Eyes Wide Open
By Keith Cronin | April 24, 2020 |
DISCLAIMER: This is not intended as a political post. At its core, it’s about writing, but it will likely reveal some of my political leanings along the way. Just remember, you can wash your hands after reading this. In fact, you should probably wash them *before* reading it, too. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
In early March, I had to fly to Atlanta for my day job. With the COVID-19 crisis looming, I was not enthused about flying into the world’s busiest airport. Armed with copious amounts of hand sanitizer and hopped up on supplements reputed to boost my immune system, I reluctantly boarded a plane at Palm Beach International Airport, idly counting the passengers wearing masks or gloves (fewer than half a dozen on this short flight).
A quick rewind: This was several days before the US had acknowledged COVID-19 as a Big Problem, and many were still unsure just how seriously to take it. I was leaning towards pretty darn seriously, aware that my age and damaged heart put me in a higher risk segment.
Arriving at the office, I doused my borrowed cubicle in Purell, keeping my ears alert for the sound of sniffles and sneezes and coughs – oh my! I was scheduled to stay for the week, but when Fulton County began closing schools due to a reported COVID-19 infection, I decided to cut the trip short. I had rented a car for commuting between the airport, hotel and office, so I arranged to keep the car and drive all the way back to my home in South Florida.
My coworkers gave me some light-hearted shaming about leaving early – particularly when they learned I was driving instead of flying – but I felt more and more sure it was the right move. I wanted to go home.
On the road again (or, still crazy after all these years)
I was looking at a minimum of a 10-hour drive, but wasn’t overly concerned. As a road-warrior touring musician in the 80s, I’d developed the ability to drive for hours on end without tiring. Plus, I had good audio books to listen to, and felt pretty familiar with the roads I would be traveling. But I was still in for a few surprises.
I made it through the dense Atlanta traffic, then settled in for a long drive through a region I’d spent countless hours traversing with a country band early in my career. I knew to expect an onslaught of South of the Border billboards as I neared the Florida state line (the world’s most overhyped rest stop, if you’ve never heard of it), but over the past three decades, some new “roadside attractions” had appeared.
Near Chula, GA, I was surprised to see a massive confederate flag flying high above the highway, visible from a great distance. Okay, I knew I was in the Deep South – this was just a reminder. And I do know some genuinely nice people who still harbor a fondness for that flag, which they swear is based on regional – not racial – pride, so I try not to get too judgy when I see one. (And by the way, how the hell DO you spell judgy? Judgey? Judge-y? But I digress…)
As the miles passed, I noted that the puns in the South of the Border billboards had neither decreased nor improved over the decades. But there were other billboards I hadn’t seen before. Religious conservatives had apparently been investing in roadside advertising, and I found myself repeatedly discouraged from having an abortion, and urged to embrace the teachings of a pale long-haired white guy with a neatly trimmed beard and killer abs.
I’ve seen this kind of thing before: mid-state Florida has a plethora of similar billboards, which are ironically often found side-by-side with billboards advertising roadside strip joints. I guess some people worship at the cross; others worship at the pole. But for the first time, I saw billboards that attacked not only abortion and sin, but the theory of evolution itself. Alrighty then.
Shortly after crossing the Florida line, I was amazed to see an even larger confederate flag, hoisted high above a major interchange. While I was well aware Florida has its share of rednecks (wait – did I say that out loud?), this was the most overt – and certainly the biggest – display of its kind I’d ever seen.
And this is where my thoughts started getting weird (and, if you’ve been patient enough to get this far, where the point of this post begins to emerge).
I was already in a strange mood: frightened enough by an impending health crisis to undertake this marathon drive alone, leaving behind colleagues who’d made it clear they thought I was overreacting. So I was already feeling isolated, a bit disenfranchised, and more than a little freaked out.
As I passed beneath the giant flag, I suddenly flashed on images I’d seen advertising a popular “alternative history” TV show called The Man in the High Castle, in which Axis forces had won WWII, and the eastern US was now under Nazi rule. In these ads, the Statue of Liberty wore a red sash and held one arm aloft in the famed “heil Hitler” salute.
