Dialing Something

3/21/20, Saturday

7am.

Starting to lose my composition, composure and character a bit.  Calming self down and putting on some clean clothes, brushing teeth, the kids finally somewhat calm (yes, there has already been a crazy spat and exchange, a true fucking show, ALREADY this morning), I am at desk.  Wondering how I am going to survive the day.  Since nothing is open, the only thing I can reason is working in car.  May drive to the beach, and just write, plan for next week which I think will be devoted to messaging IT people, forming partnerships and just wishing people well.

Want to go to Storage unit and get my Lawson book, or download it.

Jack comes downstairs and says he wants to make breakfast, passes through the office area and into the kitchen.

I fix him a bowl of cereal after taking something to recycling bin.  Then Emma comes down and wants the same.  They play with some Light-Bright (possibly spelled Lite-Brite, and I don’t know if hyphenated or not) toy, talk to each other and tell what the other is making.  Their conversation calms me like this entry, just sitting and writing.

I play around on the internet, researching office spaces to myself, one that’s not a co-anything.  Lab or other. I promise self that I need log this whole thing, the covid thing and being told to stay in one place like we’re all dogs.  Morning, sun barely showing anything yet in day.  Look left out my quarantine view.  Same.

Emma calls me into kitchen, telling she wants water I get distracted by something Jackie points out about his lite brite and Emma complains that I haven’t retrieved her water yet. I say I’m getting it, and she shouldn’t whine.  “You don’t whine to me.” She fires.  Good point, I think to myself.  We’re all locked up together and any grievance or protest is essentially not so much futile as it is plain useless, and rather dumb.

7:19, and more than a whole day ahead.  “Daddy, we’re going to see —– today!” One of Jack’s friends, which means there will be quiet, a writer’s volume in the house.  Wait, how come they can leave?  IS this shelter order just a suggestion, or is it an actual order?  I don’t care, and neither should anyone else.  You should work. You should keep moving and use this time to create and fixate on what you want.  Shared note to self, obviously.  Thought about writing letters to old friends, Dav, Lila, even Mr. Sedaris.  How would I do that, and would he even read my note?  Sure he’s written daily, thousands of times over.

Left, a small stack of my AE cars on the mantle.  Or is that a hearth.  When will I be back out in the San Rafael Streets, in that Starbucks writing or looking for more leads.  I keep asking myself “When is this going to end?” Then another part of my professing person doesn’t want it to.  I need this time to write, be forced to stay in the chair like I’ve told students over and over, semester over semester.

Well now I’m in the chair and actually writing as I should.  Emma comes into the office area to work with me.  She reads a book to herself, or pretends to.  I turn around to look at my little girl, then right again out the quaint quarantine vista, onto the street with the nosy, crazy neighbors.  Now I know I don’t want to leave.  I start rooting for the virus.  Ask it not to kill anymore people, but keep up with the whole fear thing.  That’s working for you, I tell Covid.  And it’s working for me too, thank you.