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I’m no journalist, but I cough like one. Or cough like one if one had a cough. Blame the smoking. Blame the wildfires. Now the doctors want to x-ray and are getting ready to blame Covid, too. I had it, maybe delta, as a lung infection in July, then officially became a statistic. A “mild” case. A breakthrough case. I was sick before that word even hit the news. In that regard, all I can say is it’s strange to be part of a story that is both so personal and immediate and awkward and complicated and deadly yet distant all at the same time. For once, they’re talking about me. And they don’t even know.
I’m a journalism school drop out, an artist, a retired ski-bum. On hiatus from painting and yet I still push pigment. I walk on dirt and smear clay, smear sand. Now I can’t even go outside without coughing. Should be healthy soon though, I really dodged the bullet because I got the vaccine first. Remember to wear a mask, get jabbed if it’s around, drink water. And ride your bike more. Since I’m on the soap box might as well say it. I let the tire go flat because I hurt my back and now it might be too late ’cause Covid, just barely, oh so softly, gave my lungs some love. It could have been one of the maskless that passed it along. It could have been a spider bite even though it wasn’t and it’s irresponsible to even suggest such a thing. Now, even with a recent negative test, I still landed a doctor’s note and am…
