Before the time of virus, I had a disconnect with the continuum of time. Days of the week demarcated by tai chi class (must be Monday, Wednesday or Friday) Just beginning to mark Thursday (aqua therapy) when the world shifted; time dislocated and morphed.

Now, days are soap bubbles: rising; drifting; prisming; reflecting; bouncing; breaking.

Last month, doing research for my oatcakes & snow drops post, I heard new echoes of women’s life narratives. Old friends called out too, names creaked up from a deep well.

History is my comfort food, my comfort zone. With walls of membrane – pressing against the surface, it gives, undulates. Handprint, faceprint.

Working on a post about Angelina Napolitano. What is known about her life narrative resonates with concerns I have about those trapped, by life in the time of virus, with an abusive person.