While I haven’t been in lockdown myself lately, my mind certainly seems to have been, as I haven’t written a publishable word for weeks.
At first I consoled myself that this was a simple case of the kind of block most writers and other would-be creative people chronically or periodically encounter, and thus would pass with the passage of time.
But when it showed alarming signs of persisting for longer than usual, I started to suspect that it might be something more serious, like permanent verbal blockdown.
Caused, or so I surmised, by my online association with and intense sympathy for all those of my virtual friends and who were suffering so severely in viral lockdown.
A great number of them were complaining about bouts of almost terminal tedium. While many others were experiencing extremes of social isolation.
And here I was, helpless to console or comfort them in their times of sighsolation and crysolation with even as much as a kind or caring word.
So thank goodness there were lots of unquenchable spirits on the net to show them – and me – that lockdown isn’t necessarily a matter of luckdown, and in fact can actually be more like likedown.
Most of the usual jokesters were on the job as usual, thus demonstrating that lockdown can actually be a larkdown; cooking enthusiasts galore were still posting pictures of dishes showing that lockdown can be a total wokdown; and myriads of music-lovers were turning the lockdown into a rockdown.
While all those people posting pictures of near-nude, nubile beauties were as busy as ever showing that lockdown isn’t necessarily, if you’ll forgive me, a total cockdown.
And of course lots of advocates of vaccination, social distancing and other anti-Covid measures were out in force on the net pushing their point that any amount of isolation, social or otherwise, at least beats the hell out of diesolation.
Despite all these excellent peoples’ efforts to spiceolate us from the direst effects of lockdown, however, some of us almost gave up hope of ever seeing a lockdawn.
For me personally, I fancy, the problem was that my afore-mentioned sympathy for those perceiving lockdown as nothing but schlockdown has until now been magnified by the feeling of iceolation in which I and my fellow citizens shiver down here in Sydney during the southern-hemisphere winter.
But the recent arrival of the winter solstice, with its promise of gradually lighter and warmer days, has clearly thawed sufficient of my writing neurons to enable me to verbalise a few thoughts again.
On the downside, however, is the fact that the so-called Inner-West of Sydney, which includes the suburb of Stanmore in which my wife and I live, has today been declared a Covid red-zone, thus road-blocking us from taking a planned three-day driving trip.
We’re not too devastated by this, though, as another piece of news is that out west, where we were headed, the mouse plague is still so out-of-control that it’s even caused a jail out there to go into such extreme cell-blockdown that the prisoners have to be moved to other penal establishments.
An event that should serve to remind all of us who see lockdown as little short of home detention that, however boring or saddening or even infuriating it may be, at least it beats the living daylights out of serving time in the slammer.
And also, for that matter, beats the hell out of endless incarceration in Australia’s shamefully and even criminally cruel system of refugee/asylum-seeker detention.