In the third week of the quarantine -- and in this assessment, I'm sure I speak for many -- the novelty wore off. Somehow being in a pandemic no longer felt even vaguely exciting, even (or especially) in the political sense. The hope I had been nursing that maybe this catastrophe would be the precipitating event for great changes in our deeply flawed society now seemed preposterous: things -- the lies, the corruptions, the mismanagement, the deaths -- were getting worse. It was sobering to hear the constant peal of sirens and to realize that sick people were getting taken to the hospital and dying. It was more than a chart. There was no good reason -- beyond the good fortune of having a job that allows me to stay home -- that I wasn't in the same position. I could be there soon, just by touching the wrong metal railing or taking in the wrong breath of air. I tried not to think about it too much, but it was an idea that never left the back of my mind.
Meanwhile, the business of life continued. The days passed in a blur of meetings. There seemed to be so many more now than during the pre-virus era. Or was my perception flawed because social and work meetings now both took place on the same platform? So much of the internet had already become a nightmare, and now we were being forced to spend the majority of our lives online. And where was all the spare time and boredom people had been talking about? I felt oddly pressed for time, given that I had nowhere to go. Routines became cemented into place: it would be hard to say what differentiated last Tuesday from last Friday (or next Friday). This sense of repetition felt necessary, but also heavy and extreme. There were so many articles about how to survive the quarantine (assuming you are not sick): yoga and fitness apps, cooking, games and movies, online cultural events, whatever else; I'm not saying any of this is wrong -- I enjoy the same fitness apps, watch the same television shows, and waste the same hours scrolling through Twitter -- but I'm sometimes overcome by a sense of dislocation that leaves me feeling fraudulent and naive, a member of the Louis XVI's court just before the revolution, except now -- in our post-modern dystopia -- the revolution will never come.
When I found the time, I retreated to the garden.
I tried to enjoy the camellias, which for the first time are blooming in three shades (pink, red, and white).
The red was first.
Followed this week by the white. I waited for the watery light that filters down for a few minutes each morning through the apartment buildings into the garden.
And late at night, when I had trouble sleeping, I recorded songs on my phone.
The hours passed quickly and quietly in a cocoon of sound. I had forgotten how recording can be a kind of drug.
I had doubts: was now a good time to write songs? Was it pointless and self-indulgent? Or was it a good way to cope, despite the certainty that so many others were coping with much, much worse? I decided that, if it doesn't hurt anyone else and makes me feel a little more alive -- even for a few seconds -- I'm in favor.
Which was comforting when I remembered that it's the same way I felt about so much before the virus, too.
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