I’ve never watched the show – that image alone suggests it’s too dark for my tastes. But as I drove past the high-flying icon of the losing side of another major war, I had a sudden feeling of living in a different reality: one in which the forces I believed in had been subverted, and into which a new system of values had been installed.
I know, I know – this may all seem very melodramatic. But as a writer I try to stay open to and aware of my emotional and psychological responses to my surroundings. Here I was, crossing the border into my home state after long hours of driving, literally trying to escape from an invisible enemy, only to be greeted by this massive and unapologetic symbol of an ideology I stood against, rising high above me. Already appalled by how the US government was dealing with the Coronavirus, I found myself feeling like the loser in a war where no shots had even been fired.
This feeling was soon exacerbated as I began to encounter billboard after billboard touting a facility where you could take your entire family to enjoy the wholesome fun of firing a fully loaded machine gun.
Okay, so maybe some shots were being fired in this war after all. And I was definitely feeling like I was on the losing side.
Coming home to a changed world
I finally made it home, and learned that during my 11 hours in a rented Toyota, the world had changed. The virus had been formally recognized as a pandemic, schools and businesses were telling people to stay home, and the country was scrambling to respond. The very next morning, headlines described a passenger who knew he was infected with Coronavirus, who had flown on a major airline into the same Florida airport I was supposed to return to – on the same night I would have arrived. And – surprise, surprise – coworkers who had shamed me the day before were now singing a markedly different tune during the morning conference call.
I’ve made countless long road trips before, and I hope to again in the future. But this was a drive I will never forget – because of what I felt, what I saw, and because of the changed world I arrived to find.
In Chuck Palahniuk’s new writing how-to, the astonishingly good Consider This, the famed author of Fight Club talks repeatedly about an essential lesson one of his mentors taught him:
“Write about the moment after which everything is different.”
~ Tom Spanbauer
By the time I got home, I knew I was experiencing one of those moments.
This was not my first. I’m pretty old, so I’ve been witness to a fair amount of history. I saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. (I remember my mother disapproved of them singing “yeah, yeah, yeah,” and felt that “yes” was a more proper word choice. My father just disapproved of their haircuts.) I remember John F. Kennedy being assassinated, and can recall being in the room when my mom gasped, having just seen Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald on live TV. I remember the bugler butchering “Taps” at JFK’s funeral. And then the season of assassinations began: Martin Luther King. Robert F. Kennedy. I watched men walk on the moon, heard Nixon resign. Saw some of the older neighborhood boys come home damaged – or in boxes – from a place called Viet Nam, while my big brother and his friends kept a keen eye on their draft numbers.
Shared cultural touchpoints
The memories I just described are certainly not unique to me. Most of us have at least a few shared cultural touchpoints in our lives. By that I mean the sort of thing where you are among a large group of people who will forever remember where they were and what they were doing when the thing happened. In the ‘80s, the Challenger space shuttle disaster left a lasting imprint on many Americans. A more recent example that a wider range of generations share would be 9/11. You may have other such touchpoints in your life; for many Americans, the 2016 election was one.
But at the time I’m writing this, we’re experiencing something quite unusual: a shared moment of crisis that is darn near universal in its impact. And I think that regardless of our political views, ALL of us are going through stuff right now that is unique, memorable and important. Here’s my advice:
Don’t miss it.
Take it in, be emotionally affected by it, be informed by it; be changed by it. And know this:
We are witnessing history.
Amidst all the fear, uncertainty and self-protection, keep your eyes (and your ears, and your mind) wide open. Take note of the powerful, evocative moments you encounter. Collect them. File them. Use them.
As an example, have you gone out and shopped for food while under lockdown? Notice the smell of the mask, the steamy claustrophobia of having your mouth and nose covered, the bizarre and contradictory sense of both kinship and fear you feel towards everybody else you encounter. And that’s just at the damn grocery store.
