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Oh my good lord!

We’re living through a pandemic!

There’s a deadly, mutating virus in the world, that we don’t have a cure for!

When is it going to end?

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I wish I believed the pandemic was a fib. 

I wish I had the comfort of believing that the pandemic was a pre-meditated plot by the rich and the powerful.  It must be nice to believe that there is a plan, with a motive, a beginning, and an end to this story.  It must be wonderful to imagine that some god-like, omniscient people have control over the chaos, and are able to keep the secret, a secret.  I can’t even keep what I’m watching on Netflix a secret, but the people who orchestrated this plague fiction, aren’t telling a soul. 

It’s the best kept secret in history.

I’m tired of defending my opinions about this pandemic. 

I’m tired of my own insipid, squalid, selfishness that will find reliable sources to support my unconscious bias.  I’m tired of never-ending imaginary conversations I have with my enemies, where I eternally reconstruct sentences I would have said.

I’m tired of frozen Zoom heads and our exaggerated online personas.  I’m tired of being late for Teams because I’ve lost the links, and I’m tired of the vulnerability of my public private life.

I’m also angry.

I’m angry with the people who can’t queue or follow signs properly.  I’m angry at people who point out my misdemeanours when I forget the new rules of society.  I’m angry with two of my neighbours who leave their cigarette butts on the floor outside the main entrance to the building, and I spend a lot of time imagining the harsh note I intend to write to them.

I’m angry with the politicians who are still unable to find creative solutions to this dilemma. I’m angry about the square kilometres of empty office and retail space, that we need to do something interesting with, before the rats move in.

I’m exhausted from complaining about all the new dog shit that has appeared on the streets of Dublin.  I’m wrecked from feeling guilty about complaining in the first place, because in comparison with so many others, I have nothing to be cross about. 

I’m so tired and angry and guilty, that I recently found Adam Curtis’ new 8-hour documentary uplifting and positive.  Actually, “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” does have some great things to say and particularly in Episode Six.  Curtis ends the whole show with a quote from the anarchist and anthropologist, David Graeber, who says that “the ultimate hidden truth of the world is that it is something we make and could just as easily make differently” and I needed to be reminded of that, this week. 

If we wanted to, we could make it all differently.  We could radically change the education system, the public housing system, the health system and find some solutions to the climate crisis. If we wanted to, we could do it all differently, it’s simply a matter of choice. 

This week they opened the new Vaccination Centre at the Aviva Stadium in Dublin.  As far as we know, humans have always shared this planet with viruses, and this particular virus isn’t more evil or cleverer than others.  It’s just doing what viruses do.  We have made it easier for it to spread, but that’s not its fault.  In response, we humans have manufactured a vaccine to help us survive, and I think that’s something to be pleased about.  I don’t understand chemistry, so for me it’s almost magical that we now have something to protect us.  All those who believe the pandemic is a tall tale, can encourage their loved ones not to take the vaccine if they want to, but I honestly hope that they don’t.

Dolly Parton got her vaccine this week, in Nashville, Tennessee.  She looked like a million dollars and she sang a song for all her fans. 

She sang:

“Vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, I’m begging of you, please don’t hesitate”.

If that isn’t something to smile about, I don’t know what is.

3.5 billion years ago, an ancient river delta was flooded with water and microbial life, and last week we landed a robot just near, on the Jezero Crater, on Mars.  Scientists are keen to examine the lakebed and shoreline sediments to see if there was ever life on Mars, and NASA are interested to see if it could support life, in the future.

Life is a word our brains invented to describe reality.

Reality is a word our brains invented to describe our days.

What kind of life are we looking for?

We sent a rover called Perseverance to Mars to steal rocks from its surface and it was accompanied by a helicopter called Ingenuity.  I watched as Perseverance sent colour photos and anthropomorphic tweets back to earth, and I marvelled.  

When we start moving to Mars, the journey will take 9 months.  Due to its frantic orbit, we will have to stay for a minimum of 500 days before we can come back to this home.  Assuming we would want to.

The first travellers will be scientists, health workers, teachers and documentary film makers, and they will set up base camps and get things sorted.  Later, we the unessential workers, will follow on and begin our Martian days and cold Martian nights.

I’ve got a lot of good feelings about Mars.

There’ll be no need of money, countries, wars, prisons or politics.  I can’t see the point of exporting all our mistakes, so I imagine a peaceful planet of collaboration and joy.

No one will have viruses on Mars, and equally importantly, no one will speak of them.  Due to the strange atmosphere and eery air quality, there will be no shouting on the planet, or even speaking loudly.  There will be flourishing seasons, and interesting events, and plenty of opportunity for sight-seeing.

I love thinking about Mars, and infinite time and space.  I love thinking of the life that might have been there.  I love to think that it was us.

