Coronavirus contemplations
[author's note: When I get stressed about something, sometimes I end up just typing out all my thoughts so they aren't just in there rattling around in my head as much. Usually what results is a bunch of rambly anxious brain vomit that's totally not intended for public consumption, but this time I decided to try and write something a bit more artistic/literary.]
The mechanical whir of the orange faregates and ascending the escalator to the platform. The train, doors open, is about to depart. What is typically a straightforward trip, albeit somewhat long. But now it may just be too much of a risk. Do you really want to find out? Safer to stay in. Isolate. Withdraw.
Monday afternoon, March 2. Rooftop views of Dupont as the weather teases the promise of spring. Racing out to Rosslyn just to see if I can do it. Traffic is light. The mood is relaxed and pleasant. Mosaic flooring in the lobby and a 24-hour oven clock.
We pass some time and contemplate which deadly sin gambling falls under. We finish up the board game and head out into the encroaching dusk and rush hour traffic. I didn't know this might be the last social gathering I'd attend for awhile.
Loops around Shaw, a plant store that used to have a cat, the convention center and AIPAC. We didn't come close enough to some of the AIPAC attendees to contract it, right?
I linger for a few minutes before leaving to catch the train home. It's dark and raining and I rest my eyes on the train ride, but without fully falling asleep. It's a quiet and sleepy trip back.
Tuesday night, March 10. I take a phone call from a friend. I do my best to console his coronavirus anxiety. I say, you have to be rational about this and you can't let your life be ruled by fear. It is not productive to be completely out of your mind with paranoia about this.
Wednesday, March 11. Things start getting canceled. I still manage to go out and do some errands. I can't really tell if things are actually quieter or if they just seem that way amidst the general upcounty suburban emptiness. Late lunch with a friend. We wash our hands fastidiously before eating. I don't touch the door handle when leaving the restroom.
The car is warm inside. I put my bags down near my feet. Ensconced in glass and metal, the two of us. I say, let's stop by the playground. It'll be good for you to swing and get some of the nervous energy out. Five minutes. Just five minutes. Humor me. He acquiesces. I check my watch. 5:21 p.m.
"I think the last time I had this weird feeling about the world and people interacting in it – was September 11, 2001.
Where you had a whole world of people who simply didn't know wtf to do
and figuring out if they should act normal or not normal"
Thursday. March 12. The governor announces that Maryland schools are closed until the end of the month. More things are canceled, more places are closing. We don't know who all might have it and if we encountered those people. We don't know how much worse things will get. We don't know how rapidly things will devolve.
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,"
Friday, March 13. I had really been looking forward to visiting the cherry blossoms, potentially this weekend. It seems ill-advised now. Not worth the risk. They'll bloom again next year. Stay away.
This is our life now, amidst the steadily unraveling pandemic panic. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. We don't know what the future holds.
The mechanical whir of the orange faregates and ascending the escalator to the platform. The train, doors open, is about to depart. What is typically a straightforward trip, albeit somewhat long. But now it may just be too much of a risk. Do you really want to find out? Safer to stay in. Isolate. Withdraw.
Monday afternoon, March 2. Rooftop views of Dupont as the weather teases the promise of spring. Racing out to Rosslyn just to see if I can do it. Traffic is light. The mood is relaxed and pleasant. Mosaic flooring in the lobby and a 24-hour oven clock.
We pass some time and contemplate which deadly sin gambling falls under. We finish up the board game and head out into the encroaching dusk and rush hour traffic. I didn't know this might be the last social gathering I'd attend for awhile.
Loops around Shaw, a plant store that used to have a cat, the convention center and AIPAC. We didn't come close enough to some of the AIPAC attendees to contract it, right?
I linger for a few minutes before leaving to catch the train home. It's dark and raining and I rest my eyes on the train ride, but without fully falling asleep. It's a quiet and sleepy trip back.
Tuesday night, March 10. I take a phone call from a friend. I do my best to console his coronavirus anxiety. I say, you have to be rational about this and you can't let your life be ruled by fear. It is not productive to be completely out of your mind with paranoia about this.
Wednesday, March 11. Things start getting canceled. I still manage to go out and do some errands. I can't really tell if things are actually quieter or if they just seem that way amidst the general upcounty suburban emptiness. Late lunch with a friend. We wash our hands fastidiously before eating. I don't touch the door handle when leaving the restroom.
The car is warm inside. I put my bags down near my feet. Ensconced in glass and metal, the two of us. I say, let's stop by the playground. It'll be good for you to swing and get some of the nervous energy out. Five minutes. Just five minutes. Humor me. He acquiesces. I check my watch. 5:21 p.m.
"I think the last time I had this weird feeling about the world and people interacting in it – was September 11, 2001.
Where you had a whole world of people who simply didn't know wtf to do
and figuring out if they should act normal or not normal"
Thursday. March 12. The governor announces that Maryland schools are closed until the end of the month. More things are canceled, more places are closing. We don't know who all might have it and if we encountered those people. We don't know how much worse things will get. We don't know how rapidly things will devolve.
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,"
Friday, March 13. I had really been looking forward to visiting the cherry blossoms, potentially this weekend. It seems ill-advised now. Not worth the risk. They'll bloom again next year. Stay away.
This is our life now, amidst the steadily unraveling pandemic panic. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. We don't know what the future holds.
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