I remember my ex used to talk wistfully of walking away from her career and becoming a grocery store checkout clerk. She viewed it as a carefree job, a dreamlike escape from her own high-pressure, shark-infested profession. A place free of worry, safe from threat. Bruce Springsteen wrote a song about spontaneously falling in love with a woman working at this kind of job, describing how powerfully she could affect him with just a smile. Now that woman’s smile would be hidden beneath the mask she’s wearing to earn maybe eight dollars an hour, while she risks her life to make sure we have enough toilet paper.
The moment after which everything is different.
If this isn’t one of those moments, I don’t know what is.
What has been seen cannot be unseen
Although we might have thought our 24/7 news cycle has already numbed us, we are seeing new and unexpected images for which our psyches are ill-prepared. A mass grave – not in some faraway undeveloped country, but in New York City:
John Minchillo/Associated Press
A group of anti-quarantine protesters pressed like zombies against the doors of the Ohio Statehouse:
Joshua A. Bickel/USA Today Network/Reuters
A shopper who hasn’t quite mastered the nuances of using PPE (personal protective equipment):
Please tell me that’s not really a NASA shirt he’s wearing
We are seeing things we’ve never seen. Things that cannot be unseen. But for a writer, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
These are memories to hold onto, and to harvest and explore – as an artist, as a storyteller, and as a human being. Take the time to file these memories away, ideally in a way that you’ll be able to access in the future.
Make no mistake: This is a genuine crisis we face, with both immediate and long-term implications. It will change things. Watch it happen. Take part in the change. But above all, remember it: the before, the during, the after.
Pay attention. Keep track of what you see, hear and feel. Write it down.
Then go wash your hands.
How about you?
What are some sights, sounds or experiences from this crisis that will stay with you forever? Please share them in the comments section below. Then go wash your hands. Again.
Multimedia bonus
For what it’s worth, here’s my mental soundtrack for this post. The video’s a bit odd, but I’ve always dug the song. Thanks for reading, and stay safe!
Author of the novels Me Again (originally published by Five Star/Gale), and Tony Partly Cloudy (published under his pen name Nick Rollins), Keith Cronin (he/him) is a corporate speechwriter and professional rock drummer who has performed and recorded with artists including Bruce Springsteen, Clarence Clemons, and Pat Travers. Keith’s fiction has appeared in Carve Magazine, Amarillo Bay, The Scruffy Dog Review, Zinos, and a University of Phoenix management course. A native of South Florida, Keith spends his free time serenading local ducks and alligators with his ukulele.
I love this post, Keith, and not just because I too remember the Beatles, the assassinations, etc. Like most of us, I’m keenly aware of the before and after. How carefree we both felt each morning as I kissed my husband when dropping him off at the ferry in NJ to go into NYC to work. The ferry would be crowded and someone inevitably would cough on him. I’d then go to the gym where I’d sweat and touch stuff.
Will we ever feel easy doing those things again? Now – as you mentioned – I dread those visits to the grocery store, but I enjoy the ride in my car. I hate the mask, but wouldn’t think of going out without one.
Some good things, though: eg, zoom calls with my five siblings, when prior communications have almost all been by email. The breakfasts my husband makes each morning. Oh, and we discovered Stone & Skillet English muffins, when Wegman’s was out of Thomas’. They taste fresh-baked and now I order them online.
I’m guardedly hopeful that in the after, we’ll all be kinder. We’ll all remember. And, as writers, we must!
Thanks for weighing in, Mary. I’m glad my point about tracking the “before and after” hit home with you.
And thank you for also bringing up some of the *positive* new experiences this pandemic is bringing into our lives. That provides some great balance to my post, which definitely slanted more towards the glass-half-empty mindset.
Stay safe!
PS – now I gotta check out Stone & Skillet English muffins. You know, just to be scientific about things.
Nailed it, Keith! I’m sending this one on to my kids.
^She did, I’m proof! Thanks for the reminder — it’s a little scary (but impressive) how quickly we as a culture can get used to a New Normal when three months ago so many (myself included) were skeptical it would get so bad. But adapting, while productive, can also feel numbing — writing things down is a good wakeup call that reality is not normal and it’s not just a weird collective dream we’re all living.
