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.