'LIVING WITH, OR LEARNING FROM YOUR MISTAKES'

'COMMON SENSE (Leaning by example)'

'As a child, my father (a visionary as well as an astute businessman) always pointed out the difference between that which was theoretical and that which actually worked in practice.
That's the way I have been wired. 
I am an artist, a practical dreamer.
Artists may not all realize it, but they are creative, practical problem solvers.
Every painting is created by a multitude of infinitesimal choices which gradually give shape to the final product. 
In theory an idea may be superb but once you set about materializing your vision, practicalities rule the roost. 
Several failed architectural results, are excellent examples of someone pitching or insisting on persevering with an unpractical idea. The unfortunate customer is doomed to not only live with some one else's mistakes, but also pay for it!
Unfortunately the larger the stakes, the bigger and more expensive the mistakes.

There were a number of concerns I immediately thought of, when the possibility of a National lock down was rumored.
How on earth would those who were already struggling and who were trying to cope with the bare minimum, be able to survive when they were deprived of their livelihood?
On top of it, we are already struggling with massive unemployment. Who would be taking the ultimate knock when the ripple effect started?
How do tenants pay rent and other expenses whilst also struggling to pay humanitarian salaries to 'temporarily lay-off' workers if there is zero income? In my book that spells bankruptcy. 

Even if or when things return to 'normal', many businesses will no longer exist, meaning even if you had a job before, there was no job waiting for you after.
 
Will the owners of shopping centers wave rental agreements? 
Will our municipal bills also be waved since most of us have reduced or no income? Will all our liabilities depending on an income, magically be waved away?
Is it simply taken for granted that everyone has savings and that is ok when the little you possibly have, simply evaporates into thin air?
Even if lock down is magically lifted, the jobs they were prevented from doing will no longer exist. The problems will compound astronomically and cause an untold number of fatalities. Famine, famine induced diseases and unrest, will be the cause of this.
Is it at all morally justifiable to deprive and prevent people from giving emotional and physical care and assistance to their loved ones? Besides a weakened physical state, a weakened emotional state creates havoc in the immune system and such victims (hospital patients and the vulnerable and elderly, cocooned in solitude in old age homes) become prime targets for the virus. 
Humanity is built on love, touch, support and care, and with these endearing, life supporting qualities brutally ripped away, it encourages us to turn us on our own kind by becoming distant, aloof and suspicious and thus becoming rather inhuman.
It also seems as though (besides the emergency workers) the system favors those who are able to work remotely, also giving them an unfair advantage.
Maybe I'm simply not good at math but I'm still waiting to see the theoreticians and statisticians show us a projected comparison between lives lost because of starvation and desperate social revolt and the actual PERCENTAGE of lives lost, from all those who actually DO become infected.
There are several death sentences to consider.
Definite:
Violent, desperate social revolt.
Suicide because of job loss and depression
Massive starvation and related diseases 
Possible:
Sadly there have been, there are, and there will be more deaths because of the virus. There are also millions of ongoing preventable and inevitable deaths that occur, simply because you are alive.
However just because you test positive, it does not mean you have necessarily been given a death sentence.
As far as I know, most of the deaths occurred because the patients already suffered from severe or prolonged underlying medical conditions. Their systems failed. They were weak and vulnerable.
When healthy people who want to work and have liabilities, lose there jobs and  have no money and they as well as their dependents are starved, their immune systems and constitutions will become extremely vulnerable and compound the chances of contracting the virus and ultimately succumbing to it.  
Will their unfortunate deaths be recorded in the statistics as being a victim of the virus, or a victim of starvation?
How to turn the tide once a fragile economy becomes a collapsed economy, God only knows. -Aleta Michaletos

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS

                                                       

‘Loss in South Africa: Robbed twice!

Not only does the ‘Grim Reaper’ harvest our beloveds with his Scythe but we are now also prevented from mourning them at their graves.

I visit the ‘Cemetaire’ of peaceful Lourmarin in France, which is gently cushioned at the top of a hill, and sloping down at the back. The elaborate, ancient graves nestle between low walls and ravaged Cypresses.

In a peaceful little corner, low-lying branches have been cut away to expose a small forest of vertical, cylindrical stems, the canopy above, gently protecting the grave enfolded in its leafy cave.

Countless seasons have transformed tombstones into bumpy, monochromatic palettes. Various sizes of velvety dots, some flat and others the shape of chocolate truffles, merge and soften the iron and concrete homes of the dead.

White, beige, brown and charcoal-black, green and rust, gently covers the tombs of their beloved’s dust.

I have no fear, walking between Angels made of stone. Eyes cast to heaven and feathery wings, flowing hair and robes, all carved from rock…. 

Timeless horizontal posies of multi-colored porcelain flowers, bedeck the surfaces, factory fresh, without crack, chip or blemish….

Shoulders hunched, his face darkly stubbled, a widower softly shuffles past on fine gravel, thick lashes wet with tears…...

Family mausoleums, grouped together on the terraced slope below, unite the bones of generations of relations.

Not only do we not dare visit the graves of our finally lost friends and families, in life, whom we love, are scattered across the globe.

Once dead, the ritual of remembering with respect, is lost, and eventually, the memory too.

A crisp breeze ruffles the petals of bouquets of fragrant flowers and dusts away the repression of memories, enabling me to recall countless visits together with my parents, to the family grave in the Rebecca Street Cemetery.

Our floral offerings were put in vases, which were positioned on all four corners of the granite tomb.

My task was to rinse the removable ceramic or metal vases under the tap, which nestled between the graves some distance away. The hem of my dress would offer transparent comfort, as barrier between my toddler’s hand and flaming steel carrying lukewarm water. Sacrifice it was not, as my lips, prepared in pout, would kiss the Angel sentries encountered on my way…..

Our black Desoto desolately stood under the stringy shade of a Peppercorn tree, boot raised and filled with stacks of old newspapers and watering can. After the silent ritual of arranging the flowers, the stalks and leaves that had been trimmed, would be neatly rolled up in the paper, scattered images proclaiming the Profumo Scandal or Sputniks to the moon. The vibrating air, cocooning the car, would sting your face with a wave of steam, as the doors were respectfully slammed shut.

Then, the only fear I had was that of sliding into the world of death beneath the soft graveyard-ground.

This ritual with our dead was routinely carried out, as an unquestionable part of life and my parents would be in pensive mood for some time, after these dedicated excursions of remembrance.

The hot sun was kind enough to wait until we turned the corner, before sucking the moisture from the modestly colored flowers and shriveling their tilting heads. We knew this to be true, because this image awaited us on our return.

The red and moist ground-heaps of the fresh graves, were always covered with layers of multi-colored bouquets. The sun would even attempt to drink from the glass-covered, plastic wreaths, but did not succeed. This we also knew to be true since the little condensed drops would be hanging by their necks from the inside of the glass dome covers and drop onto the handwritten cards below, streaking and smudging the sad words, with the tears of plastic flora.

I feel angry and sad since today I have been reminded of what I have forgotten I’ve lost.

Copyright © 2006 ALETA MICHALETOS  

www.aletamichaletos.com