Sammy, thanks for reaffirming THIS:
“…reality is not normal and it’s not just a weird collective dream we’re all living.”
Amen!
I rarely miss these UnBoxed posts and this contribution is one of the best. I will be sharing it far and wide. TY
Fabulous post. Awareness is where everything begins. Passing this on.
You’ve done an excellent job of capturing the otherworldliness of the world we now live in. Thank you.
At the end of February, I left my corporate job in creative marketing to pursue freelance opportunities in LA, which immediately dried up once I moved there by the third week of March. After a couple of weeks of wrenching soulsearching, I realized the world TRULY is different, and decamped from LA to a bedroom community near Lansing, MI, where my husband and I have the house I grew up in.
We’re both unemployed, searching for work before our money runs out, juggling the terror of getting sick with the possibility of eventually being homeless. This day is the only thing we’re each assured of, so we’re focusing on the now (as much as possible), and taking each day as it comes, hoping that, perhaps, the world will band together to fix so much of the broken systems that are now so rudely apparent to everyone.
Wow, Marlise – what a scary time to be looking for work.
I agree with your focus-on-the-now approach. I’ve been reading a lot of ancient eastern philosophy in an effort to get more comfortable with “going with the flow,” but I am far from having a solid handle on it – this stuff runs so counter to my worrywart DNA.
I share your hope of people connecting with each other to repair the badly broken world, but that hope is not always easy for me to summon. Here’s to all of us hanging in there.
Thanks for your thoughtful and thought-provoking input. Be safe.
All the very best, Marlise, from South Australia.
Great post, Keith, and I’m so glad you listened to your gut about that return trip.
I’ve been filing things away for a while now, in an attempt to bear witness. Doing it comes with some hard-to-shake anxiety sometimes, and I’ve had to shut my ears and eyes to it on occasion for my own good. But I do feel it’s a small thing we can (should, imo) do to be empowered. Knowledge IS still power. And this experience has taught me—a student of psychology—more about human nature than I ever learned in college. I only wish the lessons for our species, and sadly the conclusions, were kinder.
Thanks, Therese.
Like you, I sometimes have to shut down all the clamor lest it crush me. Some days I just can’t take any more bad news.
I feel you about wishing these lessons were kinder, but I’ll admit that the old fart in me has observed that the hard-learned lessons tend to stick with us the most. But it’s a rough way to learn, and I hate all the collateral damage that comes with these lessons.
Now go wash your hands, dammit, before I get all emotional and shit.
Congratulations, I am thoroughly creeped out. Horrified, in fact, and not just by your gripping tale of America in the before times and then directly after. THOSE BILLBOARDS. They’re a knife to my heart. I can’t believe this is what it’s come to. And that hateful, racist flag—no, two of them!
I used to live in that part of the world. Like you, I used to make that weedy, marker-less drive. Not as a musician though, but as a Feature Performer (traveling stripper) back in the nineties. I hated it.
There were billboards for seashore vacations and Cutty Sark, but never like the ones like you’ve described. Machine guns? Creationism? Anti-choicers?
I live in Italy now and see my native country at a remove. My biggest fear is that I’m going to be forced to return to THAT. To Confederate flags and anti-choice screeds. I don’t recognize my own culture. I shudder in fear at the thought of what I might do to stop it—kill it with fire, memorize entire passages from THE ANARCHISTS’ COOKBOOK. Hide.
All this to say that your blog was a most effective tale of Heinleinian horror, a true stranger in a strange land. I won’t soon forget it.
Stacey – you put your finger on it: stranger in a strange land. That was me crossing into my home state last month. I still shudder at the memory.
I totally relate to your point about not recognizing your own culture. Then again, I’ve long maintained that the US is simply too big – both in terms of geography and population – for it to be realistic to have a unified culture. Great theory, but in practice I’m just not seeing it.
No easy answers here, but it’s heartening to see that some smart and caring people are at least raising the questions. Good luck to us all.
