I realize this is a drop in the ocean. But I want to record these times in words, if only for myself. It’ll help me sort things out in my head, keep me busy, and ease my writer’s frustration, especially when I get stuck trying to finish my novel-in-progress. I’ll update as warranted, but won’t post just for the sake of it. A babbler and navel-gazer I am not. So here goes.
April 14, 2020
This is day 34 of distancing for my wife and me, or D+34, as they might say in the army. On March 8 we had tickets for a “house concert,” with a great jazz musician playing in someone’s living room, and decided not to go for fear of being in a crowd. Our last restaurant meal was about the same time. Now we hardly go anywhere except the grocery store and even then don’t venture inside: we order online and have the bags brought to the car.
On the scale of suffering, we’re pretty near the bottom. We haven’t gotten sick, nor have any of our family and friends, though we think of them all the time. We have a full pantry and enough of our vital meds to last months. Because we were already retired, our daily routine hasn’t been turned upside down. Our musician friends are streaming their concerts. We know we’re lucky.
I can get by without face-to-face contact if it keeps us alive. There’s no particular thing I’m yearning for and can’t have. I won’t even be upset if they scrub the football season. And of course, I’m still writing.
I do wish I could write about a world where people could go about their lives without sickness, countless human and economic tragedies, desperation, and constant fear. But I’m not a science fiction writer.
I feel as though I live in a bubble. There is enough money coming in. We also do not know anyone who has caught the virus. We have not had to stand in line at the food pantry. All of the kids are still working except one whose job as a cocktail waitress is on hold. The greatest burden for me is watching Trump squirm.