Lock Down Diaries
I sat in my therapist’s office this morning, two tissues folded neatly into squares on my knee.
I bought an ice cream on my way home. A Therapy Ice Cream. I handed my Mastercard to a lady with disposable gloves on. I hear they’re handing them out at supermarkets too. Everyone shopping in plastic hands, taking your money in plastic hands, walking the streets in plastic hands.
I imagine fields of discarded gloves rolling around like tumbleweed.
I have been social distancing for almost a fortnight now. I’ve moved out of my office and terminated my monthly payments. I’ve lost clients. Staff are working from home. My business is taking a hit. I have set up a small table in the sunlight in front of a window in my loungeroom to respond to emails. It is not a bad place to be banished. The magnolias are in bloom and they only flower twice a year. The Kelpie, Ernie, rests his head on my knee.
The day passes, slowly. Tick, tick, tick.
I send emails. I watch emails arrive and open them with trepidation. Please tell me you still need me.
I FaceTime friends from the warmth of my bed. I feed my sourdough starter (aptly named Yeastamore) at 3pm every day. I re-pot plants, bake bread and make soup. I cut the mould off soggy veggies and pickle them in apple cider vinegar and maple syrup. I open the fridge. I close the fridge. I open the fridge. I scoop out small handfuls of pickled cucumbers and eat the last of my stroopwafels. I bake blueberry slice. I greet mornings like an old friend spotted in the isle of a supermarket I don’t really have the energy to say hello to. I start a 12-week permaculture course. I scroll past people on a dating app who describe themselves as ‘someone who is weirdly attracted to clowns and anal’. For the briefest moment, I consider them. I save 12 photos of starfish butts on my phone and send them to friends. I run around the house like a gorilla with my housemate. We play a lot of records and drink a lot of wine.
The horizon line is full of cruise ships. I can see them balancing on the thin slither of blue from my bed. I think about all the people stuck on those boats. Pacing the halls. Sitting at the same casino with the same flashing lights. Lying by the same pool. All their books have been read, all conversations had. All meals on the menu tried and tasted.
Friends post in group chats: “who needs money?”, “who is a creative that has goods to sell?” and “how is everyone’s mental health?”. We’re having honest conversations. Phone calls. We’re transferring money and extending a hand and sharing knowledge: get your toilet paper in Corrimal, MyGov will be back up this evening, this business is struggling and here’s how we can help.
I am sad. I am scared. I worry for the friends and family in ICU beds, with small mouths to feed, with no jobs to go to. I am acutely aware of the privilege of some semblance of security in these trying times and I feel guilty for it.
There is a whirr of panic, a current of fear; the images flashing on screens from Italy, they come with a dark, invasive energy. A force.
Tonight, I can hear the rumble of waves from my balcony. There is consistency in the tides. A sense of security in the pushing and pulling of water.
Our streets are yet to be emptier, the impact of the virus heavier. We brace for the deafening silence of chaos.
Originally sent via my tinyletter. Subscribe here.