We all live in this ever changing visible world.

Each of us is burdened with a not so visible individual inner struggle.

This is the abstract.

This expression is art.

This is not a rehearsal.

This is where we have the chance to do something that might be remembered.

This is the stage of the human comedy.

All or nothing.

Never and always.

These are the red flags!

I was in that familiar state where nothing works and I just want to fucking scream! Everything is a mess.

No job.

No woman.

The fucking weather winter cold.

My seemingky endless stuffed up sinuses. This is what really gets me… with every breath.

Every forced stuffed up cold air breath.

Maybe a warmer climate with some palm trees?

The fever left my brainwaves.

On a Sunday in the cold.

The remedy was time and rest.

The group was often told.

I felt so light and fluffy.

Like a time of heaven sent.

Like a spiritual cleansing.

Of the sins I could repent.

The committees had all gathered.

Fear and loathing took the Chair.

I had a dream and walked the beam.

There were Angels in the air.

The sun shone bright in quarantine.

It is Friday throughout the land.

I got these dreams that are buried deep.

Will be no more hand in hand.

I’m still dealing with this memory.

Of the way things used to be.

When I was young and you were here.

And all the good I couldn’t see.

The snow it fell with a vengeance… It was the winter of 22.

With the frozen and the huddled; somehow your thoughts got through.

I tested positive for the Covid, just when work said to return.

Made some plans, to hear God laugh and to feel the fever burn.

They locked me down in Quarantine. The mail it got through.

Said that more bad news is on the way, in the winter of 22.

I fed my kid, I fed myself, I sat down and had a tea.

She is playing mine craft there; and I am writing furiously.

It begins in March 2020 when I lose my job for 5 months. I know I will be months off, so I decide to write a novel. I finish that in September, at the same time I go back to work. Perfect.

Not quite perfect… I get a call telling me that my daughter is being abused by her mother on September 1st and thus begins a process that takes 17 months and all my financial resources and time and energy to get sole custody of my daughter.

At the completion of this noble task I am informed I have tested positive for the virus that began all of this and I am beyond fortunate because it is a little like having a mild cold.

However all being said… I had this conversation with my daughter tonight and explained to her, all that I have written here with the caveat that I would like to take this 5 day quarantine to at least begin my 2nd novel. I do know what I want to write.

CAVENDISH

The transition has happened…

The worry and over thinking have ended.

I just deal with the now…

Now I am waiting on covid tests results.

If they come back positive I don’t work for 5 or 10 days. Negative and I go back to work now.

Worst case scenario, I get to spend a week or two quarantined with my child.

Best case scenario I work.

Life happens to the lucky.

The headaches overtook me.

In the darkness I passed out.

Thankfully I was in my bed.

And not on a walkabout.

In my dreams I sometimes wonder.

Into places without pain.

Where I woke back in the day.

All seemed to be normal again.

The world was ravaged by covid.

The snow was high and cold.

Food was still in the fridge.

And I was looking old.

Growing up, I heard the old ones talk about The Winter of the Deep Snow.

It happened in the early 1900’s on the east coast of Canada and for 6 weeks the farmers had to travel from house to barn from the 2nd storey windows.

The potential for madness must have been palpable. The isolation. The claustrophobia. The fear. They were still talking about it 60 years later.

I have a cat who loves going outdoors and is experiencing snow for the first time which is seemingly having a similar effect on her.

The Madness in the surrounding homes however has nothing to do with last night’s snowfall.

The boredom overtook him… Near the Isle of Bras d’or.

He wished upon a falling star, but no one knew what for.

The snow fell high upon the land, the spirits they grew low.

The booze ran out before the food, and the restlessness did grow.

The Wolf’s heart it grew weary. So he headed for the door.

He headed out into a storm, off of the Isle of Bras d’or.

The Wolf he kept on walking, through the snow and through the pain.

He wasn’t going back he knew, with no reasons to explain.

Sometimes these things just go that way, no one knows what for.

The Wolf he left the pack behind, near the Isle of Bras d’or.