COVID

There's some really good writing about COVID coursing through the infosphere about now. Among the bounty are the "personal history," "dispatches," and "annals of inquiry" sections of this summer's The New Yorker. They are worth checking out if you're looking for something to read.

It's ironic that as I read these writers' clear descriptions of their lives during this strange time, the details of my own life grow blurry.  And I'm grateful for the escape.

How many times have I said, "Everything is weird" since March 12? None of us -- not a single living person -- has ever lived through a global pandemic before. We are an improv troupe the size of humanity, simultaneously Players and Audience/Spectator. Every day, making it up as we go.

I could comment on the effect of the pandemic on food, daily routine, international politics, the local economy... 

But my focus in the hour before I sat down to write was Time. More specifically, how it seems to move differently now. Or perhaps it is my perception of it that's changed. Last summer, for example, in memory, exists in another time, a misty past. Long ago. More distant in some ways than memories from 10 years ago. 

When I think forward, or try to, there's nothing there. Nothing comes to mind. At times it feels like I'm in the last room of a house I've spent my entire life exploring. It feels like "The End." There is no accompanying sense of impending death. It is not my life that is ending; rather, everything known is ending and only the unknown remains. 

Olena Shmahalo/Quanta Magazine

I want to talk about where I live, a place I moved into almost exactly a year ago. Doing Pandemic Time in this particular place is worth describing. Next time.

May Day Synchronicity

Last night I dreamed my last bottle of vanilla extract was destroyed by a careless stranger. Today I went to the market and saw this at the checkout lane:

Someone changed their mind.

Ear Bugs

This one has lingered for at least a week.

Part of a Day in the Life

  Yesterday...

...and today.

I woke up about 1 today and am extremely disoriented. Yesterday I was in sandals happily snapping pictures and improvising a ditty about "Spring has come! Dum-te-dum! Spring is here at last!"

Today I awaken, aware that I've missed a WhatsApp appointment, throw open the blind to find everything covered in ice.

My Amazon delivery was waiting outside the apartment door. Happy.

Went down to discard the cardboard box it was in and found more packages in my mailbox -- new piano literature!  Happy.

Re-entered the building and in the 200 feet between the entrance and the elevator witnessed two different people coughing in the lobby without covering their mouths.  WTF? 

I'm in my apartment now. I won't come out again today.

Corona

Living during the COVID-19 pandemic, my thoughts range widely, provoked usually by a report on BBC, an episode of one of the many podcasts I subscribe to, or something posted to Instagram or YouTube. Today it was a post on Instagram about a family of nine undocumented immigrants living in a tiny shack somewhere on the East Coast. Some of them have already been sick but are recovering without the resources of wage income, health insurance, or access to healthcare or the internet.

I'm hearing a lot of both tongue-in-cheek and totally-serious complaints about the boredom of spending so much time at home -- alone or with kids, the inconvenience of not finding favorite products on the grocery shelves, and the cancelation of anticipated social events. All of this is just more of the same in a sense:  American exceptionalism and sense of entitlement. The story about the undocumented family opened my eyes and heart to a new perspective.

Via text and email, some friends are focused on the possibility that "something good will come out of all this." My response is that "good" and "bad" exist all the time. All in the assessment of the observer. I live in a large government-subsidized housing complex that I've sometimes pronounced a blessing and other times a curse since moving in several months ago. It just depends on the day...

Speaking of which, yesterday I was reminiscing about my historic home in Mississippi known as "the Yellow Fever House".  It was the site of the first yellow fever death in Holly Springs in 1878. I researched the epidemic and loved sharing the history with tourists who stopped by.

Yesterday I thought about the contrast between living alone back then in a house with a history of pestilence and living with a hundred other people now during the current pandemic. Some Holly Springs residents refused to even step onto the front porch of the house, more than a century after the epidemic ended, believing deadly contamination was still possible. 

Here at Babcock, some residents are wearing masks and surgical gloves and insisting on riding the elevator alone. Other more carefree or reckless residents continue to share space in a tiny, enclosed smoking pavilion in the garden that allows less than a foot of social distance. And some people have not been seen since the official lockdown -- no visitors; only healthcare professionals and delivery people admitted; closure of front office and furlough of all onsite staff -- took effect in early March.

Yellow Fever set off widespread anxiety, fear, and sadness during its reign. History repeats itself now.  The anxiety I feel is mostly dread of how my fellow humans will respond to prolonged isolation and other disruptions to routine the pandemic necessitates. It's now been recommended that Americans shelter in place through the end of April. What will life be like, feel like, sound like here in Babcock and across the nation two weeks from now? 

