Too Much Time On Our Hands
It's April 16, 2020. This is a period that we'll all remember. Locked up. Shuttered in. Afraid to go outside. Afraid to touch people. Afraid. Because death by an unseen, mysteriously lurking, secretly attacking virus is right there.
I've been sick. It started on April 4. I had intestinal issues for about 8 days. That's a polite ladylike way of saying I spent hours and hours in the bathroom and my body was rejecting everything I put into it.
By April 10 I decided to call a doctor. Never mind the form-fitting jeans and the flat stomach I was happy about, I knew that this wasn't a good thing. She asked the usual questions -- fever? able to smell? achy?
So I managed a liquid-only diet for 17 hours before digging into some ramen, and started monitoring my temperature, as she suggested.
98 - 97.1 - 97.2 - 97.6 - 97.6 - then it was 99.7. Then it was 99.8. Then it was 100. Those last three were in the span of 2 hours.
I've told the folks who kind of need to know -- parents, local friends, BFFs, my film director -- because it could happen fast. You get sick and you're out for 1-2-3 weeks. Or more. But I'm not going there.
What I do know at this moment is that I'm taking care of myself. I'm making sure I have what I need. And I've notified those people that might have to jump in and help if I need it. My test is tomorrow morning at 11 am.
It's only been about 5 weeks or so of quarantine but for most of us it feels like eternity. I wished for a year that I could have time to finish the three scripts buried in my brain and the epic novel I've been researching for 7+ years. And I plundered on for many months. But now, now that I have the time, it's a process I can't seem to focus on. Time goes on and on endlessly. March felt like a thousand years, and yet, despite the so longed-for time, it feels like I can't use it. My mind is like mush and my body like a heavy sea eel, moving ever so slowly, unable to focus, soft and malformed, being pushed this way and that by the currents of frustration, boredom, fear.
If I'm able to walk 2 or 3 miles, or go to get groceries or cat food, then that's it. I'm exhausted. It must be psychological. There are no exterior options any longer. No longer able to choose which hike to take that day, which cafe to park myself at, which beach to visit, which store to linger in, which friend to socialize with. Nothing in real life. Only in a partial life, or a pretend life, an interior life. Trapped inside, in our own minds and souls and hearts, stuck in a box with all the luxuries that modern society can offer, yet with nothing to nurture the heart and soul. Music, art, films... they're there but in some ways they're not. As artists, we process before we can create. So the processing is in full force -- and I've literally become a sponge.
I accidentally touched the finger of the delivery man bringing me my meal and I nearly yelled out loud, then ran inside to wash my hands.
This is where we are. Nowhere. Yet everywhere. Sitting still. Unable to move or think. Just being. Are we wasting away, or are we growing in another way? It's difficult to say. I hope, I believe, we're all growing. But growth hurts. Change is tricky. It can be cruel and demand from us what we don't want to give.
All we can do is sit and wait for it to be over. In the meantime we try to do what we can to bring ourselves joy or comfort or peace, or we don't because we can't. It's a choice, you see. And so I close my eyes. And I wait.
On September 30, 1859, Abraham Lincoln recounted this story: It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words: "And this, too, shall pass away."
I've been sick. It started on April 4. I had intestinal issues for about 8 days. That's a polite ladylike way of saying I spent hours and hours in the bathroom and my body was rejecting everything I put into it.
By April 10 I decided to call a doctor. Never mind the form-fitting jeans and the flat stomach I was happy about, I knew that this wasn't a good thing. She asked the usual questions -- fever? able to smell? achy?
So I managed a liquid-only diet for 17 hours before digging into some ramen, and started monitoring my temperature, as she suggested.
98 - 97.1 - 97.2 - 97.6 - 97.6 - then it was 99.7. Then it was 99.8. Then it was 100. Those last three were in the span of 2 hours.
I've told the folks who kind of need to know -- parents, local friends, BFFs, my film director -- because it could happen fast. You get sick and you're out for 1-2-3 weeks. Or more. But I'm not going there.
What I do know at this moment is that I'm taking care of myself. I'm making sure I have what I need. And I've notified those people that might have to jump in and help if I need it. My test is tomorrow morning at 11 am.
It's only been about 5 weeks or so of quarantine but for most of us it feels like eternity. I wished for a year that I could have time to finish the three scripts buried in my brain and the epic novel I've been researching for 7+ years. And I plundered on for many months. But now, now that I have the time, it's a process I can't seem to focus on. Time goes on and on endlessly. March felt like a thousand years, and yet, despite the so longed-for time, it feels like I can't use it. My mind is like mush and my body like a heavy sea eel, moving ever so slowly, unable to focus, soft and malformed, being pushed this way and that by the currents of frustration, boredom, fear.
I accidentally touched the finger of the delivery man bringing me my meal and I nearly yelled out loud, then ran inside to wash my hands.
This is where we are. Nowhere. Yet everywhere. Sitting still. Unable to move or think. Just being. Are we wasting away, or are we growing in another way? It's difficult to say. I hope, I believe, we're all growing. But growth hurts. Change is tricky. It can be cruel and demand from us what we don't want to give.
All we can do is sit and wait for it to be over. In the meantime we try to do what we can to bring ourselves joy or comfort or peace, or we don't because we can't. It's a choice, you see. And so I close my eyes. And I wait.
On September 30, 1859, Abraham Lincoln recounted this story: It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words: "And this, too, shall pass away."
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