Inner Doodles

I'm starting to get used to the oscillating weather. And I do love the way the rain shimmers on the kelly-green leaves. Rain or shine, I make my way outside now. If the animals can do it in their fur, I can grab an umbrella. I met a man on my walk. We had a conversation. A real live conversation. His image didn't glitch out. His voice didn't warble or chop itself into bits. We spoke and the sound waves traveled directly through the air from one person to the other. From six feet away. When it ended he gave me the most quizzical look and we each went on our way. Human contact. Interaction with people is rare these days. I'm afraid to have a conversation in the grocery store. Go in, collect needed items, go out. Don't dawdle. Don't breath on anyone. Only get what's on the list. Except for those windmill cookies. And the key lime pie. I don't feel human in the store. Everyone is plastic wrapped in their own little bubble and there is no human contact. Eve...

A deep vibration of a song emanates from the woods. The unmistakable sound of the great horned owl. Its call is both soothing and weighty. One swooped above my car once. It’s one thing to understand their size from books and a bit of imagination. It’s quite another to see one several feet above you. It could easily take our brute-of-a-cat at any time. The call and response of two owls becomes a song and dance. I am in bed. Covers over my head. I don’t want to Internet. I don’t want to Zoom. I can’t take another story about people who have no regard for other people’s health because they want someone else to cut their hair. Okay. I know it’s about more than that, though. I know it’s about people without jobs right now. They are scared about survival, too. They just want normalcy. We all do. It all breaks my heart. Mother, moon, magic, mystery, mythology. All associated with the owl. It is no wonder it was my grandmother’s favorite bird. I think about all of the animals on the plan...

The walls are suffocating once again. Irritation wears itself on my skin, in my hair follicles, in my aching heels. Why are my heels aching? Every need of every being around me feels grating. There's not enough food in the cat bowl. There aren't enough eyes on how I eat my cereal. But this guy can do this really neat trick. Why can't you put the kind of cat food I like in the bowl? Watch how these guys spin when you put them together like this! There's a dish on the table, are you done with it? I have a meeting in 5 minutes, so I can't help you log in, do you think you can do it on your own? Yes. No. I can't log in because you're logged in, Mom. 4 minutes until my meeting. My hair is a mess. I can see the bottom of my kibble bowl and it's a disgrace. Do I care if they see me disheveled? Everyone's hair is a mess. Mom, I can't log in. 2 minutes. Of course I care. Why is my hair frizzier when I'm at home? Or is it just that I have access to a m...

My back aches from the old metal swivel stool I am chained to. Finally got new orders from base. I am now required to spend 8 hours in front of the communication box. Several hours pass while studying glitchy training videos where my questions disappear into a void. Another hour or two is spent writing papers that analyze the process and purpose of thinking. My main points circle round and round themselves until I stand up to stretch. Oof. My back won't let me stand up straight. I much preferred the early exploration missions where I got to walk and sit and think my own meandering thoughts. Now my thoughts are being forced back into a standard formula. APA, to be precise. I ordered a new stool. It has a cushion and the seat rotates with your bum as you lean in any which way. It is a sit-stand style stool. Say that five times fast. We are spoiled, really. Ordering whatever we would like with the touch of a button. Who from the early 1900s would ever imagine such a thing? My grandm...

The word Importance carries a certain weight, or heft, if you will. Objects that have Importance can change throughout a lifetime, but the meaning of the word remains more or less unchanged. Our mission, to make it out alive, is Important because humankind is Important. Today I decided to create some art that was more or less Important. I say "more or less" because the Importance of Art is completely and relatively subjective. The Importance and Relevance of these Artworks is entirely representational of my feelings given the current state of World Events, including, but not limited to the shoddy quality of my photography. Audrey White (b. before the pandemic) Where, In Fact, the Sidewalk Actually Ends and the Gas Line Begins, 2020 Photograph Audrey White (b. before the quarantine) Dish-Less Sink With a Side of Dew, 2020 Dewy arugula on found sponge This is by far the most Important Artwork of the past 30 days. It Represents my Satisfaction of a Job We...

I can’t help but notice that the number of days on the log are the same as a certain Danny Boyle film. I imagine chimp-virus zombies climbing our hill. Fast ones. The worst kind. “The fire is blocking our path! We have to stop it!” Chief Mate cries. Co-Captain mans the grill while I lounge on my new bench. Smoke billows from the round black receptacle. We have no lighter fluid. “I need something to block the smoke from my face,” Chief Mate remarks. “What-ho! We have just been given such a face cover from a far distant ally...” “Why are you talking like that?” Chief Mate interrupts. Maybe I was pretending to be King Ezekiel for a second. I’ve got zombies on the brain. Not literally. The meat looks vaguely like brain matter. I try to steer my thoughts elsewhere. I watch the smoke. It may be hours before we eat. But the weather is pleasant, as is the company, and I have absolutely nothing else to do tonight. I don’t mind one bit. Unless there is a zombie sighting. That may put a d...

It’d been two weeks since I started the terrain vehicle. Thought it was time to give the ol’ girl some gas. Besides, we needed provisions pretty badly. A line of locals wrapped itself around the building. Face masks on. Six feet apart. “Excuse me,” I hailed a man retrieving the carts from the parking lot. “How long is the wait to get in?” “About 10-15 minutes,” his smile meant the world to me right then. This was real. Our new reality. Face mask on. Six feet apart. Is the mask on right? Is it inside-out? It’s poking me in the eye. How is that even possible? It’s hard to breathe. I open my mouth. I could probably stand to find a mint. Mouth closed, I wait in cue. It’s funny because I have imagined this moment many times. Not this exact moment, of course, but something similar. End-of-the-world shit. Every time I read history or watch movies, I imagine the scenario in our own world. I am plagued by my empathetic nature. But whenever I imagine war, famine, plague, disease, it’s al...