Fascinating post, Keith. I think the thing I’m looking for most to change is the arrogance of some people who don’t take this pandemic seriously and are spreading the virus by not wearing masks and by not staying home. If we can learn anything from this disease and all the isolation and loss, is that we must not only protect ourselves, but we also have a responsibility to protect all of mankind by keeping safely at home and wearing masks when out. I just lost my mom in a nursing home filled with covid19. The staff did not quarantine the covid patients; they failed to use only covid staff for covid patients, letting nurses go from normal patients to covid patients, A CDC violation.. Fortunately my mom died before covid symptoms hit her–a blessing I have to be grateful for. In these times of such adversity, we must remain vigilant.
I’m so sorry about your mother, Paula.
My Condolences Paula.
I hope you’re able to celebrate your Mom’s life in these trying times.
No wake or services. Too risky. We had to do a burial, watching via video. 6 minutes was all we got. We hope to do a memorial maybe in the fall if this situation improves. She was 100 years old.
Oh, Paula – I’m so sorry. And to be denied the usual avenues of closure had to only make things more painful. I can’t even imagine.
Thanks for sharing your experience – heartbreaking as it was – and helping to make this surreal time even more tangible to all of us.
Paula, I’m sorry for the loss of your mom. And that you and your family had to watch a video burial rather than be with her. These days are staggering in their losses for so many.
Paula, I’m so sorry. Prayers ascending for your mom and all your family.
I’m so sorry, Paula.
Sorry about your mother’s passing, Paula. Like you I’m glad my mother died (in December) before the virus really got going, but I have no doubt that her nursing home has become a disaster in recent weeks. It was a hard-pressed and undertrained crew at the best of times.
Really well done, Keith.
Hey Keith–Way to set a mood to develop a theme. And not just any ole’ theme. We should heed this to the point where we surrender to Madge’s assurance. (“You’re soaking in it.” – See? I’ve got old dude common references, too.)
I can assure you that this is important even for genre work. My historical fantasy world features a fractured society that literally splits itself in two; homesteads behind walls that are often literally under siege; a beloved homeland that becomes dangerous to its inhabitants; quests that risk life and limb. Believe me, I am soaking in it–absorbing as much as I can.
It’s still tricky stuff, translating what we’ve absorbed onto the page (your examples of usable details are excellent). But how can it not be informing to a whole generation of artistic output? Examples are already cropping up. I have no doubt that the stories to come will shape the world. It’s a thought that provides some solace during troubling times.
Thanks for always stretching yourself, and for challenging us. Be well, and stay hopeful.
Thanks, Vaughn – you captured something I was struggling to articulate. Part of why I am exhorting people to remember this is for them to pass this along for people who did NOT experience this, or who do not fully grasp its implications. It’s part of making sure we never forget the important lessons the world sometimes teaches us.
And as you’ve observed, these experiences and shared/maintained memories can define entire cultures – both in reality and in fiction. Heady stuff.
PS – “You’re soaking in it” for the win!
Bravo Keith
Thank you. Just, thank you.
I live on a quiet, winding suburban street of large homes and manicured lawns. Our home has a remotely-operated iron gate and a high hedge on the street facing side.
We were already isolated.
One day a few weeks ago a long line of cars came down our hill, honking horns and sporting signs, balloons and streamers. We rushed to the windows to see what the commotion was about.
It was a car-parade of teachers from the nearby elementary school. They were driving down every street in their school’s zone. The signs in their car windows said, “We miss you!” and “Be safe!” and (sadly) “We will see you soon!”
For every machine gun “family fun” park there are ten thousand acts of love and kindness happening every day. Let’s observe those too.
You raise an important – and beautiful – point, Donald. There are beautiful lessons and memories being shared with us, along with the fear and chaos.
I was at my desk a few weeks ago when a similar convoy came honking through my neighborhood. Sadly, my first reaction was fear, startled by the unusual sights and sounds. But then my heart rose when I realized what I was seeing.
Later, during a walk through our neighborhood, I saw a message somebody had scrawled on the sidewalk in front of somebody’s house – after a moment I realized it was another message of hope from a teacher who wanted to make sure that the student inside who had missed their automotive parade would at least know they had come by. Pretty freaking cool.
