The Isolation Diaries No. 1

“You have to turn yourself around and change. You have to know how to look even if you don’t know what you’re looking for.” Roberto Bolano, 2666

Time feels weird, not passing in the same rhythm. Of course not, everybody’s off beat, off schedule, off the clock or off the job. I’m a public employee so I have it better than most. 

Visions of hordes storming the castle walls, determined to wrest a fair share from the greedy and hated king. The king is clearly mad, confused and befuddled, but not yet exhausted of cunning or devoid of escape routes. He’ll never admit how weak he is until he can no longer hoist a sword or knife or gun or pen. 

The afternoon sun is warm on my skin. Makes this more surreal. Normally I love being at home, reading, writing, drinking a beer or two, but under these circumstances it feels strange. 

How will the world share the spoils after the Covid-19 is past? Back to business as usual? Might not be possible. In the US, we have a roadmap, the New Deal, when wealth equality surged and people gained a measure of financial security. But we also have a more recent experience, the Great Bailout of the reckless banks in 2008-09, when, though wealth moved around, almost all of it remained in the same hands. New asset bubbles started forming almost immediately, an illusion of recovery. From every hill, valley, knoll and seashore, people, workers, were told, “All is well, we’re back on course.” For the wealthy, yes, they got even richer. Our Mad King calls it the greatest economy, ever, and takes all the credit. He will not accept the blame.

Be grateful for the ordinary, things taken for granted, the simple stuff that goes unnoticed. Now you might have time to look. The world is forced to take its foot off the gas, step back, take a long, slow collective breath. We all face this virus. Rich, poor, white, black, young, old, male, female, gay, straight. The virus doesn’t care who you think you are, doesn’t take your wealth or social status or beauty into account, doesn’t care if you live in a fine mansion or a shack. 

Be grateful for the sound of your daughter’s footsteps on the stairs. She’s home. She’s safe.

I was 17 or 18 when I discovered Carlos Casteneda. In my young mind, old Don Juan was the guy who had figured out how to live, how to see and experience a deeper life with deeper meaning. I loved those books. Spy novels, too. A few years later, very far from home, I found Herman Wouk, James Michener, Leon Uris, writers of big broad canvas narratives. I always read a lot, and always at a higher level than the grade I was in. 

I wish Trump would take a vow of silence. Trump needs to sit with himself, by himself, in a bare room, alone. Maybe, after many hours, or days, even longer, after making many excuses, telling many lies, Trump might get a glimpse of his soul. Not the phony one, the real one. Do you like what you see, Donald? Say yes and you’ve got to look some more. Some people see their soul often, are friends with it; for others, it takes a while longer before the noise they make about themselves settles. 

We walk to Ralphs on Carrillo Street. Only a small number of shoppers are allowed inside at a time. We wait in line. We find ground turkey, a few canned goods, oranges and bananas, cheese, crackers. There’s no almond milk and, because it’s late in the day, no TP. We hike home, packs full, down deserted city streets that two weeks ago would have been busy at this hour of the evening. With most people at home, those without shelter are more visible than ever. 

Will this virus and its global ramifications TKO the neoliberal order? Our systemic frailties are exposed for all to see, and the worst still lies ahead.