Pandemic Procrastination
(Covidus Interruptus)
So, where is that manuscript?
(Scrolling the screen.) Such a great story.
Ten years in. Perfect time to finish it.
What was that title? It’s in my “Writing” file
somewhere.
Next to “Photos.” (What great pics.
Dang, that was a great vacation!
France. And then the summer cabin in Glacier.
Wait? Whose adorable kittens are those?)
I have got to email my cousin,
The one in Montana – not young anymore –
Just to check on how he’s doing,
Covid 19 and all. But first, get to work here.
Work! Wow, what if this had hit before I retired?
Work from home? Laid off? Fired!
Like all those folks strolling our street.
Who knew there were so many
breeds of dog!
Whew, found the MSS. How’s this for
a title?
“It’s A Wonderful Life.”
(Global Disease Spoiler Alert.)
Okay, may need to change that
But hey, this reads pretty good.
“The days stretched out ahead
Like a fabulous picnic, spread on a checkered blanket…”
Oh crap! What’s for dinner? Cooking in again.
Pick-up meals don’t travel well.
Burgers don’t sizzle. Fries, lukewarm.
Don’t even start about pancakes and over-easy eggs
From my fav breakfast place.
Even if dining at restaurants is now okay,
No way I’m ready for that, swapping invisible viri aerosol
With who-knows which diner hasn’t distanced.
Plus, elastic on the face mask makes my ears stick out,
like Dopey.
“… [O]n a checkered blanket.” Okay, can’t lead with food,
Or happy days ahead. Hmm, “days ahead like empty streets.”
Then, tone down the optimism, but not too dreary.
S**t, I’m not going to rewrite the whole damn thing.
Looks pretty complete now, actually: beginning, middle, end.
Hook, arc, and all. Is ten thousand words too short for a novella?
Gotta know when to stop, right?
I mean I don’t have a lot of time for a full do-over.
Oh. Yeah.
Just the rest of my life.
On Hat Creek
If I stare at this campfire long enough,
Baking my moccasins while slivers
Of morning sunlight creep past my tent
And climb furrowed ponderosas
That tower beside me;
While resolute boulders shoulder aside
Spring-full rapids rushing down the ages
Deafening the silence, will I heed
My bushy-tailed companion’s advice
From across Darwin’s tree?
We watch each other, we two,
In glistening sunlight and wandering shadow,
Like Talmudic scholars, and chitter
On and on about existential mysteries
Posed by a wiser God:
The space-time continuum,
Computer chips, viruses, espresso,
The square root of minus one –
Now, versus then. Or when.
Or if.
Intermezzo
I love opera, the original multi-media event – costumed actors, beautiful staging and sets, huge audiences, and gorgeous music. It’s not called “Grand Opera” for nothing.
During these uncertain times, music is palliative. Whether your tastes run to Beyoncé or Bach, music bypasses the brain and goes straight to the heart.
These days, I binge-watch opera.
Family lore has it that my mother, a UCLA music major, traveled north to Berkeley to visit my dad, a pre-law major living in a raucous fraternity. She’d bribe my father to grab two rugby-type brothers and drive across the bay to the San Francisco Opera House. As a boy it was common for me to see my dad tying his tie and whistling “Un bel di, vedremo” before heading off to work. Even before Pavarotti made “Nessun dorma” his signature piece, it was my dad’s favorite. When he passed away, I listened to it over and over, and sobbed.
My musical rescue lately has been the Metropolitan Opera’s streaming videos—one each night! The Seattle Opera, ARTE from Europe, and YouTubes of iconic performers also bring me comfort and hope.
If your exposure to opera was Bugs Bunny and a buxom, horn-helmeted woman with the Wascally Wabbit warbling “Feee-garrow, feegaro, feegaro,” may I suggest one of the The Big Five: Madame Butterfly, Tosca, or La Bohème, La Traviata, or Carmen? – operas that leave you humming a theme. Spoiler alert: there are no happy endings – a stabbing, Tosca jumping off the parapet into the Tiber. Never mind. The music is glorious, and a good cry is not bad.
For lighter fare try The Marriage of Figaro or the weird The Magic Flute. Wanna get serious? Richard Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelungen, all nineteen hours over four operas!
Opera is universal. A visitor to Italy should seek out a ristorante where the waiter sings his favorite aria while delivering spumoni and biscotti. I’ve seen videos of flash mobs in Paris and Petersburg and London.
Is it an acquired taste? Perhaps. So, try acquiring it. Do sopranos warble? Only the bad ones. Correctly done, it’s called “vibrato.” Many a good pop singer has mastered it.
Whatever, hold any music close ... along with thoughts of loved ones and strangers in need. As Igor Stravinsky said, “I haven’t understood a bar of music in my life, but I have felt it.”
Two tickets, virtual second balcony, please.
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