National Poetry Month ends today. My daily Borges post turned out to be really interesting and even fun. I never tried to find a line that connected to the pandemic but time and again the line that jumped out fit in some way. I took a line from a poem about a card game. One was from a poem about looking in the mirror. One was from a poem about a general, which I could hardly read (not interested in military stuff) but had a line about his people following him on the day we were hearing about all the protests to open different states. Uncanny. If a true Borges scholar read these fragments they might hate where I began and ended the fragment. There were times when I had a hard time keeping it short.
I got some likes and shares and comments. Thank you. As it turned out I stayed connected to the project because it was just so easy to find the fragment.
I was reading The River of Consciousness by Oliver Sacks. The title came form Borges. A sweet little synchronicity
My mood has been all over the place. Which, actually, isn't exactly new. It has been even more erratic than usual. Having this poem project has been something of a stabilizer. I keep trying to think about something profound to say about how poetry responds to all moments and the meaning become personal. But. Ya know. Profound things start to sound kinda dumb.
Borges is back on the shelf, close enough to reach in an emergency.
This is the third year of me doing this.
And what a weird year.
Thursday, April 30, 2020
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
Line cook.
I don't identify as a chef. I'm not suggesting that I'm not a good cook. I can cook. I'm just not a chef. I don't think like chef. I admire the way they think. I find it interesting. But I don't aspire to it.
In some ways I think like a chef. I think about cooking. I get excited when I learn about a new ingredient or method. I just don't care that much about newness. Or creative expression. I care about making food that is beautiful (eye) aromatic (nose) flavorful (mouth) and satisfying (heart). I never refer to food as my food. It's not my accomplishment. It's dinner.
A friend of mine wondered why anyone would make marshmallow when it was so easy to buy. That's not something you can explain. A chef asks the opposite question. Why buy it when you can figure out how to make it. My friend Debbie is a pastry chef in SF. She makes her own marshmallow. I don't even like marshmallow but I like her's.
I was watching Ugly Delicious the other night. In the middle of the second episode I had to turn it off. It was hurting me. Watching people so sincerely and lovingly trying to learn about a kind of food that they love so that they can share it was hurting me. I was having trouble breathing because it hurt so much.
Gabrielle Hamilton wrote a heart breaking column in the NYT about the future of her restaurant: Prune. I read her memoir and have the Prune cook book. I've watched The Mind of a Chef. I really like her. I would like to have eaten at Prune. I probably could never have because it was very small. Lots of tables scrunched together. I would not have fit. I still loved the idea of it and her. I heard that Chris Hayes and Ta-Nehisi Coates had a meal there. I would have loved to be sitting next to that conversation.
She needed all those tables and she needed them to be full just to meet her bills. Little charming places that serve great food have always been a struggle for the owners and the staff. It's hard work and the reward is not economic. Most of the places where I worked were small places owned by women. Three or four people in the kitchen. I tried to work where I could learn. I wanted to be part of something.
I identify specifically as a line cook. I have managed, a small diner in Colorado and a large tourist place in SF. I feel like I became the manager because I was the one who would pick up the phone when it rang. Seriously. I scheduled and ordered and made sure equipment didn't break and things got done. But I loved being on the line. I loved those moments when the wheel is full of tickets and you have to figure out how you're going to get it all cooked. Quickly. It never seems possible and you do it day after day. I never made great money. I ruined my knees. I don't know why I chose such a rough job. I'm not even sure you do choose that job. When so many culinary schools opened and chefs became famous and cooking shows filled the screen being a cook changed. I worked with so many young people who expected to become a chef. A famous chef with their own place and their own food. Few of them were very good at cleaning up. Most of them went from one restaurant to another.
I guess I did too. And I had other aspirations. (rock and roll) But I was a line cook.
Across from me on Oak Street is an Italian restaurant run by a family. They have one window rigged as a take out spot. They do family dinner specials, which they advertise on social media. Up the street is a deli. They always do rotisserie chicken. They have soups and salads and specials. They deliver now. I ordered soup, salads and chicken one day, which they brought to the patio below me. The sushi place around the corner has started doing these amazing pork buns on Saturday night. The Chinese restaurant where my friend Mandy worked closed for a few weeks but will reopen this weekend. Only carry out. There's pizza all over the place.
