Memoirous

In my last post I wrote about visiting the Art Institute of Chicago and the Museum of Contemporary Art. At both I took in NEW exhibits. Of course, we ask ourselves: What is new? I’d venture to say it is art that speaks to us today and hopefully to those in the future. There’s nothing like a plague to drive people into the hands of God and into outpouring of their soul. I mean if you thought the end was near wouldn’t you want to express your innermost longings, desires—or to leave a message for the survivors? Kilroy was here . Medieval art is full of representations of the Black Death: corpses and skeletons. Along with interpretations of the Devil and demons. The macabre was a big draw. Like today: shock jocks pull in an audience and ratings. The church used such depictions to warn congregants against rough living and the vices. The seven deadly sins. Indeed, much of religion was a warning against instead of for living/life. Not a lot has changed. Fast forward to the worldwide p...

I’ve learned several of my friends and others have gotten Covid recently or are NOW experiencing it. Finally. No one expects to die anymore, but the prevalence and transmissibility of this latest variant tells me that it is everywhere and widespread. Mostly I try to imagine a world without Covid or life before the disease. What would I being doing now or what might have been different. It’s almost impossible now to think of a before or an after. It is .   Reality. Every part of my existence has been touched or impacted by Covid. Future generations will only have known it—or the existence of coming pandemics. Thus, I move my mind away from this line of thinking—from the inevitable to watching deer leap across the fields, scurry into the woods, or a rabbit stop, pause, unblinking, before hopping away.  

 Not sure how or when--but I finally caught Covid. Nearly two years after the virus first hit the US I got it.  And, yes, the Great Interrupter lay waste to all my weekend plans. All the glorious weather after months and months of wet and cold--and now I';m inside, resting, drinking lots and lots, and hoping . . . It will soon all be over. Not likely.

 I contributed to an article written by  Alisha Haridasani Gupta  of the NY Times. She is a gender writer and has tackled some big topics in Women's news lately--notably the restriction of abortion rights in many states.  The genesis of my contribution was a call for submissions from the National Women's History Museum looking for "journals" or writing from women during the pandemic. They saw these years/this event as a point in time and history where women's stories might be overlooked. As caregivers as well as ESSENTIAL workers most of us during lockdown have not been inactive. We've had to take on more responsibilities than ever. In this piece are perspectives from an oncologist (just imagine dying during a plague--pretty much batting zero out of zero), a first-time mother--who had to enter a hospital for pre-clampsia  and hold out until the birth of her child in total isolation. The portions of the collection, as well as my full contribution, are online at...

Another sign of re-opening: I browsed the stacks at the public library the other day. I felt like such an interloper, surreptitiously sneaking around the “new arrivals.” I couldn’t stop thinking: I shouldn’t be here. Quick! Get some stuff and run! I kept waiting for a guard to lead me out or someone to say my time was up. I’ve been surviving on hold requests doled out to me like a prisoner meal slipped into a slot in the door. The feeling of walking around and browsing was a bit disorienting. It felt like I was driving on forest roads without a map—never quite sure of which fork to take. Meandering. Lost in stacks of books. Even the smell took some time to get used to. I waited for the old familiar to come back— But it didn’t. I was constantly aware, that this is the first time in 14 months since I was in a library. Not just shuffled past a desk or holds section, but left alone to breathe the air and find a home. I’m still getting used to it.

Sign of the Times As things slowly let up from the restrictive Corona virus lockdown, I’m beginning to see signs of life. But before, as I rode my bike to work, going up Willamette, I’d pass the Veteran Memorial Hall with a kind of ironic sign on the side of the building. A sign that reminded me that there was a Before and, hopefully, an After. It read: Live Music Here, Tuesday – Saturday. Obviously, there was no live music right now. It was closed up tight. The grassy lawn a little worse from none-wear. The white structure appeared dingy and sad in the winter and early spring rain, the neglected sign emblematic of the lockdown orders that suddenly stopped life—as we know it. The pause, the interruption—if we’re lucky to have survived. The sign a reminder of all that had happened and would eventually come back again. Even the word “live” had a kind of sardonic resonance, Pointedly pointing to the very act of living. The letters just hung there, waiting—either to be taken down or altere...

Remember. Squint your eyes and think back, back to that feeling of having stepped off a cliff. It was right around St. Patrick’s Day 2020. When the world shut down. Of course we’d been hearing about the virus and seen pictures of exhausted doctors and nurses and the staggering death toll in Italy. But here in the US, with our walls and borders and nationalistic superiority, we were immune. Then the first case, second, third. A death. Then it was everywhere. No one knew how to stop it. I remember sitting and thinking in a detached sort of way that people I knew were probably going to get it. People I knew might die. I might die. So I had to let go. Still the next day, waking up after the shut down, I had nowhere to go and no to-do list. It had all been obliterated. I get my energy from doing and I knew I wouldn’t last long anyway at my age, so I volunteered to go over to the shelter to cook lunch. I decided I wanted to die with my boots on. So many people who worked at...

I was confused about where to start. November 5 th was my birthday and as we all know it has been chaotic. It is hard to think back over the year. I mean sooooo much has happened. Friendships have unraveled; there have been breaks and new alliances formed. With the advent of the pandemic there have been life-altering decisions. This much I know: it is impossible to know. I’ve stopped saying anything is for sure.  So after working as an election judge on Nov. 3 rd and making it through a long day of possible Covid exposure and in general a long day of work, I decided to reward myself by signing up for a writing craft class through OCWW. It was a breath of fresh air, reminding me of my “old” life—BUT, chaos broke through. I got a text that someone I knew had tested positive for Covid. I immediately was thrown in quarantine.  Even the person dropping off a present at my door had to hurry away as she was also exposed to this same person. We were caught up in a Covid dragne...

