written in march
I send love to my friends who have been practicing being housebound for five or ten years before this era, who had already capped meeting sizes, distanced and locked down. We would have been incredulous had we been told these measures would become not just widespread, but illegal to deviate from in our lifetime.
Due to a virus.
Albeit, not the infester that changed many of our histories, that insidious but rarely fatal, glandular fever. It all began with a virus for me and whilst I believe the fear being spread is too strong, I also know in my very cells that viruses can alter.
If we had been told this strange time was to come, I would have thought that it could have been almost heartening to be all in the same boat for a league. Me no longer an inch more distanced than others. A special pass handed to me to skip everything that was over exerting, and a pass given to everyone else just for good measure so that no one feels a pang of FOMO. Missing Out Together (MOT), will that be good?
In reality, no.
It's almost like I can feel a heaviness that wafts in the air, and settles on empty cafes, and seeps in and out of the nooks and crannies of every house which looks more lonely than it used to. It's a groan. It rings loudly in the silence, that everyone is missing a lot.
I overheard two conversations on my recent forays into fresh air, one was a man saying to another, 'I'm just waiting to get it...' and another was, 'masks'.
(I was cycling and my chain came off. With greasy hands I struggled to get it back on for my first time and a kind gentlemen noticed my plight and came to help. We were closer than 1.5 meters from each other. I said, 'I know we're not meant to be close, just tell me what to do from a distance', but he came in and risked my breath and then I couldnt wipe the smile on my face for a few minutes as I raced along afterwards.)
I would have thought before if it had been prophesied to me (and mercifully it wasn't), maybe everyone will handle their removal from their old lives with mental tranquility? Has my illness grief been a defect in my resilience and adaptability? But, I would have been wrong. I see humans ache, hardcore ache like I have never witnessed. It's a little inhuman not to work and rub shoulders with others often. Composer Brett Dean, isolated in hospital with covid wrote: "A number of correspondents have asked whether I can use the time to compose, however it hasn’t felt like a time of creativity in any way whatsoever. Like the rest of humanity at the moment, I see this as a period we must all get through, learn from and then put behind us."
Illness and isolation never will be cruisey, despite what cursory glances suggest. It isn't a holiday or escape. Daily sleeps for ten years have not been a pleasant task for me in the slightest; they are intruders to waking plans, not naps on a balmy island.
I doubt a many-year stint of isolation would lessen the ache, for anyone. It hasn't for me though I have carved a new way of living. Adjusting to things and aches going away are entirely different things and not to be confused. The missing-humans-and-human-flourishing ache lingers. Intrinsically programmed.
This unexpected release from outing hangovers and the novelty of being like everyone else is not as comforting as I would have thought. I savour some parts of it. Mostly I am struck by something new - that staggered suffering, whilst often bringing a sense of isolation, is very good. Waves dunk us at different times in our lives and we drink in gulps of joy at different times. We use ventilators one by one. It's better to have a few pulls in a jumper, than a whole row unravelled.
I can see it clearly now, of course it's better that not everyone is struggling at once with the same thing.
A couple of nights ago I loaded a recording from the MSO as I sat on the couch with Ben, a pleasant evening where our children had gone to sleep for a short spell, and we had banned ourselves from covidity conversations. I saw that one of the musicians was a classmate from school.
That school where I got the virus which left the package: Post Viral Fatigue for DC, at my door, and gently taped it closed.
I thought, as I watched the musos do what I was hoping to do: I was the snag, the pulled stitch. I have not liked being the snag, but mercifully the whole knit didn't unravel, just to keep me company. They kept on in their practice rooms and now they're bringing us unadulterated beauty.
When I later see others return from isolation to unlimited human interaction, and I don't go as far as them, and I don't go without hangovers, I think I will be able to be more wholeheartedly celebrate that many can flourish after tasting a collective unravelling.