I admire all these places. I try to order from them a few times a week. I know how hard they are working and I wonder if they're making enough money to keep going.
Debbie wonders if she'll ever work again. Her work ethic and skill are both admirable but she's older. These days, not working, she has less joint pain. She should probably not do that kind of work any more. But she's been doing it since high school. It's all she's ever done. The place she was working at is a small neighborhood place with great food. I don't know how all those charming little restaurants are going to come back. Is the future going to be full of chain restaurants? Fast food?
Last night I watched Cooked, the Netflix/Michael Pollan show. I forget that I had already watched it. It opens with aboriginal people setting little bush fires. Women catching a large lizard looking thing. Skinning it and cooking it. Something about those images calmed me.
Things will change. Food Trucks are already a way to have restaurant and not the expense of brick an mortar. Maybe there will be more of them. There are always ways and people who want to ... cook.
Or.
At least.
That's what I hope.
In some ways I think like a chef. I think about cooking. I get excited when I learn about a new ingredient or method. I just don't care that much about newness. Or creative expression. I care about making food that is beautiful (eye) aromatic (nose) flavorful (mouth) and satisfying (heart). I never refer to food as my food. It's not my accomplishment. It's dinner.
A friend of mine wondered why anyone would make marshmallow when it was so easy to buy. That's not something you can explain. A chef asks the opposite question. Why buy it when you can figure out how to make it. My friend Debbie is a pastry chef in SF. She makes her own marshmallow. I don't even like marshmallow but I like her's.
I was watching Ugly Delicious the other night. In the middle of the second episode I had to turn it off. It was hurting me. Watching people so sincerely and lovingly trying to learn about a kind of food that they love so that they can share it was hurting me. I was having trouble breathing because it hurt so much.
Gabrielle Hamilton wrote a heart breaking column in the NYT about the future of her restaurant: Prune. I read her memoir and have the Prune cook book. I've watched The Mind of a Chef. I really like her. I would like to have eaten at Prune. I probably could never have because it was very small. Lots of tables scrunched together. I would not have fit. I still loved the idea of it and her. I heard that Chris Hayes and Ta-Nehisi Coates had a meal there. I would have loved to be sitting next to that conversation.
She needed all those tables and she needed them to be full just to meet her bills. Little charming places that serve great food have always been a struggle for the owners and the staff. It's hard work and the reward is not economic. Most of the places where I worked were small places owned by women. Three or four people in the kitchen. I tried to work where I could learn. I wanted to be part of something.
I identify specifically as a line cook. I have managed, a small diner in Colorado and a large tourist place in SF. I feel like I became the manager because I was the one who would pick up the phone when it rang. Seriously. I scheduled and ordered and made sure equipment didn't break and things got done. But I loved being on the line. I loved those moments when the wheel is full of tickets and you have to figure out how you're going to get it all cooked. Quickly. It never seems possible and you do it day after day. I never made great money. I ruined my knees. I don't know why I chose such a rough job. I'm not even sure you do choose that job. When so many culinary schools opened and chefs became famous and cooking shows filled the screen being a cook changed. I worked with so many young people who expected to become a chef. A famous chef with their own place and their own food. Few of them were very good at cleaning up. Most of them went from one restaurant to another.
I guess I did too. And I had other aspirations. (rock and roll) But I was a line cook.
Across from me on Oak Street is an Italian restaurant run by a family. They have one window rigged as a take out spot. They do family dinner specials, which they advertise on social media. Up the street is a deli. They always do rotisserie chicken. They have soups and salads and specials. They deliver now. I ordered soup, salads and chicken one day, which they brought to the patio below me. The sushi place around the corner has started doing these amazing pork buns on Saturday night. The Chinese restaurant where my friend Mandy worked closed for a few weeks but will reopen this weekend. Only carry out. There's pizza all over the place.
I admire all these places. I try to order from them a few times a week. I know how hard they are working and I wonder if they're making enough money to keep going.
Debbie wonders if she'll ever work again. Her work ethic and skill are both admirable but she's older. These days, not working, she has less joint pain. She should probably not do that kind of work any more. But she's been doing it since high school. It's all she's ever done. The place she was working at is a small neighborhood place with great food. I don't know how all those charming little restaurants are going to come back. Is the future going to be full of chain restaurants? Fast food?