What if, a long time ago and before the ancient Greeks had a god called Mars, we lived on Mars, but had to move.  What if, due to climate change and super zoonotic pandemics we had to leave our home on Mars and move to earth?

We could be the Martians? 

Can you prove that we’re not?

Everyone thinks this is our first time changing planets, but if we have the imagination and technology to do it now, why couldn’t we have done it before, two or three evolutions ago?  Wouldn’t you love Perseverance to discover a NASA baseball hat in amongst the rocks it’s collecting with a slightly different NASA logo, to the one we’re used to?  I don’t know why, but I love to daydream that we’ve been there before.  Sometimes I daydream that it was Mars from a different universe, not even this one.

Due to the extra days per year on Mars, we would have twice as much time to develop our projects.  Due to the rotational axis, we will become much better fairer people, with no egos and only modest, gracious dreams and ambitions.  Due to the sub-zero nights, we will become much warmer to ourselves and more forgiving of our mistakes.  Due to the two moons of Mars, we will be kinder, friendlier, and just.

I’ve got a lot of good feelings about our lives on Mars, and I think it will be wondrous this time.

I have developed magical powers.

I have developed the magical power of smell.  I can smell fictional characters and actors and songs.

Moira Rose smells like expensive perfume, lavender and tea tree oil.  She smells of freshly brewed coffee, and cinnamon buns.  When she laughs there’s a hint of lemon on her breath, and she’s comforting to inhale.

Drew Barrymore smells of Turkish Delight and Reese Witherspoon of strawberry bubble gum.  Catherine Deneuve smells of twenty year old whiskey, and the hint of a cigarette, you might pass in the park.  Meryl Streep smells of cottage pie straight out of the oven, and Dolly smells of nutmeg.

How’s week 49 going for you? 

Never, in the history of humankind have so many of us participated in such a global experiment with no clear boundaries.  It’s an unethical experiment; we didn’t volunteer for it, we can’t opt out of it, we don’t know how long it’s going to last and we’re not clear who’s in charge.  We don’t even know what the objective of this experiment is.

Never, in the history of humankind, have we all been trying to adapt to such a new world, all at the same time.  No one can guide us or show us how to do it, and no one can assure us that things will work out in the end.

Or was it always the case?

The first people to go to the moon thought they were special.  The first ones to cross the Atlantic thought they were extraordinary.  The first ones who learned to write sentences believed they were exceptional, until those who learned how to read the sentences caught up with them.

The first people who built a wheel thought they were unique too.

Sonia:  Tom, Tom, come quick.  I want you to see what I’ve been working on all morning.

Tom:  What is that?

Sonia:  At the moment, I’m calling it a “wheel”, but I’m thinking about some other names. 

Tom:  A wheel? What does a wheel do? 

Sonia:  Well, let’s say you’re in the forest but you’d prefer to be on the savannah?  You could use this wheel to transport yourself, and it would be easier and quicker than walking!

Tom:  I don’t understand? Why would I need something easier and quicker than walking?

Sonia:  You might need to carry goods or products from the forest to the savannah, this would help you transport them.

Tom:  No, you’ve lost me.

Sonia:  Oh my God Tom!  You’re always so unsupportive and you’re never on board with my projects.  Last week, you said you encouraged me to try new things, but that’s not true.  That’s not true at all!

Tom:  I knew you were going to bring up last weekend at your sisters.  I was waiting for you to bring it up.  I knew you were going to throw it back in my face.

Sonia.  Well, anyway.  It’s a wheel, you can move things around on it, including yourself.  That’s all I wanted to show you.

Tom:  Fine.

Sonia:  Fine.

I don’t feel like I’ve improved as a person over the past year.  I don’t think the opportunity to spend a lot more time with myself has been very helpful.  In fact, I’ve gone a bit feral.  I won’t ever be able to go back to a physical workspace again and I’m not sure I will be able to handle any social situations either.  I will need months of rehabilitation care work to settle me back into normal.  I will need a team of people to do role plays with me and show me case studies and take me gently, back to how life used to be.  Probably just as well that we’re never going back to normal, isn’t it?

Did you ever notice how Kate Bush’s songs smell of lemon trees?

I know you have a little life in you yet

I know you have a lot of strength left

I know you have a little life in you yet

I know you have a lot of strength left.

Yesterday I counted fifteen empty shops on Grafton Street. 

Yesterday I read an article in Gracia magazine stating that the Spring/Summer fashion was going to be very casual this year, and I thought, “no shit Grazia!”

Yesterday I finished reading “One Hundred Years of Solitude” and had another early night. 

Yesterday, when I saw the daffodils had returned to the park, I felt relieved.  I thought life is still magical, even with its oddness and fears.  I thought the daffodils are proof we’ve been around that sun again, and I welcomed them back in my mind.  Just sunlight and water have brought them back to us.

