In the fourth week of isolation, the hours and days flew by with a strange, frantic quality that seemed at odds with the fact that we didn't go anywhere. Days and nights seemed far less demarcated than in the past; periods of time did not begin or end so much as seep into each other. I found myself going to bed later and later, but still waking up before dawn, restless with questions that no amount of news could seem to answer. Sometimes I convinced myself that the sirens were abating, but then they would start up again. I had no idea what was really happening anywhere, much less what I could expect to happen in three weeks or three months.
For exercise, I began to trot in place in the garden and found that I could almost attain the high of a regular long run. As with so much during these times, it was close enough, a compromise. I had already resolved not to run outside because of the health risk -- small but significant -- but I also felt bad about all of the negative press runners were getting for swerving through pedestrians on crowded sidewalks. I understood why pedestrians were frustrated, but I also wished that they would widen the scope of their anger to include cars, which are granted the vast majority of public space in the city. I wanted to explain that most runners in my experience were good people and describe how it had changed my life for the better by providing a mental space where I could retreat from everything else in the world. (Especially the straight world.) I wanted to tell them about my experience with the Boston Athletic Association -- how organized and efficient they were when I ran the Boston Marathon during a nor'easter two years ago -- and my wish that they were managing the country through this crisis instead of our current leaders.
Mostly, however, I just wanted to avoid Twitter; but it was first place to get news, so it was hard to put down.
It was surreal to scroll through Twitter while sitting in the garden, which this week was all of a sudden filled with a thousand small, pink clouds.
Late at night, I played guitar and recorded myself on my phone. I became obsessed with learning "April Come She Will," one of my favorite songs by Simon and Garfunkel (or anyone). For no particular reason, it seemed important to master it, despite the certainty that I will never play guitar as well as Paul Simon, much less sing with the beauty of Art Garfunkel. Meaning it's not really something that can be mastered, or at least not by me. (Which didn't stop me from trying.) Given the simplicity of the song structure, it's surprisingly intricate, filled with odd picking patterns and subtle technical flourishes. Getting a passable recording required endless takes, which in itself -- the repetition, the countless small but unique failures -- was kind of soothing. It was like playing a video game. You start, you go as far as can, dodging quicksand or bullets or whatever else until you succumb, and then you press a button and start again.
Which in a way is how life in isolation feels. The days are identical, the challenges expected, the failures small and unpredictable. Each day we expire, and the next we are reborn.
Here are the links to the videos/songs I posted last week (and this week) in case they didn't/don't make it through the various feeds:
DEATH CULTURE @ SEA Isolation Songs
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