Last night I watched Cooked, the Netflix/Michael Pollan show. I forget that I had already watched it. It opens with aboriginal people setting little bush fires. Women catching a large lizard looking thing. Skinning it and cooking it. Something about those images calmed me.
Things will change. Food Trucks are already a way to have restaurant and not the expense of brick an mortar. Maybe there will be more of them. There are always ways and people who want to ... cook.
Or.
At least.
That's what I hope.
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
Hate
I lived through two terms of George W Bush. My obsessive news consumption began then. I found that if I was talking to someone who had the same view as I did I could babble and rant. I could be sloppy. We finished each other's sentences. But if I was talking with someone with a different view I wanted to be clear and informed. All the television, radio, Internet, Sunday New York Times I consumed were an attempt to learn and gain perspective.
In the Bay Area there weren't many people who didn't have the same view. We vented. We made fun of his inability to articulate. I hated him.
That hatred pales in comparison to what I have felt for the last three years.
I don't like hating. It is an emotion I feel a need to push away from. There are people who have hurt me. I don't feel any compunction about saying I hate them. It just isn't very deep. It doesn't have roots. It's like the first flame from a match. All big and sparking and then smaller, softer and ... gone.
There is hate that I can tap into from old and deep injury but I neither try to go there nor avoid it. It comes up. I feel it. I move on.
I understand that hate is human.
I don't like it.
I have made (and continue to make) every effort not to hear or see the president. I do hear and see him. I watch much less news but I do watch some. I listen to some. I listen to Podcasts. Facebook. Twitter. He's there. The smallest amount of him ignites such hatred in me. I don't want him to have that much of me.
These days hate feels like it lives just under my skin. I do not like it. I am safe in my lovely little nest with a bunch of books and food and streams of art and music and so much. And I see people on Oak street. No masks. Not looking like they're related. I feel judgy. Suspicious.
I don't really know them. I don't really think they need a mask on a street where there are no others. Do I?
We have neighbors for whom their condo is a second home. We don't see them often. These days they're here on the weekend. Hood River has asked people to stay away but I guess they feel it doesn't mean them. I have never had any feelings about these people. Now. I hate them. I feel worried about being in the elevator with them. I wear a mask to take out the trash.
I.
Don't.
Want.
These.
Feelings.
There's a story about a monk who meditated in the mountains for years. He felt so peaceful. He assumed he had attained enlightenment. As he walked into a village he stubbed his toes on a beggar's bowl. He was filled with rage and began to kick the beggar. I've always liked that story. I feel like we are reactive. We can maybe change or mediate how we react but I'm not sure how much. Fear and uncertainty are prickly. We become agitated for no obvious reason.
I keep thinking back on the week before things started shutting down. My friend and I were getting ready to get in the pool. The class before us is mostly older women as well. We know most of them. We all laugh and tease. One of them was practicing elbow bumping. My friend walked up to her and pulled her into a hug. We all laughed. We weren't going to get carried away with fear. We were much too grounded for that. We had common sense. And. You know. We live in a very small city in a gorge. There were a few cases in Portland, which felt really far away then.
Oregon has done a great job of keeping things under control. Hood River has four cases. All were mild. None needed hospitalization.
I'm afraid of my mail.
I hate this.
In the Bay Area there weren't many people who didn't have the same view. We vented. We made fun of his inability to articulate. I hated him.
That hatred pales in comparison to what I have felt for the last three years.
I don't like hating. It is an emotion I feel a need to push away from. There are people who have hurt me. I don't feel any compunction about saying I hate them. It just isn't very deep. It doesn't have roots. It's like the first flame from a match. All big and sparking and then smaller, softer and ... gone.
There is hate that I can tap into from old and deep injury but I neither try to go there nor avoid it. It comes up. I feel it. I move on.
I understand that hate is human.
I don't like it.
I have made (and continue to make) every effort not to hear or see the president. I do hear and see him. I watch much less news but I do watch some. I listen to some. I listen to Podcasts. Facebook. Twitter. He's there. The smallest amount of him ignites such hatred in me. I don't want him to have that much of me.
