olga
Yesterday, I woke up sick – immediately testing negative for Covid. I don’t know the etiquette of illness anymore – do I tell the people I saw the previous day of my sickness, do I not? If it’s not Covid, the virus probably isn’t airborne, and unless we were sharing drinks or kissing, I am probably in the clear.
Today, I woke up sick. Most likely I got out of bed around 8:30 am. The box fan is not on this morning, so the birds and the trains were audible, a breeze shuffled the curtain. Since May I’ve moved four times; since returning to Philadelphia from San Diego, I’m still getting accustomed to finally having a permanent space.
Something about the breeze and the birds established the idea of home, being in place.
Cool outside. At 9 am, the wind had a chill to it. The plants watered last night, still damp.
The cat is allowed outdoors for the full day now. I don't have to lure him back inside with a treat at 10 am.
This hellish heat had finally lifted.
Yesterday I texted with a friend who tends to fear-monger a bit about health issues. He insisted that I probably had Covid, since he and his friends had it, and everyone else has been exposed to the summer virulence wave this year. What was interesting about his reasoning was that he couldn't get tested while in Colombia due to availability and price, and his other friend in Tucson tested negative, but it was for sure Covid.
Nevertheless, I did order a delivery of more Covid tests from CVS, which showed up this morning in the form of Dove antibacterial soaps.
After a refund and a new order, I got my precious Covid tests, only to test negative again.
How many other viruses do we get exposed to, to which we don’t have an ounce of immunity?
At 10 am I normally begin my translation work. This wonderful little position is a remnant of my time at UCSD. I’m working for a historian who’s interested in a Soviet Bolshevik turned Menshevik and economist, who apparently had a hand in some of the more major events of the 20th century, Vladimir Woitinskiy. I’m to translate his correspondences with a Georgian politician and Menshevik, Irakliy Tsertselli. The majority of the letters are profoundly boring, regarding mundane dramas, political disagreements, book and article publications, and internal conflicts. However, at times, when Woitinskiy is finally in the zone, I’m fascinated by the constant passions and polarizations of Germany and the Soviet Union during the 1920-30s. We now know where those years led.
I miraculously found a memoir of Mary Oppen, George Oppen’s wife, who too, was a poet and activist, at D.G. Willis Bookstore in La Jolla. Meaning a Life spends a lot of time in the 1930s and 40s. I kept on finding political and social parallels in her descriptions to now. This is an idiotic observation. Yet, I keep returning to the comparison.
My work didn’t begin until eleven, and was punctuated by distractions. I have so many reasons to look at my phone, watch my mother’s woodpecker video, check my three email accounts, search for a permanent job, check the physical mail, hope for a positive response from the publications and residencies I find myself applying to, check on the cat, grab a snack, drink some water, open up the windows, mix up some orzo with vegetables.
Eventually I gave up. My condition was starting to worsen. I took a midday nap.
I am allowed to do this. I live here now. I’m sick.
I will work the rest of my hours another day, and spend the rest of this day stroking Cat, lying down, applying to some things, and watching Friends with a wet rag on my forehead.
olga recently moved back to Philly.
