Paul and Tom got home last night, and Paul has started moving into his new space. He's behaving like a cheerful kid who is pleased to see his parents, though of course he isn't actually cheerful at all. Likewise, his parents are delighted to see him but wish we weren't seeing him. Still, he's making the best of the matter: decorating his room with his knickknacks, setting up his computer on my empty desk, showing us his collection of playbills, hauling around his giant bags of dirty laundry, cooing at the cat, and otherwise being the facsimile of a charming son. It all helps.
This morning I'll be having a phone conference about the future of the Monson high school program. I'll be calling the insurance company to complain (again) about a billing mistake. I'll be trying to buckle down to editing.
And Tom will be venturing out into the world to begin a new job. Who knows how long that will last, but at least it looks like he'll have something to go back to if he's put on hiatus this week, as I suspect he will and should be. Our older son called yesterday to say that his TV show has been shut down for the season. They're giving him two weeks of severance pay, but after that he's out of work. The financial chaos of this pandemic is hard to reckon with.
I feel like my control of syntax and style is going all to hell. Pardon me for these clumsy sentences.
People keep telling me: you should write about this moment in history, and maybe I will, eventually. Maybe all of us will, eventually. For the moment, all I can focus on is trudging forward. We have enough food. I have an editing job to get done. I don't know if anything else will be coming down the pipeline. I don't know what will happen to my summer conferences. I can't think about that now.
My backyard neighbor has a cute new husky puppy. My sideyard neighbor has a lovely garden. My across-the-street neighbor has two skipping, shouting, basketball-bouncing, imaginary-sword-fight-playing children. All of these things are soothing to watch.
I have a bike and a cat and an ocean. I apparently do not have the ability to sleep, but maybe that will come.
Are you doing as well as can be expected? I worry about you too.
3 comments:
I have to go to school soon to put packets together for all my students, and I find that I can't stop crying this morning. I've got to pull it together to be that calm, peaceful teacher that all my students expect. One student has already emailed to speak of his younger brother with respiratory problems. I tossed and turned last night -- we never seem to realize that we are faced with the unknown every day, but this is like walking into a fogbank. Courage. Get dressed. Brush your teeth. Wash your hands. Get walking.
"Walking into a fog bank" is such an apt phrase. I think that's why I feel so unable to plan for anything. A week ago I was in a classroom; I was eating dinner with fellow artists; I was running errands; I was going to the movies. A week ago! That's all it was. What will a week from now be like?
By next week but hopefully sooner, I WILL have adjusted to vision with the fog lights on. I WILL have relaxed my shoulders. I WILL have slept soundly without dreams of mayhem and deliberate incompetence.
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