March, the longest year. Everything since, marked. Folks talked about a before when there was a sense that there would be an after. Yet it is still, somehow, the during.
I watched - experienced, really - a play about The Jungle, about the place that was once referred to as The Jungle. (If you are in DC, it will be playing there from March 16 - April 28). It is not a hopeful play, but it is a play about hope.
“The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions hidden by the answers” - Rankine, in Citizen, quoting Baldwin.
Empty jar: I think to grow beansprouts and look into ordering seeds. Back ordered until May 1.
Egg shells: should I start a mulch pile? Mother had a large empty milk carton by the sink where she'd add stuff to mulch. And now T reports that because they are making every meal, Our mulch pile is so alive.
Sleeping Beauty, yes, that cocoon—
Moby Dick, The Tale of Genji, Anna Karenina—I left Emily Dickinson - Selected Poems edited by Helen Vendler in my office
Notebook: March 20, 2020
A student in Elmhurst cannot sleep for the constant ambulance sirens. She keeps her blinds drawn but sees on tv what is taking place a block away—bodies in body bags loaded onto an enormous truck. The governor calls this The Apex. And late last night, R called—"helicopters are hovering over the building!" She remembers the thrumming over our brownstone in Park Slope on 9/11. And just now I learn that religious people just blocks from her were amassing by the hundreds, refusing social distance. And I am full of rage. Some communities have begun to use drones to disperse people. The president states he has "complete power." And I am filled with rage.
— from Things That Are Changed—March, 2020 by Kimiko Hahn