Today, 30/6/20, is the the however manyeth of Covid19. Neither celebration nor mourning, it has like the Fear against which Frank Herbert wrote the Litany, in "Dune", passed. Unlike the Fear, it remains as well. I know people who have had it and those that think they've had it. Neighbours, friends, my brother-in-law. Jill and I have shielded, as the parlance has it. Restrictions over and above the 'normal'; no shops, no people closer than the gate, online shopping, a box for quarantined deliveries. The significance of 72 hours as a mark of safety, and the complete absence of dreams. For obvious reasons, no one will willing let their unconscious loose on the current situation : a pandemic being managed by half wits who constantly worry about how their incompetence is being greeted by quarter wits.
And this leads to the partially collapsed BBQ, which I saw on Sunday 28/6 moored on paving slabs in the local park. The previous evening the air was blue with BBQ smoke and talk/laugh. The BBQ seems to be "symbolic", a 3D rendering of some kind of sociability modulated into the key of outdoor, holiday and drinking. A prop in a staged version of normal as an aspiration. And it falls down, knees knackered and headless, disguised as a suitcase, shut down and partially open. A miniature dinosaur.
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