These days hate feels like it lives just under my skin. I do not like it. I am safe in my lovely little nest with a bunch of books and food and streams of art and music and so much. And I see people on Oak street. No masks. Not looking like they're related. I feel judgy. Suspicious.
I don't really know them. I don't really think they need a mask on a street where there are no others. Do I?
We have neighbors for whom their condo is a second home. We don't see them often. These days they're here on the weekend. Hood River has asked people to stay away but I guess they feel it doesn't mean them. I have never had any feelings about these people. Now. I hate them. I feel worried about being in the elevator with them. I wear a mask to take out the trash.
I.
Don't.
Want.
These.
Feelings.
There's a story about a monk who meditated in the mountains for years. He felt so peaceful. He assumed he had attained enlightenment. As he walked into a village he stubbed his toes on a beggar's bowl. He was filled with rage and began to kick the beggar. I've always liked that story. I feel like we are reactive. We can maybe change or mediate how we react but I'm not sure how much. Fear and uncertainty are prickly. We become agitated for no obvious reason.
I keep thinking back on the week before things started shutting down. My friend and I were getting ready to get in the pool. The class before us is mostly older women as well. We know most of them. We all laugh and tease. One of them was practicing elbow bumping. My friend walked up to her and pulled her into a hug. We all laughed. We weren't going to get carried away with fear. We were much too grounded for that. We had common sense. And. You know. We live in a very small city in a gorge. There were a few cases in Portland, which felt really far away then.
Oregon has done a great job of keeping things under control. Hood River has four cases. All were mild. None needed hospitalization.
I'm afraid of my mail.
I hate this.
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
And Then the Jokes.
Years ago (hard to remember how many) I went to NC to visit the mommie usually at the end of the year. One year she asked a friend to drive her to the airport to pick me up. She was always worried about driving. Later the friend told her that she didn't think much of me when she first saw me because ... I was so fat. After the long drive home she decided I was so well spoken and smart. The mommie thought this was so great. I had overcome the bad impression made by the size of my ass. I was furious. I doubt the experience with me changed that woman's reaction to fat people. She thought I was an anomaly.
I keep seeing jokes about the need to wear a mask at home so you don't eat too much. How hard it's going to be to get out of the sweat pants when this is over. One person, who I don't know well but have always had a good feeling about dropped one of those. Two people who I love and know love me have yammered about how much weight they're going to gain. One posted a really offensive video. I always wonder if they would say those things if I was standing there. And if so why?
I mean they're not talking about me, right? It's just a good natured little joke. Because ... gaining weight, being fat is ... always ... funny?
Really?
Why?
These are people who I have known for years. And, apparently, I have had no impact on. I am confident in their love. After all. I am so well spoken and smart. But they do not understand why making a fat joke is not OK. Not even a little OK.
I am supposed to have a good spirit in the face of this bullshit. I am supposed to understand. I am supposed to know what people mean.
What do they mean?
The other morning there was a public health (cough) expert on NPR talking about why fat people are more at risk for the virus. She had one of those sing song voices that hurt my teeth and I couldn't hold onto what she went on to say. It really made no sense. Then she went onto talk about why people of color were more at risk and I turned it off.
People of color are at risk because of decades of White supremacy. Full stop. That cannot be soft peddled or understood or accepted.
You can't hurt me if you make a fat joke. You can't shame me. I know the story of my body and I am not ashamed. You can hurt me when I realize that you do not understand that you contribute to negative ideas about being fat. And the tacit acceptance of those ideas creates bias. Cultural bias.
Understand this. My body is considered diseased before I cough. My body is considered diseased before I have a fever.
None of the people who made the jokes are fat. I've never known them to be fat. I doubt they can get particularly fat. Although, clearly, I have no sense of what being fat actually looks like. I'm not that smart.
I keep seeing jokes about the need to wear a mask at home so you don't eat too much. How hard it's going to be to get out of the sweat pants when this is over. One person, who I don't know well but have always had a good feeling about dropped one of those. Two people who I love and know love me have yammered about how much weight they're going to gain. One posted a really offensive video. I always wonder if they would say those things if I was standing there. And if so why?
I mean they're not talking about me, right? It's just a good natured little joke. Because ... gaining weight, being fat is ... always ... funny?