Welcome back daffodils, welcome back. 

On Tuesday I tried to connect my new work laptop and my new work mobile to my new work printer.  It was quite the day!  I’ve never been good at following technical instructions, and I’ve had a lot of disappointment in this area.  Tuesday was no exception.

I started by unwrapping the printer from the box and putting it centre stage on the table.  It was smaller than I had imagined, and I was immediately drawn to the four bottles of printer ink.  The names of these bottles of ink were marvellous; there was black, yellow, cyan and magenta.  I poured them into an area of the machine which looked most suitable, and then I stood back to admire my achievement.

The machine lacked leads. 

There was only one cord to connect the printer to a source of electricity which meant it would be communicating with the laptop and mobile, sans wires.  This is where I lost my exuberance because I wasn’t sure how I would pass on this information to the mobile and laptop. 

How would they know? How would I tell them?

Instead, I gave my attention to the mobile telephone and my first issue was how to open the little place where the sim cards go.  It seemed that I needed a small, flat pin-like tool, which had obviously been thrown in the bin along with the packaging and the instruction manuals.  It seemed odd to me that the entire capacity of the device depended on something you might win in a Christmas cracker.  This struck me as a design flaw, so I thought I would share that opinion on Twitter.

Then I remembered that I had recently taken a vow of zero-conflict, after watching an interview with Keanu Reeves.  Keanu says he’s reached the stage of life where he no longer engages in unnecessary arguments, if he can avoid it.  He says that even if someone states that 2 + 2 = 5, Keanu says “that’s correct, have fun!” and carries on with his day.  I had decided to follow this philosophy and perception, but then I forgot.  I pretend I’m watching documentaries about the Dalia Lama and the dangers of rising sea levels, but I’m not.

I’m watching interviews with Keanu, Leo and Dolly.

The laptop was ready to go. 

This was because it arrived already set up, so that was no challenge.  I just had to lift the lid and press go, and everything was fine.  However, when I tried to print a document, it wouldn’t work, so I turned the laptop off and back on again.

“Why aren’t the machines speaking to one another?” I asked my partner who was desperately keeping out of operations.

“Because they are not sentient beings” he replied, and he put on his headphones ready for his zoom.

I decided that this was the perfect time for me to step outside for a while, so I left the site and went for a walk.

I needed to go to the pharmacist to buy some antihistamine and antiseptic cream for my rash.  I have sensitive skin, which flares up if I eat prawns or expose myself to too much sun and heat.  Sometimes it happens if I mix strong hand sanitisers.

The rash begins with indiscernible red spots on my right hand, that look like bites from microscopic insects.  At first, I hardly notice them and they’re no trouble at all.  However, if they start to spread, they begin to get itchy, and what I need to avoid is the stage where they become clusters of red mounds, in team formations.

If they spread onto my back and stomach, they go full scale Elizabethan and by the time they reach my thighs and shins the itching is relentless.  In the past, I’ve always lathered myself up with cream, popped some antihistamine, and hoped for the best.  I don’t have any medical training, but this form of treatment has been successful before.

When I got back from my medical scoping mission, my new technology was seamlessly working in harmony with one another and I could see a previously queued document being printed in colour.  I could almost hear the drums of Also Sprach Zarathustra playing in the background, as I surveyed the wonder that was in synchronisation, in my living room.

All was well. 

I could almost feel the rash decreasing in fury in response to the new office equipment being all set up, and everything was suddenly as it should be.  As a celebration, I decided to watch another interview with Keanu, and I put the kettle on for some afternoon Earl Grey tea.

Up

     and            and up                  and up                   

            down              and down             and down we go.

The next day I received some upsetting family news from Wales, which made everything still again.  In amongst the noise, haze and strangeness of our lives, everything went quiet.  I remembered, again, that our time here is finite, that love and kindness are all that matter, and that being far from home is heart breaking.

We, who are far from home, we miss you.

We, who are far from home, we love you.

We, who are far from home, will see you soon again.

Of all the things I was needlessly concerned about, pre-2020, I can safely say that worrying about living though a pandemic, never crossed my mind.  I worried about being eaten by sharks, being sucked out of aeroplane windows, falling off the cliffs on the Aaron Islands, and surviving a nuclear winter: but I was never anxious about how I would cope in a pandemic. 

I still wake up some mornings and think, is this really happening?  Is this what a pandemic experience is?  Are some people having a bit more pandemicness than me?  Am I doing it wrong? 

For the most part, I’m thankful that I have my health, shelter and a salaried job, but in moments of extreme, spoilt selfishness I wish that it was more real.  Do you know what I mean?  Living with a deadly, infectious, mutating virus is so tiringly uneventful, and I mean that in the most gracious way possible.  I’m very happy that boredom is my main complaint, but this loop I’m in, is exhausting.