Thanks for chiming in. Stay safe, my friend.
Excellent post. I’ve been to Florida many times (my mom lives there and I’m praying she stays safe) but never driven and I think I’d be horrified to see those billboards. I’m (mostly) all for the 2nd amendment but a day of firing off a machine gun is not where I’d be taking my kids for a good time and the confederate flag…sorry, no. Just no. Reading this right after my trip to the grocery store made me think of the scarf I used to cover my face and how it kept slipping, and how hard it was to breathe properly, and the red tape on the floor to tell customers which way to go to get in line, and the cashiers with no masks (!!!), and the daily rise in numbers of infected and dead and the horrible possibility that some people might actually inject themselves with bleach (hello? Heathers?), and OMG! Where am I living? What place is this?
We are living in history all the time, but it’s times like these that make us really notice it.
Thank you, mshatch.
I’m with you on the “What place is this?” sentiment – something I feel more and more each day. But you helped ground me with this excellent point:
“We are living in history all the time, but it’s times like these that make us really notice it.”
Well said. Stay safe.
Brilliant. Affecting. Actionable. Thank you.
Powerful praise, simply stated. Thank you.
Thank you for this, Keith.
Excellent. Thank you.
Poignant, honest, and right on the mark, Keith. Thank you for writing this. Indeed, I’d probably feel the very same fears if I went through that drive. This was a reminder that I never want to move to a more conservative place than I already live. I couldn’t stomach it. I’m having difficulty now with the more right-leaning friends I have on Facebook.
Your words were a reminder that I’m not alone, and that others share the same worries and fears that I do.
Thanks again. Stay safe.
–Jeri
Thanks, Jeri. You’re not alone, not by a long shot.
Keith, everything’s gonna be all right: just inject yourself with bleach and bathe in the strongest ultraviolet light you have. Voila! (Today he’ll announce that crumbling Cheetohs on your head and chanting the Pepsodent jingle will do the trick.)
These are indeed impactful times, the strangest I’ve witnessed, and I watched in fascination as Ruby shot Oswald live, saw Nixon’s repeated clenched sneer, and on as well.
You gave us great writerly advice to pay attention, make note and mull it all over, because the waves of strong emotion, examples of cowardice and courage and broad seismic shifts in culture and belief need to be worked into fiction (though, as you mention, “normal” shopping is stranger than fiction now).
I’m with Don on the fact that despite the narrow-minded miseries you catalogue on your journey, there are giant acts of care and kindness happening too. Thanks for a deep post.
Thanks, Tom. I’ve got high hopes that eating TidePods will be the solution to our Coronapocalypse. Stay tuned…
On a more serious note, you’re right in pointing out how the current situation is making it hard for fiction writers to figure out how far they can push plausibility in their own storytelling. I know that if 2020 Keith tried to describe the last few years to 2015 Keith, he’d get dinged for making things WAY too unrealistic. Live and learn.
Stay safe, and don’t forget to floss. (Hey, it can’t hurt, right?)
Thanks to all who are taking the time to comment. I’m really heartened to see this has resonated with so many of you.
Now go wash your damn hands already.
Keith, you captured the discombobulation of these past weeks so well. I’m glad you trusted your gut to drive home instead of fly. Our kids drove home for spring break at the end of Feb. and they were able to come home a month later when their classes went online. I wanted to hose them down in the driveway. lol.
I’m cherishing this unexpected time at home with them so very much. We’re growing closer together and I see it in our neighborhood as well–so many beautiful moments of love and care for one another–children writing Easter messages on sidewalks, neighbor offering neighbor to pick up essentials, dropping off food, the unexpected gift of time to just be.
It’s not all sunshine and roses, though. So many in our community are suffering from the loss of their livelihood. The reference to the Bruce Springsteen song is so timely. Both my kids will be working at Publix–I’ve been sewing face masks for them and underneath I know they’ll be smiling. It will show in their eyes. They are grateful to have work.