Really?
Why?
These are people who I have known for years. And, apparently, I have had no impact on. I am confident in their love. After all. I am so well spoken and smart. But they do not understand why making a fat joke is not OK. Not even a little OK.
I am supposed to have a good spirit in the face of this bullshit. I am supposed to understand. I am supposed to know what people mean.
What do they mean?
The other morning there was a public health (cough) expert on NPR talking about why fat people are more at risk for the virus. She had one of those sing song voices that hurt my teeth and I couldn't hold onto what she went on to say. It really made no sense. Then she went onto talk about why people of color were more at risk and I turned it off.
People of color are at risk because of decades of White supremacy. Full stop. That cannot be soft peddled or understood or accepted.
You can't hurt me if you make a fat joke. You can't shame me. I know the story of my body and I am not ashamed. You can hurt me when I realize that you do not understand that you contribute to negative ideas about being fat. And the tacit acceptance of those ideas creates bias. Cultural bias.
Understand this. My body is considered diseased before I cough. My body is considered diseased before I have a fever.
None of the people who made the jokes are fat. I've never known them to be fat. I doubt they can get particularly fat. Although, clearly, I have no sense of what being fat actually looks like. I'm not that smart.
Monday, April 06, 2020
What Matters
Yesterday when I was trying to read I was overcome with sleepiness. It happens sometimes. My favorite reading chair is in a window through which sun often floods. I get sun woozy and close my eyes. I am neither awake nor asleep. I drift until suddenly, often in five or ten minutes, I pop up like cork. Yesterday was different. I slept deeply and, although I'm not exactly sure how long, for more than an hour. I woke up around 11:00.
A minute ago (it feels like a minute ago) I wrote a post about morning reading. I'd taken to reading on mornings when I wasn't going swimming and I really enjoyed it. It felt indulgent and luxurious. Now every day is a day that I don't go swimming. After a week or so of morning reading that stretched into afternoon reading, I realized the days were losing shape. I started having breakfast, doing the yoga/bike wheels, taking a shower and getting dressed. Then I settle into the chair and read. Often I split my breakfast into parts. This morning I had cereal and milk. Did all the things. Made a cup of coffee. Got a slice of cranberry bread and then settled in.
It didn't make sense that I was so tired yesterday. I'd slept well. 11:00 is when I have been stopping the reading to post my poem fragment, check email and the like. But I really wanted to read! I kept trying to believe that it didn't matter if I posted at 11:00. I could read for awhile. All scheduling is arbitrary. But I could not concentrate.
I have a bunch of pillows on my bed. It a long silly story. They are decorative. My bed is adjustable so I am never propped up on them. In the evening I take them off and pile them up beside the bed and after the yoga/bike wheels I put them all back on the bed. It takes (maybe) two minutes. When the morning reading stretched into afternoon I often didn't put them back. It didn't seem to matter. Even when I changed my current rhythm (because that's what it is) (rhythm) I wasn't putting the pillows up. One day I looked at the pile and ... just put them up. When I walk down the hall during the day and see them they look pretty and I feel happy.
Before the virus my days were somewhat fluid. But there are these little demarcations. Oh it's time for Chris Hayes and Rachel. Time to put on the PJ's and get whatever I'm going to eat and get in front of the television. Oh it's time to move from the living room to the library and read or watch something fun. I check my watch all the time. As if it matters.
I have long believed that these little rituals that shape our day give us a kind of continuity. Some times it's good to ignore them. Take a break. But the structure of a given day gives us (or at least me) an unconscious comfort.
I feel relentlessly distracted. Always. But particularly right now. There is something nagging in the back of my mind. Something I can't quite track. Because there is no track. We are all wandering in the land of uncertainty.
Taking a shower. Pillows on the bed. Pajamas and the news. It all matters.
A minute ago (it feels like a minute ago) I wrote a post about morning reading. I'd taken to reading on mornings when I wasn't going swimming and I really enjoyed it. It felt indulgent and luxurious. Now every day is a day that I don't go swimming. After a week or so of morning reading that stretched into afternoon reading, I realized the days were losing shape. I started having breakfast, doing the yoga/bike wheels, taking a shower and getting dressed. Then I settle into the chair and read. Often I split my breakfast into parts. This morning I had cereal and milk. Did all the things. Made a cup of coffee. Got a slice of cranberry bread and then settled in.