Now that we are in week six of level five, in Lockdown Three, it’s easy to have lost track of time, especially now that there are Easter eggs and Valentine’s chocolates in the shops.  I differentiate days by the food I eat or by the shows I watch, as that’s the only way to do it. 

15 November? 

Ah yes, that was the day I ate cauliflower cheese for breakfast, cut my own hair and watched ten hours of The Crown.  I remember it well. 

I don’t know if I’ve told you this before, but this loop I’m in, is unsteadying. 

Although I have to say, my intrinsic negative cynicism and laziness are helping me through the loop.  I don’t really mind if I don’t get dressed sometimes, and I never believe any Virus Good News, so I’m not disappointed when it doesn’t come to pass.  As I mentioned last week, I’ve now accepted that we are going to live like this forever, so that doesn’t frighten me anymore.  I’m pleased I’ve moved effortlessly into this stage of acceptance, and I am looking forward to you joining me.

I don’t mind staying indoors all the time, dressed like I’m permanently prepared for an emergency yoga class or an impromptu séance.  I don’t mind never going back to a place of work, or if the kids don’t go back to school.  I don’t mind never flying again or never going to concerts, restaurants, theatres, cinemas, pubs, galleries or cafés. 

I don’t mind at all.

The more I go out now, the less I want to engage with 3D people because everyone is so cross and irate.  Just yesterday I went to the post office to buy a birthday card and a stamp.  A year ago, I would have done that on the way home from work, and not given it a moment’s thought, but yesterday it was an activity of its own merit.  I brushed my hair in anticipation of seeing other humans, and I wore my posh mask.

The queue was enormous, and everyone had to stay in their little circles which were spaced two metres apart.  There was a couple with a pushchair in front of me, and they were getting too close to the woman up ahead of them.  She was carrying a cup of coffee and was lifting her mask off, from time to time, to take a sip.  She asked the couple with the pushchair if they would move back and stay in their own circle, as they were starting to make her nervous.

I don’t know if the couple with the pushchair didn’t hear her properly or just decided to ignore her, but from the moment of her request, they did nothing but edge closer and closer to her.  It was as if they couldn’t quite help themselves, as if a higher power were forcing them away from their clearly marked circle and towards hers.

She asked them to step back a bit.

They stepped a little closer.

She implored them to step back a bit.

They nudged a little nearer.

It was as if she were the sun, and they were merely in her orbit with no control over their movements.  Eventually she yelled “are yous thick, would you just move back!” and that’s when it all kicked off. 

The couple with the pushchair took off their masks so that everyone could hear their counter argument.  They disagreed that their IQ was lower than average and suggested, instead, that the woman herself was of a character of low morals.  They called her names I’m not comfortable repeating here.  For some reason, the woman threw the remains of her coffee on the floor, until the security guard had to get involved to calm them all down.

Going to the post office didn’t used to be this challenging. 

Simply watching them increased my heart rate and made me desperate to leave.  I bought my card and stamp, thought what a ludicrous species we are, and went home to the safety of the Netflixiverse, where no one uses hand sanitiser.

I miss Dublin though.

I miss the Dublin of fun interactions and stories and debates.  I miss those Saturday afternoons where you would wander into Grogan’s with the pure intention of only staying for one drink.  You run into an old friend you haven’t seen for a long time, and they have the corner seat, a toastie and some news.  By the time you’ve heard the scandal, it’s too late to go shopping for that terracotta water jug, bonsai tree and vintage boxing gloves, so you stay for another round instead.  The afternoon mixes into early evening, and lo and behold, there’s someone else you haven’t seen for an age, who has their own story to tell. 

By the time that it’s time for one for the road, you’re happy and giddy and content.

Now that’s a loop I could do with.

I started January with a feeling of brightness.

I was excited about starting a new job. I was delighted that one of my short stories was included in an anthology called “Cosmos, Creation and Caboodle”. I felt rested after a long Christmas and New Year holiday that included ten-hour sleep sessions (excluding naps), and I was looking forward to my 49th birthday.

Then, on 06 January there was a so-called attempted coup d’état in Washington, where people stormed the Capitol Building, to cease power.  Some of them were dressed as forest animals and mythical creatures, and some of them were armed.  We all agreed that had a group of black men caused the failed insurrection, they would have been shot to the floor before you could say “Fox News”.  However, as they were white, they survived.

A truly more metaphorical image of the last days of Trump, you couldn’t have choreographed yourself.  Once these people claimed the seat of power, and won their place in the house of democracy, what did they choose to do? 

That’s right; they took selfies.

At that very moment I decided to give up on January.   I said to January “OK January.  I hear you and I see you and I feel you.   I will not engage with you any further, I will simply return to my sofa where I will consume chocolates and films until you tell me it’s safe to do something else instead”.  January shrugged and said, “that’s fine by me” and that’s just the way we’ve been playing it.