A first hint manifested here late last night. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted into my apartment. Someone has decided life is sufficiently offtrack to justify defying the no-smoking policy.

On Retreat in LFK

A couple of days ago I was standing at a bus stop on Mass Street, debating whether to ride the bus or walk the seven blocks to my friend's house. There's been relatively little snow but this Winter has been mean, physically and emotionally. Temperatures have regularly dipped to bone-chilling negatives -- humbling and dominating the body -- but have periodically soared during the day to ridiculously unseasonable highs.

The first 60-something-degree day made us silly. We abandoned hats and gloves. The air sparkled with sounds of greetings and laughter, like tinkling bells. Traffic hummed on Mass Street and included a few convertibles with tops down. It was like we'd all fallen in love. That night, the temperature dropped to 17 degrees. Our hearts were broken.

We were not as reckless and full-throttle in our enjoyment of the next faux Summer day.

On this day, though, the sun and sky and breeze and temperature were like a caress. The weather offered not a flamboyant promise that Winter was over but a congenial reminder that Spring will come. I was hatless but wore a lightweight, ankle-length coat. I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the blessed sun, the hem of my coat snapping briskly against my calves in the "in like a lion" breeze.

I was yanked from reverie and contemplation by the sound of a male voice shouting "Nigger!" as a car was passed about 10 feet away from me. The car had slowed as it approached the traffic light, which was turning from red to green.

The head and neck of a thirty-something white guy protruded from the rear passenger-side window. I registered the cartoonish exuberance of his features as the face withdrew and the car accelerated through the intersection.

For over a year now, I've been meditating every day in Sam Harris' Waking Up mindfulness meditation course. (You can try it, too, for free, by following the link at his website). I was unfazed by the hateful outburst and I believe my equanimity was due in large part to meditation practice.

Contrary to what some believe, my response was not a matter of denial or detachment from "reality". I didn't retreat to a la-la land in my head, clutching a security blanket of numbness or blithe disregard. I could see his face clearly. I remember the license plate number and make of the car. There were four people in the car and the driver was the only woman. As they passed, I watched through the rear window as she turned around and briefly chastised the passenger.

I saw and heard everything. Mindfulness practice enabled tremendous clarity. I saw with minimal distraction what was happening -- both in the surrounding environment and within myself -- and was not swept away into either stream.

This morning I heard a rebroadcast of Kamau Bell's story about an incident at the former Elmwood Cafe in Berkeley CA on the radio. Near the end of it, someone said something about fostering the capacity to see racism clearly without internalizing it.

I saw the face. Perceived the ignorance and hatred and stupidity etched thereon. Felt my own startle response and noted my thoughts about the irony of living nearly five years in Mississippi without ever being the target of the epithet but hearing it in Lawrence -- residents lovingly call it LFK, "Lawrence Fucking Kansas" because it's the most liberal place in the state -- on arguably the most beautiful day of the year thus far.

When I reached my friend's house I told him and his wife about what had happened. "I can remember being emotionally and psychologically unsettled by similar events in the past," I commented. "Well, eventually that ignorant older generation will die off," my friend proffered.

"Oh! Well, this guy seemed to be in his early 30s," I said. "And I don't really see bigotry as a generational problem."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Reflecting on my experience this many days later, I remember that I moved to Kansas the Spring after Drumpf became president. The waves of ignorance, greed, hatred, etc. that have swept the nation and world in the intervening months have expanded the possibilities for bigotry. Probably it's easier now to be called "nigger" anywhere and everywhere.  

It's a good time for practicing mindfulness.  

I'm Not Nice. Are You?

Nice is eroding the foundations of interpersonal discourse. It shows up in a variety of ways. Here's an example.

🌒

"No, no. You’re alright..."

I am sitting on a friend's porch drinking iced coffee and telling a story
from my unfocused youth.
Gesturing widely as I talk, I accidentally knock over my friend's glass.
“Oh! Damn!  I’m sorry,” I say.

“No, no. You’re alright,” my friend coos and runs to fetch a towel.

What?

Let’s break it down:  “No, no.” What’s she saying here?
Don’t apologize? I don’t want or need your apology? 
Is she saying an apology is inappropriate?
Unnecessary? 

“You’re alright.”  Well, yes, I do feel fine.
I’m not feeling damaged or at risk. Do I appear uncertain? 
Do I look like I need reassurance or comforting? 

I don’t want “apology” to be dislodged from the social protocol script.
I want to live in a world where people apologize when they spill a drink. I want
to live in a world where my friend accepts rather than negates my apology.
I want to live in a world where an apology doesn't suggest my self-esteem is lagging
or that I'm in need of rescue or succor.