It didn't make sense that I was so tired yesterday. I'd slept well. 11:00 is when I have been stopping the reading to post my poem fragment, check email and the like. But I really wanted to read! I kept trying to believe that it didn't matter if I posted at 11:00. I could read for awhile. All scheduling is arbitrary. But I could not concentrate.
I have a bunch of pillows on my bed. It a long silly story. They are decorative. My bed is adjustable so I am never propped up on them. In the evening I take them off and pile them up beside the bed and after the yoga/bike wheels I put them all back on the bed. It takes (maybe) two minutes. When the morning reading stretched into afternoon I often didn't put them back. It didn't seem to matter. Even when I changed my current rhythm (because that's what it is) (rhythm) I wasn't putting the pillows up. One day I looked at the pile and ... just put them up. When I walk down the hall during the day and see them they look pretty and I feel happy.
Before the virus my days were somewhat fluid. But there are these little demarcations. Oh it's time for Chris Hayes and Rachel. Time to put on the PJ's and get whatever I'm going to eat and get in front of the television. Oh it's time to move from the living room to the library and read or watch something fun. I check my watch all the time. As if it matters.
I have long believed that these little rituals that shape our day give us a kind of continuity. Some times it's good to ignore them. Take a break. But the structure of a given day gives us (or at least me) an unconscious comfort.
I feel relentlessly distracted. Always. But particularly right now. There is something nagging in the back of my mind. Something I can't quite track. Because there is no track. We are all wandering in the land of uncertainty.
Taking a shower. Pillows on the bed. Pajamas and the news. It all matters.
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Poetry Month
Two years ago during National Poetry Month (aka April) I posted a fragment of poetry on Twitter every day. It was really fun. I got a lot of response, likes and shares. Maybe the best part was finding Sparrow on Twitter. We follow each other now, which thrills me. I chose somewhat well known poets and fragments that were somewhat recognizable.
Last year I tried again. I picked some what obscure poets and obscure lines and ... the response was tepid. I didn't even finish the month.
Recently, when I was looking for my Borges for a shelving issue, I thought I might do all Borges poems this year. Then came the virus. I spent some time looking for fragments (from anyone) about isolation and illness but I'm not up to it. So I'm back to Borges.
I don't think I'll be as aware of the response because, despite the fact that I have an entire book of his poems, I'm not that familiar with him. I don't really know if I can slice out thirty fragment that don't seem disembodied. And Borges could be kind of a snot. I think it will be fun.
Maybe.
I guess we'll see.
Last year I tried again. I picked some what obscure poets and obscure lines and ... the response was tepid. I didn't even finish the month.
Recently, when I was looking for my Borges for a shelving issue, I thought I might do all Borges poems this year. Then came the virus. I spent some time looking for fragments (from anyone) about isolation and illness but I'm not up to it. So I'm back to Borges.
I don't think I'll be as aware of the response because, despite the fact that I have an entire book of his poems, I'm not that familiar with him. I don't really know if I can slice out thirty fragment that don't seem disembodied. And Borges could be kind of a snot. I think it will be fun.
Maybe.
I guess we'll see.
Sunday, March 29, 2020
Listen
I want to be the person you come to when you're sad and you don't really want to cheer up. I try to just be present. Listen. The same with anger. If you need to vent I want to be the person who can just listen.
Sadness can become an attention getting device and anger can be abusive. I know that. I'm not trying to be a dumping ground. I just feel like it's important to feel through all the feelings we have.
Fear is different. I still try to listen and allow some space but fear is like a room full of fun house mirrors. Things become distorted. If I can shift a perception back to something more grounded I will try.
I don't feel a need to be positive but I've been trying to post things on Facebook that are resources or performances or funny. I don't usually do a lot of re-posting. No reason. I just figure people see things. Facebook and Twitter are swamped with fear at the moment. Of course they are.
