Written in early April but unpublished until now. I never finished it. Posting as is.
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| Young Woman at the Window, Sunset, Henri Matisse, 1921. |
A few weeks ago, I had energy around preparations for self isolation. But now, the isolation has set in. School has been out since mid-March and the Governor of Iowa has cancelled school until the end of April. Governor Reynolds is resisting ordering shelter-in-place, but I still think I should plan as if one is coming (and if not, to still operate as if there were one because it's simply a good idea). I'm starting to think of all the things that won't happen. No farmers markets, no Play Station, no Eco Fest, no Pride Fest, no traveling, no playgrounds. No dinner parties, no play dates, no, no, no.
The length, which is unknown. The sameness. Every. Day.
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| Usine de Mes Pensées (Factory of my thoughts), Suzanne Duchamp, 1920. |
I am a person for whom things take a long time. I often feel like my weeks are equivalent to regular people's days, in terms of busyness and productivity. I often feel guilty about taking too long between visits to friends, or finishing a project, or not accomplishing [name anything]. And now, I have a legitamate reason/excuse! But having that does not make me feel better. It's still a loss to me whether it's self-instigated or not.
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Solitude entonnoir (Funnel of Solitude), Suzanne Duchamp, 1921.
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