I believe God can make good come out of this pandemic. I truly believe this is a clarion call for all of us to repent and return to Him with our whole hearts. Your reaction to the confederate flag is justified. Just like slavery is a scourge upon our collective conscience (how is it that we took away the personhood of an entire race of people?) so is abortion. Our land is saturated with the blood of unborn babies. You paint the people of the South as deeply ignorant simply because they believe God is the Creator. I say, question your assumptions. So I’m glad you’re taking it all in. Perhaps you will be converted too. I’m praying for this and God’s peace and protection over all.
Thanks for the thoughtful response, Vijaya. It sounds like you and your family are facing the situation with a positive and grateful attitude, which is both refreshing and inspiring to see.
I agree that a clarion call is being sounded, but am drawing somewhat different conclusions as to what that call means. But the good thing is, we’re both listening!
Stay safe and healthy.
It seems strange to me, the way access to abortion is taken to equal choice. It’s not the same thing at all.
The Sisters of Life’s experience is that 90% of women facing an unintended pregnancy will choose to carry to term, if they are certain of receiving the support they need – something that is frequently not available in modern America.
That said, there are things that are more helpful in that situation (such as the Sisters of Life taking in women who don’t have a safe place to live) and things that are less helpful. Like billboards.
Like Vijaya, I believe this is a time to seriously reconsider the “normal” of the modern world. It’s been “normal” to prey on the poor and the planet for far too long.
“Liked” this a bit prematurely as I read the opening two grafs, and am disappointed not be able on the site to adjust that once I read the finish. Like Keith, I appreciate your positive approach to parts of our new reality but can’t agree with your conclusions. Hope you and yours stay safe and healthy.
Keith,
Your journey home resonated, and your images flooded my mind like a film reel. The journey through change makes a great story. And it could be a great on-the-road novel.
I was also struck by your take on The Man in the High Castle. It is a PKD story and the book is chilling. I remember the professor in my SF class telling me that the book made such an impact, PKD was offered an incredible amount of money for a sequel. He refused the offer, because he said he couldn’t “go back there.”
So, your feelings about the story are similar to PKD’s.
Keith, I should have jumped on WU earlier today, but we live in California and had taken a walk to listen to the birds, smell the flowers and GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. Your post touched me so much as I have lived through those iconic events that you mentioned, have wept and feared through Viet Nam and 911 etc. But this is the first time I have felt personally invaded, touched. My husband has a chronic illness so we have to be so careful. I think of my grandchildren sheltering in place and missing school, but as Donald Maass reminded us, their teachers are zooming with them and missing them too. And I’m grateful that my mother is no longer living in a nursing home, but left us peacefully seven years ago. But it’s strange to fear the stranger or even your neighbors because of the invisible. And it’s frightening to discover what some believe–once again neighbors. Listening and aiming for understanding is foremost. Thanks again for this post.
Brilliant!
Excellent. I’m almost old enough to have seen and heard the events you mention (I’m the same age as JFK, Jr.) and I realize, as I have many times before, how sheltered I was in my early years . . . your reminder to BE HERE NOW is a good one. Thank you.
Late as I am to the party, I feel compelled to weigh in, first to thank all of you who commented before me, secondly to offer Paula my deepest condolences, and last but not least, to thank you, Keith, for creating a space for us to vent, muse, feel less alone, and express both horror and wonder at our human species. I shall now go wash my hands.
Susan, you summed up pretty well all that is written above. Keith has given us much to think about, even those of us who are not in the US. Stay safe, this will pass. Thanks to you all.
Keith, our politics may be different, but your reminder to writers to pay attention and take notes, especially during times of crisis, is excellent. Thanks. I needed that.
I’m so glad you obeyed your instincts and drove! It can be a very alienating experience to be surrounded by people who don’t understand the science or stakes, and who will mock you for your concern. But to paraphrase one of the public health figures I’ve heard in recent days, if that’s the position you’re in, then you’re doing it exactly right.