I was oddly comforted hearing more than a few health professionals say that they didn't know things. Comforted because that's what feels true. It's the hardest thing. All the things we don't know. And all the things that keep changing. I read, or heard that masks weren't effective and because of the shortages in hospitals we shouldn't be wearing them. Now I'm hearing that even a homemade mask might help if only to stop the spread. And that makes sense. I touch my face all the time. I don't know if I always did and am just more aware of it now but it's crazy. If you have a mask on and you touch your face you minimize exposure. Not when your home but when you go out. I don't actually have a mask but I don't go out.
There was a video in which a doctor was giving advice about how to sanitize groceries. A day or so later there was a long post from a food scientist debunking lots of it. The one that stood out to me is not to wash your apples with soap. Because if you don't get soap rinsed off well enough you might have intestinal problems. All of the information about surfaces had me spinning out. Now I think it's probably OK if you wash your hands. There's lots of talk about how effective hand washing is. In any case it is a thing you can actually do.
This morning I read a post from a doctor describing how easy it is to pass the virus. This afternoon I heard a doctor saying you don't have to be too afraid to go to the store or see people. The shifts of opinions might be inevitable. I just know they have been winding me up from time to time.
The basics always apply. Distance. Try not to touch your face. Wash your hands. Keep your social circle small.
I'm not really having a lot of trouble with fear. I am in my nest with my books. There are cases in the area around me but not many. Certainly not as many as in New York, New Orleans or Italy. I do listen to a certain amount of news and troll Facebook and Twitter. But I'm keeping all of that down as well. Because this fear is hard to sort. It's very real. It is also subject to distortion.
Sometimes I think we confuse fear with sadness. We don't want to feel the overwhelming sadness that comes from knowing that so many people are dying and so many are sick. We don't want to feel the anger of knowing that doctors and nurses don't have the equipment they need. We feel the lack of control and agency. Fear becomes a default.
I will always listen.
It's all I have to give.
Sadness can become an attention getting device and anger can be abusive. I know that. I'm not trying to be a dumping ground. I just feel like it's important to feel through all the feelings we have.
Fear is different. I still try to listen and allow some space but fear is like a room full of fun house mirrors. Things become distorted. If I can shift a perception back to something more grounded I will try.
I don't feel a need to be positive but I've been trying to post things on Facebook that are resources or performances or funny. I don't usually do a lot of re-posting. No reason. I just figure people see things. Facebook and Twitter are swamped with fear at the moment. Of course they are.
I was oddly comforted hearing more than a few health professionals say that they didn't know things. Comforted because that's what feels true. It's the hardest thing. All the things we don't know. And all the things that keep changing. I read, or heard that masks weren't effective and because of the shortages in hospitals we shouldn't be wearing them. Now I'm hearing that even a homemade mask might help if only to stop the spread. And that makes sense. I touch my face all the time. I don't know if I always did and am just more aware of it now but it's crazy. If you have a mask on and you touch your face you minimize exposure. Not when your home but when you go out. I don't actually have a mask but I don't go out.
There was a video in which a doctor was giving advice about how to sanitize groceries. A day or so later there was a long post from a food scientist debunking lots of it. The one that stood out to me is not to wash your apples with soap. Because if you don't get soap rinsed off well enough you might have intestinal problems. All of the information about surfaces had me spinning out. Now I think it's probably OK if you wash your hands. There's lots of talk about how effective hand washing is. In any case it is a thing you can actually do.
This morning I read a post from a doctor describing how easy it is to pass the virus. This afternoon I heard a doctor saying you don't have to be too afraid to go to the store or see people. The shifts of opinions might be inevitable. I just know they have been winding me up from time to time.
The basics always apply. Distance. Try not to touch your face. Wash your hands. Keep your social circle small.
I'm not really having a lot of trouble with fear. I am in my nest with my books. There are cases in the area around me but not many. Certainly not as many as in New York, New Orleans or Italy. I do listen to a certain amount of news and troll Facebook and Twitter. But I'm keeping all of that down as well. Because this fear is hard to sort. It's very real. It is also subject to distortion.
Sometimes I think we confuse fear with sadness. We don't want to feel the overwhelming sadness that comes from knowing that so many people are dying and so many are sick. We don't want to feel the anger of knowing that doctors and nurses don't have the equipment they need. We feel the lack of control and agency. Fear becomes a default.
I will always listen.
It's all I have to give.
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