The Isolation Diaries No. 20

“And then we realized that the separation was destined to continue, we had no choice but to come to terms with the days ahead.” Albert Camus, The Plague

Numbers, again, reported in various media, approximations of the damage done: more than 32,000 dead, 22 million unemployed. 

I go into the quiet school district office where only a few people from the technology department are working, handing out iPads to parents. The contractors replacing the HVAC system practice a loose style of social distancing, and none of them wear masks. The men’s room on the second floor stinks and the sink is streaked with soot. I have time-sensitive tasks to accomplish, and then some interviews via Zoom for a vacant accounting position. Riding my bike home a few hours later I wonder if we will see food shortages; a few of my colleagues had talked on email about a shortage of flour. 

When I return home the sun is high and bright. A tree company is working at the apartment complex to the west of our triplex, chainsaws whining. An hour later the gardeners arrive at our place and fire up a gas-powered leaf blower. Chainsaws on one side, leaf blower on the other, a discordant, aggressive wall of sound. I see that we are out of almond milk, almost out of yogurt, getting short of coffee, and out of bananas. We have to make a shopping run again. I should start a list, but don’t because I’m distracted by the sound of the chainsaw; the sound makes me angry and I want it to stop, but it doesn’t. It lulls for a moment, then starts again. 

On Spotify I listen to a hip-hop artist named Polo G: “all gas, no breaks.” I think this describes my country, the human race, and definitely our capitalist, plutocratic rulers. Look at Trump, all he cares about is putting the pedal to the floor, fuck the fact that his engine is gushing oil. Trump is Captain Queeg. Or Ahab. I ask myself when Republicans in Congress will wake up and take the wheel from Trump’s inadequate grip. Haven’t they seen and heard enough? Or is there nothing Trump can do or say that will force the scales from their eyes? Madness has been normalized, the bar lowered, the doors of the asylum thrown open. Trump, the cornered pretend strongman, threatens to force Congress into recess so he can make political appointments of more unqualified hacks and sycophants. 

On social media I see that my acquaintance, the author Nomi Prins, is taking part in an online event with the journalist Greg Palast. Topic: the 2020 Election. Will it even happen? I don’t know. Palast, who has done excellent reporting and movie making about systematic voter suppression and dark money in politics, believes that Trump has already stolen the election. 

You may dodge Covid-19 this time around, only to contract it down the road. I imagine the kids returning to school in August in face masks. 

At six o’clock in the evening I hear the peal of church bells, a sign that we are still here, and I think of little towns and villages in medieval Europe.  

Introverts who do extroverted things. This thought comes to me, and I jot it down to think about some other time. I also think I would enjoy observing a conversation between Zadie Smith, Arundhati Roy, Jesmyn Ward, and Yaa Gyasi. Whatever these women talked about would be interesting, different, more insightful and soulful than the claptrap I hear on MSNBC or see on social media. All I know is that the powerful are more than willing to sacrifice the lives of those beneath them. They make no secret of this. They use the media to fan the fires of impatience and many in Ohio and Michigan respond, demanding a return to business as usual, an end to social distancing and shutdown businesses; they raise a middle finger to caution and prudence. Again we hear, “the cure can’t be worse than the disease.” I think, again: America has lost its moorings, lost its soul, lost its fucking mind. We’re incapable of learning, incapable of questioning, incapable of rational thought. 

Around midnight I am awakened by the sound of my daughter crying. She’s having an anxiety attack. Terry goes to comfort her. 

Camus, again: “Most people were chiefly aware of what ruffled the normal tenor of their lives or affected their interests. They were worried and irritated -- but these are not feelings with which to confront plague.”