It’s all still awful and shitty and rotten, isn’t it? 

You have your own original boiling pot of piss water to worry about which might include home schooling, living alone, working from home, working on site, being unemployed, losing your home, being sick or dead. I don’t know your details; but I know you’ve had enough.  I think it might be quite helpful, at this stage, to just remember that no one feels like themselves anymore.  Everyone feels a little unravelled and unusual and unwell.  For further proof of this, let me just tell you of one of my human-to-human interactions lately, and you can judge for yourself.

I met an old friend on Monday.

I know it was Monday because I was wearing clean clothes.  She was standing in the queue outside Tesco, but I walked past her because I didn’t recognise her with her mask on.  When she called out, “Ruth, is that you?” I remembered her voice immediately.

Annie and I used to teach together a long time ago, but I had no idea she lived in the neighbourhood and I was delighted to see her.  For a second I forgot that we couldn’t hug or kiss, so I decided to high five her instead.  Sadly, she didn’t seem to know what I was doing, so she put her arm up to defend herself.  This change in trajectory made me hit her across her forehead instead.  In fact, I slapped her across her forehead, with the palm of my hand, with some force. 

She was surprised to be hit like that, but then, due to the entanglement of our arms, I managed to pull her mask down around her chin as well.  In the end she said “stop, please stop” and finally I did.

I was embarrassed by the assault, and too tired to laugh at myself, so I said something awkward about preferring to shop in Aldi and I crossed the road and went away.  If the scene had taken place last February or March, we would have just laughed about it and found it quirky, clumsy, and odd, but mostly funny.  Imagine witnessing that eleven months ago: imagine seeing two middle aged-masked-women standing in a queue outside Tesco, in the rain, air arm wrestling!

Now, we’re all too frazzled and nervous to be able to deal with the oddities of human interaction.  After the shop, I went home to my indoors fictional screen people, who I am far less likely to hit over their foreheads, when they are least expecting it.

I’m at the level of lockdown where last night I watched a film called The Lake House with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reaves, because David recommended it in an episode of Schitt’s Creek.  Actually, it was a lovely film, although I didn’t fully follow which space time continuum theory the film was espousing, but a lovely, warm, enjoyable film it was.

There’s a part of me which believes that we are going to live like this forever. 

We will always work from home, children will never go back to large schools, non-essential retail shops are a thing of the past, and socialising will forever take place in parks and at other outdoor amenities.  Now that I’ve accepted this truth, my brain has told my mind that it’s actually all OK.  So deceptive is my internalised coping mechanism, that I hear myself tell people that I love the quiet of Lockdown 3, that working from home was made for me, and that I love a slower pace of socialising.

On my side of the street there is a never-ending supply of chocolate, films and satirical North American comedy on Netflix.  There are Terry’s chocolate oranges and mint aeros, sticky toffee puddings and pancakes with chocolate spread and strawberries.  There are lakes of hot chocolates with marshmallows bopping around on the surface, and there are profiteroles.  There are Belgian chocolate eclairs and individually sized black forest trifles.  It is still winter, so there are warm comfy blankets, hot water bottles throughout the day, and camel hair socks, that tie up around your ankles.

It’s fine here. 

We are OK. 

I’ll see you here next week.

Did you ever notice that in order to seem successful and happy you have to sound busy and stressed?  You must be busy at work, against the clock at home, snowed under with your family and swamped with your volunteering and activism.

Busy old you.

When was the last time you asked someone how their work was and they replied, “actually, it’s very easy.  I complete the tasks I have effortlessly and there’s a simple, smooth way through my activities.  It’s quite undemanding which leaves me with plenty of time to concentrate on the more important things in my life.  It’s great thanks, you?”

No one ever says that.

We’re always one email away from a meltdown and if it’s not work it’s our home, family, friends, pets or the traffic.  We incorrectly believe that the opposite of being busy, is being lazy and we’ve managed to equate stress, with being important.

Look no further than our social media for evidence. 

Everything we do is on brand.  A nice walk in the park must be photographed, captioned and on message.  A simple coffee with a friend becomes a political act of solidarity.  A lazy day watching Netflix must be re-packaged into a humorous comment, shared with a thousand of our closest friends.  Even in lockdown we’re sharing posts of our curated lives which prove we’re politically aware, clever, funny, and up to date with politics, climate justice, responses to the virus, and inequality.   

It’s exhausting, isn’t it?

I’m worse than any of you.  Last week my daily average screen time was 32 hours per day, so I really need to take a little break from it all over the Christmas holidays.  What would happen if I didn’t read that tweet, or like that post? 

Nothing would happen. 

Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

Nothing would happen if I stepped away from the machines and had a little rest.  Nothing would happen except my shoulders would thank me, and perhaps my thumbs would come out of scrolling position long enough to turn the page of a book or a magazine instead. I’d save some money on electricity too.  The problem with social media is that it wasn’t designed for us to notice a post and enjoy it fully or feel empathy with the sadness. It was designed for us to continuously scroll until we hit the jackpot of inner satisfaction. Except that can’t be found online.  I think it’s the least mindful activity that I spend my time doing, and too much of it is time consuming, irritating, and silly.    

When I spend time noticing, I’m happier.

If I make a coffee at home and sit to drink it slowly, I enjoy it so much more than if I buy one To Go, and walk down the street with it.  This is because there are too many other wonderful distractions on the street to enjoy like people, weather and seagulls, which takes me away from the sensation of the hot drink. 

Likewise, a cup of Earl Grey in the afternoon, served in my favourite china cup, is infinitely more enjoyable if I curl up on the sofa with it, rather than try and send an email while it cools.  When I truly notice a sunset, a flower, or the shape of the moon I enjoy it so much more than when it’s in my peripheral vision.  This morning, for example, I noticed the smell of damp leaves on the pavement in the street, and it was glorious, heart warming, and divine.

Time spent noticing, isn’t wasted time.

Time may be infinite, but our time here isn’t. 

Time moves on anyway despite what you or I say or do.  Even the shortest day of the year has 24 hours in it, and Time doesn’t mind what we do with it.  Time doesn’t worry if we’re uncomfortable or dissatisfied, alert or clear headed.   Time doesn’t concern itself with if we’re happy or sad, light-hearted or blue. 

Time moves on forwards, that’s just what Time will do.

So thank you for reading me, and for giving me your time.  You’ve been wonderful company this past ten months and I thank you from my heart.  I wish you a warm, safe and well Christmas, and I wish you all you wish for yourselves.

I wish you good time. 

Above all else, I wish you good time.

December 2020

On the first day of time, a freezing fog descended over the sea near Dublin.  It settled on the surface of the water for just a moment, then the clouds gathered it back into themselves before they drifted out of sight.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said a woman I didn’t know.

“Me neither,” I replied, and we smiled at the mystery, and at one another.

The horizon was a mix between the colours of peachy-salmon, indigo and the grey of the evaporating fog.  Later, the sound of fog horns accompanied me home across the city, and it’s how I fell asleep on Sunday night:  to the comforting sound of the fog horns.

I wish I could feel more comfort from the news about the vaccines this week. 

On Tuesday, the first woman and the first man received their Covid19 vaccinations, but I wonder why this doesn’t fill me with more excitement?  I was concerned that the vaccinators who vaccinated the first man and the first woman were vaccinated, and then the obvious next question needed to be answered:  who vaccinated them?

Another concern I have is about the freezers. 

The live vaccines need to be kept in super freezers and Ireland has bought nine of them.  I don’t know if nine is enough.  I might have ordered fifteen to twenty super freezers, just to be on the safe side if one malfunctions, but nine was the decision, and nine have been bought.

Many countries won’t be able to buy the super freezers to store the vaccines.  Some regions of the world don’t have access to reliable electricity or have extra money in their health budgets to vaccinate a population for a disease we didn’t even know about this time last year.

If only we’d developed a vaccine for inequality instead.

Here in Ireland the plan is to get us all done.  The government published a list of the demographic groupings, in the order they will be vaccinated and listed people into fifteen different categories.  I’m in group fourteen.  I’m just ahead of children, teenagers and pregnant people, but below everyone else in the country.  Seeing my lack of essentiality written in a list like that was a little harsh, I don’t mind telling you.  I knew I wasn’t a key worker in society, but fourteen out of fifteen!  Nevertheless, all going well, I should get my injections before next summer.

Probably not before spring.

In the meantime, we have to continue living as we have been because even the vaccinated can pick the virus up, and possibly pass it on.  Maybe that’s why I’m not on Tick Tock singing “Forget your troubles, come on get happy”.  The vaccine is good news, and perhaps we’re half-way through this thing, but it’s not all over yet. 

We’re back at Level Three here in the Republic of Ireland, which is a bit more manageable than Level Five, and somehow it feels easier.  Although, to be honest, the whole level thing is giving me déjà vu. Sometimes, when I’m half-way through a particularly intense sensation of déjà vu, I feel like I’m looping into another one.  I call these déjà two, and they are all so familiar yet stranger than before.  Perhaps I already mentioned that in last week’s blog?

I feel like we’ve done it all before? 

Didn’t we?  Haven’t we?  Didn’t I write about it already?

Didn’t we close everything down once, and open back up? 

Then we closed it all down again, and opened back up? 

It’s a macabre game where winners get to go onto another level and the losers die on ventilators in ICU.  Still, at least we have Christmas, hey?

