Tuesday we woke
to high lines
of snow along
the birch limbs
out our bedroom
window.
Two days later
snow has congealed
to slush balls
that fall
to the ground
with thuds.
Frost shadows
rest across grass
and asphalt. Sky
changes mood
from fog
to blue.
They are counting
votes again
in Arizona.
They will
count again
elsewhere.
The country’s
mood changes
from slush
to thud
to fog
to blue.
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As of today, 06 November 2020, I have written 10,033 words. I'm on schedule for "Just Write".
In other news, we are still pretending to not know who our next president will be.
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This is a day I did not want.
This is a day that does not keep its promise.
Today is a day of disappointment
and fear. There is blue in the sky,
but it’s pale and diffuse. I watch
my neighbors from the corners of my eyes.
This is not a valley prone to earthquakes,
but I feel unsteady anyway.
Why do I live here? Do I know you? Snow
is coming. I fear we will be buried.
~sharon brogan
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What else is there to do in November during a pandemic? Actually, I'm not attempting a novel, but I am attempting 50,000 words. I've done this before. I have two very bad novels, one maybe-memoirish something, and a few odd paragraphs. This time, sort-of-maybe-memoir-bits again. Or, just a series of Morning Pages.
We shall see. On day three, and keeping up so far. If I think I have anything of interest, I may post excerpts now and then.
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this morning
there is still snow
after a day of thaw
and a night of freeze
snow crusted with ice
the dowitcher
with the broken wing
in a cage
in the basement
still lives
but the cat has not
given up
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I am angry.
I was taught that anger is a secondary emotion. What is primary?
Sadness, helplessness, fear. Grief.
Rage.
I was a believer. I believed in the American Dream, as a goal, as a destination. I fought for it, in my way. Some on the street, in demonstrations, but mostly in the therapy room. In the group room, the conference room, the interview room. The classroom, the lecture room, at the dinner table and in staff meetings. In living rooms with family and friends. In the bedroom.
I believed that others believed, even as we struggled.
Now I doubt. Not the principles, but the citizens. My faith in my country, in its citizens, fades. I remember reading something like: fascism will arrive in America on a cross wrapped in a flag.* And so it seems. Those who claim the highest ground, seek the lowest.
So I grieve, not only countless (uncounted) deaths, but the loss, the murder, of ideals.
And I am tired.
* An internet search tells me that this quote, ascribed to many, has never been clearly attributed.
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I follow these numbers with dread. Why do I follow them? It feels like a duty, an obligation. The only way I know to acknowledge these deaths, of people I have not met, people I have not loved. Funerals I will not attend, and mostly, funerals that will not occur for many months.
Today the official COVID death toll in the United States is 225,ooo. Other estimates bring that number up to 300,000:
Now, in the most updated count to date, researchers at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have found that nearly 300,000 more people in the United States died from late January to early October this year compared the average number of people who died in recent years. Just two-thirds of those deaths were counted as Covid-19 fatalities, highlighting how the official U.S. death count — now standing at about 220,000 — is not fully inclusive.
I am one of millions staying-at-home, otherwise masked, aware of my particular vulnerabilities. Aware of the vulnerabilities of many others in my life. We mask to protect each other, and hope others will mask to protect us.
I am of a generation that was naive, patriotic, attached to nostalgia for what never was. Now we mourn the loss of what we thought was real, the American (United States of American) commitment to equality, possibility, responsibility, and community. We thought if we promised to be good, that would be good enough. Somehow we convinced ourselves that if we believed in equal opportunity, equal respect, equal value for all, it would make it true.
Now we confront the actuality of our citizenship. Now we see (or try not to see) the suffering of our neighbors; suffering we benefit from, suffering we participate in, willingly or not. Now we see the bigotry in our families, in the generations before us, in our cousins and siblings, and in ourselves. We learn about The Talk, if we have refused to learn it before.
And now we must talk to ourselves: stay home, because your neighbors will not, do not, sometimes cannot. Mask up, and recognize that some of your neighbors will not. Learn to value the lives of others, as you have learned to value your own.
Struggle to forgive others for saying these beings, and those beings, and you – matter less. Or matter not at all.
Struggle to forgive yourself, while still holding yourself, and your neighbors, accountable.
I am struggling.
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