In my reading of Sister Corita and her techniques I came across the ultra-simple finder. The finder is a square or rectangle—THINK: a projection slide with the film part removed—used to focus or narrow down onto a detail. It allows us to visually exclude in order to see more clearly a smaller part of a whole. When is a bottle more than just a shape made of glass—when we can re-frame it as a blue sky or luminescent lake surface. So many things become Other. Tatsuya Tanaka is a Japanese artist who has been using masks and other household items to create pocket-sized scenes. He is an example of someone using Covid to make something new. The ordinary suddenly takes on new meaning—and for a moment we can chuckle, our minds wandering elsewhere.  https://www.designboom.com/art/tatsuya-tanaka-escapist-miniature-scenes-face-masks-household-items-08-03-2020/ You can find Tanaka on    Instagram  . do you see? staples!

Since March I’ve been thrown into all kinds of Covid havoc. All the things we used to say such as you are not the product of your productivity or your identity is not your job might have worked at one time—like when I had a job, before the pandemic lay waste to my routine. People who still have a routine or are kept busy with Zoom meetings seem to have no idea of how it feels to flounder, to be unmoored without time structure. It was a big reason by I simply took off at the end of May when things opened up to do my cross-country bike trip to Seaside, OR. On my bike ride I experienced structure—albeit one I had no control over. I never knew what the day’s weather or roads might bring. You can have a map, but that only goes so far in telling us how the journey will transpire. I’d awake everyday before dawn and as a sliver of yolk was breaking on the horizon was ready to set out. I’d eat and rest as needed (or not, again as the road allowed). By evening I was READY to stop. I’d shower...

 I can’t begin to describe how much I hate 2020. Suffice it to say it has been difficult. I’m constantly on the lookout for wellness solutions. I rode my bike 2,500 miles to the West Coast. I bought a Britta water pitcher. I either run or take an hour-long walk, getting outside daily. I don’t hesitate to eat ice cream. I’m intentional about scheduling calls with friends to catch up, sending cards and letters. Yet nothing can dispel this unease with myself and my life. Part of it is a lack of routine. At least when I was on my epic bike ride I knew what my job was each day: to get somewhere, to pedal and make miles. There was never a problem with motivation; I had a purpose. Since returning home I’m left with discovering what I need to be about. Even writing feels like tossed salad, words chopped and mixed up, trying to find meaning. What feels good? Standing yesterday at the edge of the sand and watching the water wash in. There was a duck on a raft of tree corp...

When my daughter was in college and would call home with a crisis—and believe me they were, not to belittle them—I’d say this isn’t the end of the world. That is going to look a lot different. It was my attempt to interject some perspective. Now that I’m in a crisis of, well, too much to list at the moment, I feel I need some perspective. Except it is the end of the world. Who could have imagined a worldwide pandemic and the United States falling behind, losing status? Its people tearing each other apart. I mean I did imagine it. Ages ago, in 2011, I wrote a flash called “Before the World Changed” that has been reprinted and anthologized since then. In this piece I lyrically laid out the incremental steps that take over a middleclass couple. How they shifted and adjusted their lifestyle either because of environmental pressures or even an ecological outlook and events rapidly took over and directly began to impact their life and economy. See story here: But, now that the wo...

People keep saying I’m brave. I’m not tracking—I mean just because I rode my bike across the United States by myself at age 61? During a pandemic? Riding a bike felt natural and it helped me forget about Covid. If anything I was safer, out in the countryside, away from crowds. Nothing beats social distancing like riding solo. I could go all day without talking to a soul. How is this different from quarantine? At least while on my bike I felt alive, strong, capable—if even at the time I doubted my ability. Sitting in my tent at night, watching the sun lower and dusty dusk filter around me, the quiet all around, I knew I’d done this, my body had gotten me to this place. I loved that feeling of self-satisfaction. It’s what’s missing in my life now.

Another in my series of the Corona Files Last month. I was upset that my conference got canceled, my email inbox was stuffed with notices of cancelations or postponements, I couldn’t plan from one day to the next if I’d have an appointment or a meeting. I learned to pivot, getting used to the new normal. Purell was still available. I rode my bike to my workout class where we laughed about the people we knew who were over-reacting. Then. The workouts got cancelled. Three weeks ago I downloaded Zoom and learned about Google chat. It wasn’t the same as meet-ups and the audio was glitchy, but hey, it worked. First it was groups of 50, then 20, then 10, we couldn’t congregate. We were told to social distance. I bought the last roll of toilet paper. I found myself switching back and forth from my work to the latest news. A friend gave me a link to a pattern to make masks. Then. The governor called for a shelter-in-place. Two weeks ago I picked up the phone and called ...

Another in my series of the Corona Files Now I know what it feels like to be depressed. It’s like swimming in syrup, unable to start or finish a task—let alone a to-do list. It’s the grief pressing down, making my arms, legs, hands, feet heavy. I can’t concentrate; I push the button to make coffee twice and come back to see rivers of it flooding the counter. I go into the kitchen for something and stand there. Not that this hasn’t happened before. I just called it low energy or an off-day. And, maybe it lasted a day or two, but not 10 days going on till . . . . we don’t know when. Until the lockdown is lifted.