I’m finding our attachment to Christmas and the complete denial that it’s our first Pandemic Christmas completely hilarious.  I’m not sure if our insistence that Christmas will go ahead makes us the most ridiculous species on earth, or the most endearing.  Possibly a mixture of the two.  It’s as if we’re all pretending that Christmas can be normal for some younger member of our family who hasn’t heard about the virus yet? 

Or are we doing it for ourselves? 

Are we treating ourselves to a midwinter-mini-break where for one day, we celebrate our lives and give thanks for those things we are grateful for?  Maybe we deserve a day off from a no-deal Brexit, Trumpism, the disease and all the other crap.  I’ll start us off, but feel free to jump in at any time with the things you are thankful for. 

I’m grateful for my health and the health of those I love. 

I’m grateful for my warm, safe shelter and that I have reliable work. 

I’m grateful for my friends who make me laugh daily, and the love I feel around me.

I’m grateful for all the fog horns that keep us safe, and I’m very grateful for you.

You who read these musings weekly, I’m so very grateful for you.

Sometimes I think about how sound travels. 

Of course I don’t have the first notion of how sound travels, but the fact that it does is a joy to me.  Right now I can hear the Friday evening traffic, a tap dripping in the kitchen, a siren, and the quiet clicks of this laptops’ keyboard.

I marvel at many things when I have time.

I love to think about our waterproof skin, and how we were all once unfertilised, microscopic eggs.  I love that my body moves without my consciousness getting involved, and isn’t it magical that when we sleep, we dream.  I love to think about my stomach digesting food and turning it into energy so that I can walk, chat and wave my arms up above my head.  I love how we invented music, and that we can read and write.  I love how it was our brains that invented the concept of reality. 

When I don’t have time, I get scared of things instead. 

I’m not sure if you can isolate one thing over another but this evening my current fears are:  this pandemic, capitalism, the menopause, grief, and getting old. 

One of the strangest phobias I have is of cotton wool.  Or, more specifically the sound of cotton wool when someone scrunches it.  If I’m around someone who is scrunching balls of cotton wool, I have to make my excuses and leave the room.  I hate that squeaky itchy sound it makes, and if it goes on for too long, I stop breathing.  Even typing about it now, on these very quiet laptop keys, makes me hold my breath, and I think it’s for the best if we change the subject.

I would like to reach a balance in my life, where I can marvel at the beauty and be scared of the things that frighten us with some sort of rationality and emotional stability.  Isn’t that what we all want, a balanced perception of our subjective experiences of life?  I’m concerned that my emotional reactions are out of balance and, on occasion inappropriate.

Exhibit One:  I’ve been very weepy this week; this was the weeping week. 

I cried after a semi-argument with a woman in the post office queue.  She thought I was too close to her and she wanted me to step backwards.  However, I couldn’t step backwards because then I would have been too near the man behind me. I tired to explain this conundrum to her, but she wasn’t very responsive.  She became very cross and shouted at me, and quite unexpectedly, I wept.

Then I made the cruel mistake of watching that new David Attenborough documentary and I suggest that you give it a miss. Of course David is wonderful, but there’s a very disturbing walrus scene that should best be avoided if you can.  Then as if that’s not enough, David goes on to explain how our species is coming to the end of its run here on the planet, and how destructive we’ve been to all forms of life while in charge. David gives us all a bit of hope at the end, with some suggestions how we can change the outcome, but by this time it was too late for me.

Then I cried because of Christmas, and because I miss my family, and because of all the changes and because of the last of the falling leaves, in St. Stephen’s Green.

All the same, you have to admit that tears are quite remarkable, aren’t they?  Imagine that we evolved with the ability to cry when we feel sad or afraid and I think that’s extraordinary.

It’s also incredible that our brains produce endorphins to allow us to cope with pain.   Our brains don’t want us to feel too much pain, so they have mechanisms to release chemicals into our bodies so that we experience pleasure instead.  Anyone who swims in the icy cold sea knows this to be true.  In order to deal with the cold water shock, the swimmer will experience an incredible sensation of wellness and happiness and bliss.  You genuinely believe you’re having a wonderful time.

Thank you brain, for happy endorphins.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could release them on command, instead of waiting for them to come in response to a harsh event.  Then we could turn them on during Attenborough’s horror show, enjoy them while people shout at us in queues, and just let them do their jobs when you hear that Christmas music unexpectedly.

So let’s embrace the menopause with curiosity instead of fear. Be grateful for the grief we feel, and thankful for the love that caused it. Let’s accept that politics has always been divisive, mean and unkind and let’s be gracious for the opportunity of growing old, with any wisdom that comes our way.

The cotton wool we’ll leave for another day.

I’m afraid I didn’t have much time for writing this week.  In fact, I’ve been neglecting all my projects including the spider plantation, my complex exercise regime, this month’s online courses, and lurking on Twitter.  I’ve been neglecting them all because of Netflix.

