Covid Hair - Don't Care. Psoriasis Flare, Ouch. Trying To Move On As If Normal, But It Ain't.

I don't think I even thought about the haircut thing. I've been making sure to stay stocked with fruits, vegetables, and booze, I never thought that I might come out of this event looking like Nicholas from Eight Is Enough. I know how to cut my own hair and buzzed myself for years without a hitch (other than being told I looked like I was a prisoner heading to death row). Now I'm contemplating my early 20s and bringing back the hippie hair (when I felt the most alive and fun)....although old guys in pony tails look desperate. Don't think I can rock a man-bun.

The Kramer thing I am good with.

And my dreams are extra vivid and freaky. A few nights ago I dream that it was the end of the world and these women warriors in metallic garb and 80s rock-wear were about to do me in, before they said, "No, we must wait. They're coming. They must do it." And we waited for the alien creatures to come to suck all the fluids out of me. That wasn't strange. What resonated was the fact that this took place in my Grandmother Vera's kitchen where they put up a white board over her little tea table (covering her tangerine orange walls) to map out exactly how humanity would be taken out. I could smell all the smells of her home: the fresh dirt from the garden, the Chamomile soap, the cow manure of Sherburne, the Freihofer Orange donuts, and the Wink soda she used for her drinks. When the aliens arrivde to kill me - the last human on earth - I simply rang the bell she had hung outside her bathroom to let users know someone was waiting.

Then last night I dreamt that my brother-in-law's mother, Laura, had a grudge she held in for years that she wanted to yell at me for....a brunch she wanted to have with the Isgars that I stole from her because Chitunga and I decided to fly to London to for this writer's event. I was holding a space on the bleachers for my mother (5th row up, even thought she told me she couldn't go more that two rows), when Laura came to sit next to me. We were there to see Nikki perform and I brought piles of books to read.

Well, Laura was furious with me, because everyone said they wouldn't go to her brunch because I was going to London.

That's when I woke up and felt my ankles on fire. The psoriasis that I've had under control simply caught ablaze again. It spread on both ankles, my shin, and my calves. Seems like it flared out of nowhere, until I read that stress causes it to go amok. I'd blame these whacky dreams, but I think it has to do with the fact that I'm trying to maintain normal  and the fast pace in a way that is sort of impossible with the mandated homestay. Yes, I'm working, and running, and writing, and advising, and reading, and planning. But the truth is, this is not a normal at all. I can pretend all I want to pretend, but home-stay is frustrating.

I'm simply ready for the world to heal itself, and for individuals to be good to one another once again (they never were, but in my head I pretend they have potential to be good. One can hope, right?).

Okay, it's Sunday. I'm conferencing with half my students today, one-on-one so we can be sure projects are completed as planned.

And I have cream for the legs. It's already calmed down. I'm not even sure how many days we've been like this?

Thankful to Harry Potter marathons.