I’ve had / am having a quarantine period like everyone else. But cries of, “We’re all in this together,” or “We’re in the same boat,” just don’t resonate for me - thankfully. I am so thankful; let’s get that out of the way.
There. Are. No. Complaints. Here.
Writers, painters, poets, musicians, dancers; artists of all ilks are coming together - or doing it alone - and being their best creative selves. People who have never put pen to paper (fingertips to keys), brush to canvas, or feet to floor, are simply bursting with enthusiasm and having a go. And good for them.
There are millions of creative people posting about these quarantine times in ways that inspire and amaze. This is not one of those posts.
Because me? This introvert who once wished for such a thing (without all the death) - a forced, stay-at-home order, where the outside floor was lava - has been working. All the time. March was a blur of long hours and weekends working. The floor accumulated dog-sized hair balls, the dishes stacked up, grass grew unmanageable (which was lucky because…lava).
Someone I met at the Twin Peaks festival in the summer (US summer) of 2017 put it best:
”….when I watch TV... I see all the adverts. About how we're all in this together. About how hard it is for the people stuck home, especially those home schooling. I hear from my friends that have lost their jobs, or had to fire people themselves.
“I feel fortunate and I feel guilty. In a weird way I can't quite quantify, I feel left out. Like this isn't happening to me, but it's happening to everyone else. Like somehow I'm *not* in this timeline, except my internet is connecting to the one in this timeline, and I'm getting your news and TV broadcasts.”
Thanks to Ryan Acheson for those insights.
I am incredibly grateful that I’m in this position. I’ve actually worked on my novel a bit, and I’ve thought about it plenty (that’s writing, too). But after sitting for 12 hours working, the last thing I want to do is switch devices and sit some more. (Yeah, I could suck it up, but I haven’t.)
I’m thinking of taking up the notepad again, or going outside to write, or just writing in a different way that doesn’t feel like I’ve unplugged myself from one cubicle to the next.
When I have the time/mental energy. Which I don’t right now. Which I am thankful for. Which is conflicting.
The guilt I feel for working in the telehealth sector in a time when the world needs it most cannot be understated. I am not a nurse, or doctor, or working at a checkout, or delivering food. I am not on the front line of anything. I am contributing to the wellbeing of many, but the fact that I have a job, a house, dogs, and the luxury to sit in said house, free (for nonce) of worry, is palpable. And I guess, coming full circle, guilt is a luxury. Guilt is a privilege.
It’s worth repeating: There. Are. No. Complaints. Here.
But when this is over, I will be exhausted and I bet I’ll be asking for some time off. To sit in my house. Alone. To write. To try to find the kind of solitude that so many others “enjoyed” while all this was happening.
Life’s fucking weird sometimes.