(I’ve been largely wordless for a while, but just lately, whilst scribbling to myself, found a way to answer my lifelong least favorite question: ‘How are you?’ So this, among other things, is how I’ve been.)
Fog gets me.
One thought, while driving toward the city: How something insubstantial as fog can make something so there be not there. The Golden Gate. Aged. Iconic. Large. Unmistakable. And yet, sometimes, invisible. Disguised in sky stuff.
(Much like the moon. Kin, maybe, in their souls. Or both just made much of by those who love them.)
Another thought: This place is wonderful. But this place is of America the Terrible. But is this country rotten, or this nation? Or its leaders? How much blame upon the people, how much on the powers that shouldn’t be?
People are awful. Some of them.
People are wonderful. Some again.
Our best and worst are leagues apart and held in single hearts.
This people and place are built of everything.
I don’t know how to bring that back around to the fog.
The thing with this pandemic is it makes it hard to find new things to say.
After all these months (has it really only been a few?), it’s just the same old problems over again. Even the new issues are mere reboots of what’s been wrong all along.
This country does not look good naked, and all but the occasional face covering is coming off now.
Some folks are paid to talk about it. Plenty will do it for free. Or for change. But what does someone like me have to add? I’ve seen no more and know no better. All I can do is echo the obvious.
As for other topics… what? I’ve read a book? I’ve watched a show? The light and the water danced beautifully on the bay this morning? It’s nothing to mark the days with. Lack of routine turns to sameness. The new normal is nothing is normal.
Twenty, thirty minutes in a line spaced six-ish feet apart for fifty bucks’ worth of socks.
Remember when we’d browse the mall for fun? Killing time before the times killed us. Making mini memories before yesterday was March and today’s August and what can we point to in between that felt like living?
There’s a version of hell that looks just like this. Probably more than one.
How’s this for bringing it back to the fog: I’m feeling lost in the blur. My existence, my reality, there then not there. Invisible Golden Gate. I’m forgetting myself. I’m a blank-eyed stranger. I’m alone in my own skin, and my skin is a bus heading out into nowhere, empty save for me, yet still crowded with the thought of people who used to inhabit these seats and might want to later, so let’s not get comfortable, legs crossed tight against imagined space invasion.
I’m social distanced from my own heart.
A soul in quarantine.
The virus knows more than one way to steal your breath.