High Bridge over the River Cherwell at University Parks, Oxford.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that one would much rather be having adventures oneself than listening to other people describe theirs, especially when the adventures in question take place abroad. I can’t tell you how many times I sat scratching my elbows while listening to high school or college or later friends describe some fabulous place or other––fabulous in their memory, but somewhat less so in the listener’s mind. There are few pleasures that aren’t shared pleasures.
So I’m not going to sit here and tell you about the oh-so-fabulous Oxford, or even about my misadventures there and on the way back. In the age of COVID-19, everyone has a tale of woe to share, and mine is less interesting than most, and fairly typical: isolation, spiraling depression, timely interventions by friends and family, an unnecessarily complicated and stressful return, missed opportunities, and regrets. There was some truly excellent tucker mixed in, which is sort of confusing. Eating one’s way into the apocalypse doesn’t quite feel like a done thing, but what can I say? M. and N. have fabulous taste in cookery, even when everyone’s panic buying everything except the contents of the “American Section.” Only the Twinkies were low, and I’m not sure what that says for the endless rows of Nerds candy and America’s culinary offerings in general.
I’m home. In self-quarantine. Trying to figure out what comes next. Other than the second half of the two-year-old chocolate bar I started this afternoon. It’s exciting what you can find on the back pantry shelf when alone in a house for two weeks with nothing but work and Instagram #CoronaKitchen challenges to do.
Oh, and there was an earthquake today! Nothing someone with some true California shakes under their belt can’t handle, but definitely something of a concern here within the blast radius of the Yellowstone caldera, should the park ever truly get mad over all those tourists shoving bison calves into their SUVs. I was sitting at the table refining an internal monologue on the subject of small local businesses I would love to be saving right now if only I could leave the house when the hanging lamp above me began to sway and the windowpanes rattle. I spent the thirty or so seconds of the duration trying to figure out if I could actually see the resonant frequency of the dining room carpet or if I was seeing distortions in the deeply scratched anti-scratch coating of my reading glasses. Reading glasses which used to be my regular glasses until a friend’s two yellow labs decided to run off with them in the middle of the night while I was sleeping on her couch.
I’m so easily distracted.
The earthquake was a doozy (6.5 in magnitude) near its epicenter, but luckily that epicenter was off to the southwest instead of the southeast, closer to Boise than Old Faithful. My niece, who is a huge fan of volcanoes, was able to confirm that Yellowstone is, in fact, a big one and that Michigan “doesn’t have any plates.” I’m probably misquoting her a little, but that’s alright since we’ll be swapping snippets of geological obsessions for many years yet. I’ll make it up to her by sneaking her off to Arches or Zion or Bryce or the Grand Canyon or Canyonlands or my favorite, the most Capit’l of Reefs. Maybe we can put together a GoFundMe to raise money to go obsess over Hawaii’s lava flows, or smuggle ourselves onto a spacecraft bound for Io.
I haven’t really had time to come up with a plan for my summer, yet. The Big Plan was all to do with surviving until I could take the Big Trip, which of course morphed beautifully into the Big Disaster because of the Big Virus. I’d had a fairly good idea of what to do with my April before I left, even, but of course that’s all on fire with the rest of the tires in the garbage heap of all our hopes and dreams for 2020. I’m sure I’ll grow some plants only to accidentally kill them (a long and storied tradition of mine), take a hike or two (assuming I can find some friends who are willing to venture out), and pick up a paintbrush or pen (although what I’m supposed to do with them next, I have no idea). This is the only time of my life where I’m slightly envious of my sisters for something they’re actually kind of struggling with, which is having stir-crazy kids stuck in the house all day.
I know how to entertain kids. What I don’t know is how to entertain myself.
We’re closing out month two of not having finished any books worth mentioning. I managed to flip through the tiny Ken Follett minibook fundraiser for the Notre Dame Cathedral repairs, and this little humorous book my sister gave me that’s full of cute little illustrations and object lessons on why spaceflight is a terrible idea. I’m maybe two hundred pages into the latest Hilary Mantel book, too, but since that book is close to 900 pages and qualifies as a functional ottoman in thickness and density it turns out I’ve barely made a dent.
There’s really nothing of interest going on in my life whatsoever unless you happen to be my parents (hiiiiii) or a medical professional in the behavioral health, optical sciences, or pain management fields. My days are full of downloading different apps for videoconferences and webinars, and staring at that beautiful orange my housemate gave me on my first day back that I still haven’t eaten, even though I want to and I stare longingly at it every day. That orange knows what it’s about. It’s such a perfectly orangey orange.
But who am I and what am I meant to be doing with my life? Perhaps I need to try my hand at orangeing. I’m sure it’s a valuable state of being. Especially since I’ve eaten the other half of that chocolate bar.
More soon, although you’ll probably regret reading more to the same degree I regret not eating a boatload of patisserie in Paris while on vacation.
xx Kend
I can’t even remember which city this was. Atlanta? Salt Lake City? Missoula? I CAN’T REMEMBER.