Aussies dont fuck about
Thereâs only going to be losers here. Government has announced similar social welfare payments to Ireland, so that should help a/effected workers.
Anyone here 'cocooning â ?
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Iâm cocooning your Ma right now.
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Somebody badly needs to tell the Sinn Fein crew to shut up moaning about Leo on twitter. They are only turning more and more people against Sinn Fein. They really donât understand the mood of the nation at the moment.
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Your a carrier stay away
We need a united ireland asap thatâs the main objective here .
Spain
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Theyâre reacting to the FG flag wavers shouting âwhere are Sinn Fein when you need them?â when the existing government has the mandate to make the decisions as instructed by the public health officials. Silly behaviour
Fucking hell
Powerful
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You have a lot of anger in you
No mate, the angry one is your buddy Sid.
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"Bergamo, this evening.
A column of Armyâs vehicles drive into the city carrying coffins of people who died.
An image that upsets. An image that looks like from a time of war.
And that makes you understand that the situation is serious, not only tragic.
For those who still underestimate the current situation, please have a proper look at the picture.
Maybe then youâll understand that thereâs nothing to joke about."
No man is an island,
entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent,
a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were.
as well as if a manor of thy friendâs
or of thine own were.
Any manâs death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind;
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.
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Stay Home, They Told Us⌠Diary of an Italian Editor
Sara Reggiani on Life in Quarantine
March 16, 2020
âStay home, if you can,â they told us in the beginning. And I could. I run a small publishing house from my home and at home is where I have always spent the majority of my time. I was not afraid. I can do it, I told myself. This changes nothing. Then the advice became an order. âStay home!â they told us. And everything changed.
We live as if a predator roams outside. And no one knows when it will tire of the hunt and move on. Usually crowded with tourists from all over the world, the streets of our beloved Florence are now totally empty. Pigeons and doves and carrion crows, taken aback from the sudden quiet, look at each other in disbelief. Spring is coming but we know we wonât be able to enjoy it. Things we used to take for granted, like taking a walk in the park or paying a visit to a friend, have become a luxury that we cannot afford. This used to be a time when gatherings were welcome; now we are asked to stay away from each other, to be wary of anyone who comes too close. When this will be over, how long will it take before we feel safe again to greet each other with a kiss on the cheek? And where will all the homeless people go while we are busy complaining of getting bored at home?
At least we have refuge, even if it is starting to feel tighter and tighter, I tell myself as I ration food for the week: the less time we spend in crowded areas like supermarkets the better, and in any case only one family member is allowed out at a time to go food shopping and must carry a document with them stating the reason for which they have left homeâif the statement turns out to be false, charges are filed.
Itâs not a war weâre living through, we have everything we need: food and distractions, books, music and technology to communicate with the rest of the world. But for the past few days I have woken with a drone in my ears. I get up, drink coffee, sit at the computer, talk and downplay things with my husband, make lunch, work some more, make dinner and the drone is always there, a thin veil that separates me from what little I can still see and touch. I am a robot, performing the actions for which I was programmed. My mind attempts to establish contact with a new, static bodyâfor now we are permitted to go out for a walk, but alone and never far from homeâa body that does not do the things it once did. Itâs the isolation, I tell myself. The uncertainty of tomorrow. The lack of oxygen.
This sacrifice is necessary and will even lead to good on many levels if only, when it is all over, we donât forget we are fundamentally vulnerable and that our actions have consequences.
The truth is that in this funereal silenceâthe sounds of the city have vanished, only the bells of Santa Croce articulate my daysâwe now feel the full weight of our thoughts. And behind mine is a voice that says, I had no choice, I had to stop you. This will pass, but donât forget. This is why I do not die of fearâof the illness, of the economic crisis, of the loss of points of reference. Because I know that voice is right, that this sacrifice is necessary and will even lead to good on many levels if only, when it is all over, we donât forget we are fundamentally vulnerable and that our actions have consequences.
Perhaps I talk like this because I am lucky: first off I have a home where all day, I sit at my desk, I pore over and translate stories to be published. This is my job. Stories. The virus has already infected the way I read them and has told me which to publish in the coming year, when my readers will need to recover from this trauma and look forward. Itâs not the end of the world, I tell myself as I fold the clean linen with unusual care and attention. Because this is another unforeseen consequence: every act, even the most insignificant, has taken on new weight, every caress I give to the cat I also give to myself, every âgoodnightâ is pronounced with the sincere hope that the night doesnât bring nightmares worse than the one we are already living.
Some times, at dawn, my eyes still shut, body relaxed and mind already tired, I think this new slowness the virus is teaching us is nice, that this lesson in patience is healthy. That what was wrong was the frenetic energy of before, which never let us enjoy anything, which took our breath away, energy that has now been poured into social media, morphing into the urge to tell, to warn, to show solidarity. We wrap ourselves up in one another. We make noise to stop this silence becoming a mirror. If the virus wanted us alone, there is a reason. Why not try and embrace it, the silence, to finally reflect on how our lifestyle should be changed?
Itâs not the end of the world, I tell myself as I fold the clean linen with unusual care and attention.
Stay home, read a book! yells everyone, but how am I to know which book I need amidst this din of suggestions that often seem like just another attempt to impose ones own identity and tastes onto someone else? Perhaps this time books are insufficient, and I say this in amazement, considering the work I do. It is not easy to concentrate on reading while the world around you trembles. Maybe once we have grown fully accustomed to the change we will rediscover the necessary calm, but it is still early, and music is what is needed now, to soothe the nerves.
Egotism still abounds, but even here the virus has a lesson to teach us. Anyone who leaves home without a valid reason now risks killing his or her neighbor with a mere cough. Some are afraid, have come to their sensesâor simply fear punishment will arrive from on high. Others are unmoved, but man is man, and this is a whole other story.
It has been months since I have seen my parentsâthey still live in the city where I grew up, Pesaro, Marche, one of the regions with the highest number of infectionsâbut we have never spoken as many times a day as we do now. They are 70 years old and never imagined they would experience something like this. âIâm not afraid,â my mother told me last night, âI feel like a silent bee, but Iâm not afraid.â A silent bee. So thatâs the drone I have in my head, I thought. It is the old me struggling, unable to come to terms with having to be still. But what if I were to try?
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Then you go to a wedding in Ireland where you talk your usual shit and are immediately smacked down by a nice middle-aged Irish lady who demands that people are decent, so you sit there speechless and red-cheeked on your own, not knowing what to say and feeling sorry for yourself and as soon as itâs all over rush off to TFK to complain about gabby and impolite middle-aged Irish women. Old age is an awful thing.
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