I LEFT Manila for the US just before the lockdown.
Apparently, I survived my travel fine because I didn’t get sick with the coronavirus.
Although I have not been tested (I don’t have any symptoms, and only have history of travel to South Korea, Philippines, and Japan), I’m pretty sure I don’t have the virus because 14 days later, I’m still doing great.
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Although my place in Maryland is not as crowded as New York, I actually put myself on self-quarantine since my arrival.
Honestly, I only went out thrice to buy grocery, and go to the bank.
But I observed serious physical distancing.
So, infection-wise, I am not so worried for myself.
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But I am very worried because I have family in the West Coast, in the UK, and in the Philippines.
And I have friends all over the world.
And many of them are frontline workers.
(No, they’re not politicians, idiot!)
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I am worried that my mom is stranded in Metro Manila, when she would probably be safer in Iloilo.
I am worried that my family are not as careful as I am.
Or as informed.
I mean, my sister who is a nurse in the UK didn’t know Hubei from Oishi prawn crackers.
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I’m worried about the Philippines.
And how our politicians manage the situation.
A few notable exceptions, of course, but on the whole, everything is shitty.
They talk about lockdowns, emergency powers, calamity funds.
But still, no mass testing.
No concrete and viable plans to manage the pandemic.
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Nothing much has changed in my personal life.
I’m still largely a home buddy after a month in the Philippines.
And for five years now, I keep largely to myself in Maryland, except when I travel.
I still face my computer, and pound the keyboard to keep my column writing.
To write books.
To maintain my social media presence and engagement.
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To help with the foreseen boredom for most people in lockdown, I announced the 2020 Peter’s Prize for Short Story.
I also started to give lectures on short story writing via my Facebook group Poets And Writers International.
But this corona apocalypse scare is weighing me down a bit, too.
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Sometimes, I wake up, and just want to curl back to sleep.
Or read a book.
Or watch again movies I’ve enjoyed from my video library.
I have “hoarded” some food (cup noodles, peanut butter and jelly, sardines in can, bottled water), but I don’t even feel like eating.
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I can still keep my schedule, and I drag myself to face the computer and write.
But I do ask, For what are all of these efforts?
Four days after the official start of Spring, I took pictures of flowers in the neighborhood.
That was the same day I went to the bank’s ATM.
I tried to cheer people up, but it went largely unnoticed.
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I’m not a news person.
(I always joke that it’s because I write the newspaper!)
But for a few days, I listened to the news.
Until I couldn’t bear it anymore.
I couldn’t bear the lies, the positioning, the utter stupidity of politicians.
I couldn’t bear the deaths, the suffering, the helplessness of the poor.
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In social media, I hate the sudden religiosity of people.
How they prescribe prayers, and healing in the name of Jesus.
I tell them, You don’t need to remind me.
I pray everyday.
Sometimes, even six times a day.
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I tell them, I already talked to Jesus.
And God already knows about the virus.
I tell them, by now, everybody is already on their knees.
Even Satan.
And Satan is saying Hell is already in full capacity!/PN
