Toes curl at the symbol of wanton liability and disregard behind the face mask, its lack thereof. A cover shielding everyone around from how much mouth breathing goes on when gnarly uvulas and canker sores expose themselves in slackjaw.
Ross River fever jumps on and off the back of mozzies with no need to fester in standing water of your own. COVID-19 couldn’t care less if it’s Corona time or not as the spray showers all around. We toast in conversation to our imminent hacking state of lifting up a lung off the floor, dropped there by the other side of the herd society. Talkers they are.
Talkers squawking about their lost freedoms and liberties. The freedom to expose their faces into the wild winds and liberal gusts of dispersion.
Tyranny will not subject them to the anguish of wearing a mask for 10-30 minutes meandering the aisles, misting their droplets for the communal sopping.“The Man” has your face either way in a pandemic. Facial recognition software is scanning those naked nose and lips constantly to control where and when you walk. All the work of security and livestream cameras on the end of each corner and wrist.
Or you shield yourself with a front up to that mask you bought off the back of a ute. A mask weaved with mind-supplicant fine threads releasing—as creases from talking free the powder—you from control on each inhale. Every breath giving yourself over to the regime that would dare ask your compliance and thoughtful consideration of those around you while stealing your right to imbecility.
As “Bull” Sumner never once proclaimed on the final charge across the Palombière Tributary, “Here be dragons. We may never see light hence after our breach, but may we see the darkness that envelopes us all to the letter of nature’s whim. Sally forth and forget not, we were all (mostly) willing.”
Written on Tuesday, 2 June 2020