Life on Lockdown: the Coronavirus Diaries, Ep. IV
“Alternate Versions of Jesus”
Woke up today thinking “Ten days down, eighteen to go”, but no. This is actually day five. March 4th was the last time I went out, and it feels like ages ago.
The longest time I’ve ever been indoors was 10 days, and it was the Nineties. I’d come down with a nasty flu that kept me in bed with a high fever for a week, and inside for three more days before I elbowed my concerned flatmates out of the way, showered and went out, fever or not.
Five days, and I’m already having nightmares about being hunted by an unspecified presence. The last thing I remember from last night’s dream was arguing with my music geek boyfriend about which band put out an album titled Alternate Versions of Jesus, which my browser kept turning into the ancient Greek name of Christ. I said Prefab Sprout, he said Sasquatch.
Depression scares me more than illness. I’m trying everything: cooking, cleaning, baking, doing yoga, this journal. Can’t look up. This escalator feels infinite.
I haven’t worked on the new book in two days. Other writers are having trouble, too. Working on fiction seems impossible, when reality is so real. My book is non-fiction, and in a way that’s worse, but I’m starting to figure out a way to fold the dread and frustration and pride of these days into my writing; for there’s pride, too, in feeling that we’re doing the right thing for ourselves and others, and it’ll pay off in the long run.
I’ll try again today.
“This must be what jail is really like” I commented this morning on a friend’s feed, quoting Afghan Whigs. A tone-deaf comment, I realize it now: at least nine people have died in prison riots since the lockdown began, and we don’t know how or why. None of them had wi-fi, a comfortable bed, Netflix or even just enough breathing room. Turns out, life is safer for some than for others, and those on the outside of a jail cell are much safer than those inside. That said, being forced inside by the government is prison, in a way: leaving the house to go shopping for food feels like furlough. I’m not allowed to stay outside. And even if I did, it’s too gloomy to be enjoyable.
It’s like Groundhog Day without Sonny and Cher and immortality. If we die, we just die. There’s no do-over.
Sorry. I know how this sounds. I have books and a home and company and food and all modern comforts. All I want to say is: don’t be ashamed to say it’s hard. It is. It just is.
Art of the day: the pic at the top is me photographed through my phone by Carlotta Domenici De Luca, a photographer who has started a series of portraits of people on lockdown tagged #iorestoincam. I was saying goodbye when she said: “Freeze!” and took one more. That’s the only one where I’m smiling.
