Still a mime is terrible to waste

-      Captain’s log: Nineteen hundred hours in this year of the pandemic.

Open my eyes. The sun was shinning but that was early. Woke up wet so it will be another summer day. Found the coolest shirt I have with vents on the sides and dampened off for an early ride. The day is as silent as it should be on a Sunday morning but this is the same as everyday now. The air was still and hot for such an early time. Tried to avoid the morning feeding but they demanded breakfast.

A few brave souls were facing the summer heat with an early morning walk or jog but they were just as hot as I was.

The AC felt good but I had to search out a zip cart and then a scanner. The produce was off the shelves. The cheese was removed from the cases. Meats and melons and dairy products were being covered in gaze and management was on the phones. Not a good sign.

Once home settled down to trying to stay cool in front of a fan blowing hot air. Yesterday went upstairs to the sauna to open windows but didn’t stay long. It is summer in the city.

While during this new normal isn’t that different from the old normal, without any conversation to another human does intensify seclusion.

With minor distractions of music and writing (for television is too boring and social media is quickly becoming the same) one is alone with your own thoughts.

A mime is a terrible thing to waste.

After a week or two from my brief vacation at the St. Mary’s-ott Hotel and being of a certain age, one can only think about the ultimate mortality. Telling a doctor not to revive is different than just thinking it. Putting a signature on the line seals the deal with the grim reaper.

Not to be morbid but it is the next bucket list. There might be another book idea or another song but for the most part, it is over. Aches and pains will take longer to go away, cold will seem colder and hot (like today) will be unbearable, little chores become projects and time marches on.

If you were going to fall in love, you’ve already fallen. If you were to procreate, you’ve produced your offspring. If you were going to make your mark on the world, you’ve made it and now pass it on to the next generation. If you were going to try guilty pleasures, you done it and by now survived where others haven’t.

The key to marching through each day until the bell rings is maintaining your mime. To be able to read and understand what the letters mean even if they all appear smaller is helpful. To understand the spoken language, comprehend what was said, the thoughts behind the words helps keep the mime alert. To be able to tie words together to speak thoughts and ideas that another can understand shouldn’t be an accomplishment.

My next-door neighbor Edna had Alzheimer’s. She could walk about when led and could eat but her view was vacant. Still she had an expression as if something was going on inside her head that could be said.

My first wife had a brother with Down syndrome. He could eat and make inoperable sounds. I sat with him for some time and he had the same expression. His view of the world was not the same as mine.

So I write this continuous stream of conscience not only for your viewing entertainment but also for my mime. If all the other parts fail and they put you in a rolling chair and feed you with a variety of pharmaceuticals to slow you down or speed you up and other methods to keep the sagging body going to squeeze another dollar out, when the mime becomes useless you are a robot.