Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 16

Writing a blog’s like looking through a window onto my life. I’m noticing how predictable I am, a creature of habit. I’m also noticing what I both consciously and unconsciously leave out. At the end of each day, I remember things I want to write about, and then I forget them, and then I remember them again. Sometimes I remember them long enough to write about them. Sometimes I don’t.

What I’ve noticed is that each day usually starts with remembering my dreams, which often include a strange mixture of grief and losing control. Over coffee I always watch the sky, read the news, check my email and scroll through Facebook. Not necessarily in that order.

Some mornings I meditate. Every morning I write.

Every day I talk to at least one friend. Sometimes I call my Dad or my sister, usually before bed. Rarely both in one day. These activities are punctuated by more Facebook, new and emails, housework and cuddles with my partner.

Somewhere in there we go for a walk. Today, it was a bike ride instead, just to change things up a bit.

I eat three meals a day, but at slightly different times each day. Usually porridge for breakfast (without manjar as I’ve officially run out now) and sometimes egg on toast. Depending on hunger levels I’ll have my egg with avocado, cheese and/or a veggie sausage.

For lunch its most often a sandwich with chisps. For dinner, we rotate through our favorite recipes. Pasta with red sauce, Mexilish (Mexican and British fusion), roast vegetables, tofu and noodles with peanut sauce, or a curry. Occasionally I order pizza. Sometimes we have leftovers.

I shower every day, although when depends on various factors like how early I need to be on Zoom, when I go for my walk, and how sticky I feel. One day in the last two weeks I took a bath instead, because I was cold after our bitter walk.

The days usually end with a movie or TV show. I see parallels between what we watch and living in the time of coronavirus.

Life has become stranger than fiction.

Last night I dreamt I was driving my old soft-top Volkswagen Cabriolet up and down steep, windy hills. I can’t enjoy the drive because I’m worried about blowing a tire or breaking an axle.

I wake up remembering a day trip my ex-partner and I spontaneously took one summer almost a decade ago. We drove that old, rickety car all the way from San Francisco to Santa Cruz and back again. I wanted to go to the boardwalk and ride the Giant Dipper, Santa Cruz’s old wooden rollercoaster.

We took route 17, a windy four lane stretch of highway climbing its way through dark forests of pine and oak trees before taking its steep descent towards the coast.

We not only road the Giant Dipper, but a bunch of other rides too. We also ate a lot of greasy, sugary foods. By the time the sun was setting we both felt sick to our stomachs. Then we had to get back in the car. I worried the whole way home about whether the car would hold up, while also fighting off the urge to puke.

Last night I relived that drive back to San Francisco. Luckily, in both real life and the dream I got home safe and sound.

I’m on Zoom all morning and then finally it’s time for a walk. But we’ve got a bit more time than usual, so we decide to ride our bikes to the Olympic Park.

We cycle down the canal, across the football fields of Hackney Marshes, and onto the path parallel to the River Lee. It’s lined with thick green undergrowth and big, gnarly trees. There’s hardly anyone around, except for a handful of other cyclists and a few joggers. At one bend I notice a jogger coming towards us. We move as far left as we can.

All of a sudden, another cyclist who’s coming up fast behind us, wizzes past just as we’re passing the jogger. He cuts right through the narrow space between us. I hear the jogger whisper under his breath, “Dickhead!”

I couldn’t agree more.

But I don’t know what his deal is, really. Maybe he’s stuck at home with a bunch of kids and is going nuts. Maybe he’s got a jerk for a boss. Maybe he’s got a friend or a parent or a lover who’s just died of COVID-19.

I take a deep breath and wish him well. And the jogger too. May as well wish us well while I’m at it.

The Olympic Park is spacious, glorious to ride through. We remark at the brilliant landscaping. I stop to take a few photos along the way. We pass the pool and I sigh. No swimming for me today.

I remember about the Olympics in Tokyo. That last week some countries announced they weren’t going to participate. And then the whole thing got postponed for a year. I wonder what we’re going to watch on TV this summer.

Then I start remembering about other things that have been postponed for a year. A retreat in the USA I was supposed to be on this summer. The airline’s offering to put on the same flight to Gran Canaria over Easter next year.

The whole of 2020 has been postponed for a year.

On the return journey as we’re cutting back across the near empty football fields, I notice someone in a big mower cutting the grass. I suppose it’s better to regularly cut it short than let it grow and try and cut it later. Whenever later is. I imagine for the groundskeeper cutting the grass maintains some sense of normalcy. At least he still has a job.

It reminds me of my father, who loves riding on his big lawn mower. My step-mother tells me it reminds him of being back on the farm he grew up on in Chile.

Now on the canal, boats line the bank, smoke rising from a number of chimneys. There is a sign advertising an onboard yoga class. A few boaters are on the shore chopping wood while others stand around chatting. They look hardy and free. Graffiti near-by reads:

Love NHS

Hate Tories

I wonder what it must be like, living on a canal boat. I imagine a tight knit community of anarchists, watching out for each other, sharing provisions, etc.

I spot an elaborately upholstered red armchair proudly displayed on the roof of a boat. On it rests a white board which reads, “I am yours for 1 sack of coal.”

Back at home and I’m on Zoom some more. And then leading another meditation for about 50 people. In the middle of the meditation someone unmutes themselves and announces that they can’t see or hear anyone. I tell them that’s ok because we’re meditating now, they don’t need to hear or see anyone. But it quickly becomes apparent that they also can’t hear me so I try to write them a private message.

Eventually, I have to mute them again and leave them to fend for themselves because I can’t figure out how to help while also continuing to lead the meditation. They drop off the call. Later they email me apologizing and explaining what happen. I write back also apologizing. We both hope it will work better next time.

For dinner my partner’s made me nachos which are delicious. It’s date night so we’re trying to find something special to watch on TV but we can’t agree. They like badly produced and highly predictable crime dramas and I’m into the cheesy teen-angst stuff.

It occurs to me that we are turning into my parents.

Finally we agree to Dead to Me, a Netflix Original Series about two grieving women who become friends, except there are secrets and it’s hard to know who to trust. It does a good job of walking that fine line between funny and heart-wrenching.

At one point a character refers to someone else as a “twatwaffle.” Although potentially misogynistic, I still think that’s pretty good. I decide the next time someone comes too close, that’s what I’m going to call them, in my head of course. At least it’s more creative than dickhead.

After that I’ll go through the usual process of drumming up some empathy for them.

At the end of the first episode, we let the second start automatically without consulting one another. We learned long ago not to bother. We’re both always up for one more.