Holy mother of God, why did I sign up to Netflix?

Up to now, my home entertainment schedule relied on me downloading films and series from a selection of streaming sites, and this always worked out well.    Occasionally, I would have to watch something with subtitles in Arabic or French but that would give me something else to look at if the film itself was dull.  Things have changed now that I have Netflix.

I signed up with Netflix so that I could watch season four of The Crown without interruption. In a sense, could we perhaps argue that my new addiction is another tragedy caused by the Palace?  I honestly thought I could watch the series and then keep the subscription for a couple of months, to see if there was something else I wanted to enjoy.    

I thought I could handle it, I was wrong.

At first, the variety of choice was too great for me, so I only watched films that I’d seen before.  However, I quickly started watching new content, and all the recommendations Netflix made for me.  I consume Netflix at an alarming rate.  It’s as if I’m doing it for a charity fundraiser or as a challenge for the Guinness Book of World Records and I’m probably damaging myself in some way.  I binge watch while devouring Tesco Belgian chocolate eclairs.  There are currently six cushions, two blankets and a hot water bottle on my sofa. You don’t sit on my sofa; you get into it.  Of course there’s no room on the sofa for my partner so he must sit alone, over by the window.  Sometimes he tries to communicate with me, but I just growl at him, like a bear and return to my new friends in Netflixland.  I curl up on my sofacave while watching hours of new shows, and it’s just a matter of time before I’ll need a neck brace.

One of the things I love about Netflix is watching people nonchalantly interact with one another in a physical dimension.  I watched Wine Country the other night but missed most of the plot because I was marvelling at how six women could go off together for the weekend.  They could go wine tasting, and bicycle riding, and they could gossip together in a hot tub!

On Netflix, no one wears masks, everyone hugs, and people go to restaurants and bars. It’s just a better place to hang out in than Dublin right now, and I plan to spend more time there in the coming months.  Dublin is just a bit quiet, and people are getting irritable, and there isn’t much craic.

One of the many reasons I loved living in Dublin was because of the craic. 

Dubliners love to talk.  My first memory of Dublin is a conversation. I arrived in Dublin airport one March afternoon, and I got into a taxi and the driver started chatting.  I told him I had that just moved from Copenhagen to Dublin, and that I was going to stay with my friend.  I had Julia’s address written down on a piece of paper, and I was so excited about the new adventure.  In return, he told me about his recent holiday in Copenhagen with his son, and something about the best pubs to visit in Temple Bar.  When we pulled up outside Julia’s apartment, he helped me with my luggage and told me that the trip was free:  then he said, “welcome to Dublin” and I’ve never looked back.

What’s not to love about Dublin?

It’s a gorgeous city altogether with great pubs, restaurants, theatres, parks, mountains, and the sea.  We love the craic agus ceol, and we love to talk.  If the average person uses five to seven thousand words per day the average Dubliner can treble that in a morning.  We talk waiting for the bus, and getting on the bus, and while moving on the bus, and when we’re just after getting off the bus.  We use equal passion and breath when we talk about the weather, one another, the politicians, or our families.  Have you ever seen two Dubliners meeting for the first time outside of the city?  Within five minutes they are the best of friends, within ten they are family, if you leave them alone for an hour, they will have adopted one another for life.    

Thus, telling Dubliners to isolate and keep their distance seems a harsher request than perhaps asking Scandinavians to do it, for example, or the quiet and unassuming Tibetans.  Dubliners need noise and an audience for their daily performances, and this simply can’t be done online.  Without the story to tell someone, there’s little or no point in doing an activity in the first place. 

Why do anything at all, if you can’t tell someone about it?

Zooms are poor substitutes for Dubliners and cannot replicate the intimacy and fun of interactive conversations.  Zooms are one-way, performative, monologues where very few people come across as themselves.  One of my own problems with Zooms is staying on track.  One minute I’m updating people about a project or activity then the next thing I know I’m comparing the performances of Catherine Keener and Cameron Diaz in Being John Malkovich.  I end my sequence of talking with the words “in conclusion then, I would argue that it’s very difficult to say whose performance is the best after all,” and everyone nods, as if I made sense.

It’s just harder for we Dubs, than most.

So I’ve decided to embrace the fictional world and watch my characters interact instead of me.  It’s only a matter of time before I start speaking English with an American accent or offer my legal counsel to someone wrongly accused of a crime. It’s simply a matter of time before I start re-watching shows I’ve already seen and experiencing déjà vu because of it.  It’s also a matter of time before I accuse real life friends of misdemeanours fictional characters committed. 

But I don’t care.

I’m enjoying my never-ending supply of content to absorb, and I’m doing it with glee and guilt free.  I highly recommend that you do likewise. So snuggle under that duvet and turn on your favourite show and enjoy every single second of your time. 

Every single second of your time.