage. before corona we were already cascading into extinction. now the cascade is over the ledge, in free fall. what would it be like if time slowed while your body fell from a great height, if you had a flying squirl suit like in dreams, if it seemed like your fall was slowed almost to the rate of a feather, what if you fell up, wings extended, held aloft in updraft. what if seeming be. what if we still can create in reality.
i can't stop the ruminations on the virus, though i can guide them gently, and the pathogenic patriarchy—i can't stop living in the path of the pathology. i have to live within all this that is—but—i can bring home pictures of a time b.c.