Here are the good things I hope stay with us after this crisis subsides: I good delicious dinners almost every night. We’ve only done delivery/take out 3 times in the past 5 or 6 weeks. That’s an inverse almost on how it used to be–eat out almost all the time. Not only are we saving money (sorry local restaurants), but the meals are delicious and nutritious. Another great thing–my 2 granddaughters have learned how to call us to Facetime on their iPads. They call almost daily and I’ve spent hours lately writing journals with my 6 yr old and watching birds with her, virtually. The younger one shows me her baby dolls and we cooked together virtually. Before it seemed that they were too busy to want to spend time on the phone with us. Also, I made personalized alphabet books for each girl and a sticker scrap book for my grandson, on the other coast. I look forward to a time when I can visit these kids in person, but I am still able to share quality time, especially with the girls, and watch them handle the lockdown. I’m keeping a COVID-19 journal, “Stuck in a house I love,” documenting both fats and feelings as this time unfolds. Thanks for this post, Keith.
Sallie – those are AWESOME.
Your comment really shines a light on how you can make this situation an opportunity, not just a challenge.
And I love that you’re keeping a journal. So many good ideas you’re putting into action. Enjoy being stuck!
Fantastic post!
Tell me more, tell me more…!
Love it!
Truth. I don’t think you can speak truth without being “political” in a generic sense. It hurts to hear it, but at the same time it creates a bond between the teller and the reader. Well done, man.
Excellent post! Scary post! Inspiring post!
These days, I haven’t a clue which upsets me more: the dreaded virus or people interacting with each other. I think that’s a sad statement.
As writers, we need to press on in our endeavors and be true to what kind of fiction we write. It will be interesting to see what type of fiction readers will turn to: “escapist” novels or those that embrace the world around us.
By the way, I had no idea about those billboards. Terrifying!
Thanks for the observations!
Keith,
Your’s is the best post I’ve read so far. I’ve been skipping over news feeds. So many of them are pure diatribe. My husband, Joe, drove back from California when all this hit the fan. He, too, caught a bit of flack initially. Opinions have changed since. Your prompt inspired me to jot down what it was like to go out the other day to pick up mushrooms and a few other bits and pieces for our Friday night pizza.
Salut!
The mask of 10% inspiration/90% perspiration
Joe’s white construction worker mask smells not unpleasantly a bit like a not too funky french cheese. My own breath is coming back at me, slightly moist; a teensy bit suffocating. The shopping list isn’t even 10% done and a myasma of my own lung exhaust is swirling around in the thing. My face itches. I feel like a phony doctor, and avoid making eye contact. I make judgement calls on those not wearing masks – what a gobshite hypocrite am I. This latest trip to the supermarket wasn’t as pleasant as last time, when masks weren’t à la môde. The only time I speak to others is when I think I am getting too close to someone and say, “excuse me,” and do the COVID-19 dance around them. Mind you, I do thank the cashier. They’re the front line workers, keeping us privileged twits fed and they deserve our respect. As soon as I am out in the open and close to my car, I yank off the now slightly soggy thing. My muzzle is rimed with perspiration. I’ve added my own Cathy No 5 to Joe’s mask. I hope he finds it sexy. I desperately need a nicotine fix. Safety tip: don’t drive with your mask on!
Thanks, Keith.
Hi Keith, for me, it’s borders. I had almost forgotten they existed in continental Europe. We used to drive down from the Netherlands to Austria, crossing Germany, with only old, deserted buildings reminding us where the border patrols used to stand. I used my passport only to legitimise myself at the airport if I wanted to take a plane from Amsterdam to Vienna, but there was no question of being allowed or not. I knew I could go to Austria any time I wanted for whatever reason.
Now the planes are grounded. (Almost) no trains riding between countries. And suddenly passports are being checked again at the border. And they can turn you back and/or send you to quarantine.
I used to feel that in spite of the discussions and differences in cultures, Europe was one. Now suddenly we are back to nations. I am sitting in the Netherlands, and if I want to go home to Austria, suddenly it is a very difficult operation, one I am hesitating to undertake, as I am not sure how easy it will be to come back.
I meant to comment on this post last week–it really affected me, and summed up a lot of what’s been making me feel sick at heart (as often as I also feel hopeful and grateful and moved by people’s goodness). Thank you for writing it.
Good one. I’m going to buy Palahniuk’s book, too.