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22 March 12020 is World Water Day. And it’s the birthday
of Chico Marx. For whatever reason I don’t have anything else listed for the
day, leaving me rather short on the topic front. Not that it really matters, I
guess. The library is closed permanently, as far as I can tell—at least until
the current pandemic passes anyway—and research is somewhere between pointless
and impossible. I could of course regurgitate material that is already on the
internet (as I am doing right now), but that doesn’t seem really productive
somehow. If I’m down to shoveling shit I’d much rather shovel it from somewhere
else; there’re plenty of people stirring the shit that’s already online.
But even as I try to get things done I can feel my mental
faculties shutting down. I stared at a page of Coptic today and it was no longer
Greek to me but a page of impenetrable gibberish, like Arabic or Ethiopic or
something. I mean—it passed, but for a moment I felt lost at sea. And I grope
for things in my mind—names, dates, connections—that used to come quickly
without any hesitation. I have reached certain limits, I guess—mine, or life’s,
or reality’s.
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