Little Fires Everywhere, by Celeste Ng: I grew up in a suburb similar to the Shaker Heights setting of this (also in Ohio, though Cincinnati instead of Cleveland; ours was not a planned community like Shaker Heights, and I think it was slightly more conservative/less self-congratulatory about being progressive, but maybe I just didn’t clock that attitude as a kid…) just a couple of years after Ng, so the references all hit. The plotting is good, though a little predictable – I say that as someone in general awe of successful plots, since that’s the hardest element of writing for me. Now I’m watching the series on Hulu, which is…okay.

Recursion, by Blake Crouch: My initial thought about this was “It’s so fun!” but I grew a bit weary of the premise and the spinning off of that premise as the book went on. It was still fun in the end, though the writing was really uneven – sometimes decent, other times sounded like it had been written by subpar AI. I will NOT dare to wade into questions of “what makes a novel a genre book/what makes a novel literary fiction” (okay, I’ll dip in a toe…marketing, in large part), but – I’m going to transgress here – I think I was expecting it to be more literary (I see from looking at a few reviews that it really wasn’t marketed as such, so if we’re using different measurement devices for different genres, I was probably judging it by the wrong rubric). I did like the premise, but it’s hard to sustain something like that.

Swamplandia! by Karen Russell: This blew me away to the point where I’m not sure I can even type about it without either sobbing or laughing one of those uncontrollable laughs that often crosses over into crying. It’s an amazing story, with an ending that hits perfectly, but the writing on a sentence level is even more phenomenal. All of Russell’s images are genius, but I was particularly taken by her skill with verbs. Incredibly deft and clever without ever feeling cheap. Swamplandia! is absolutely singular, but the prose and setting brought to mind both Geek Love (and in the acknowledgments Russell notes Katherine Dunn as an influence) and Barry Hannah. I haven’t read either of Russell’s short story collections, and having those in my future makes me as happy as anything has since quarantine started. I’m beside myself with feelings.

Dopesick, by Beth Macy: I read Dreamland (also about the opioid crisis, and very compelling and well done) two years ago and wondered initially if this would feel at all like a retread…but the first review I found for Dopesick noted that it was published in 2018, while Dreamland was from 2016 and pre-Trump. Okay, sold – but ultimately I’m not sure it made much of a difference. Dopesick is a more region-focused look at the epidemic, and doesn’t delve at all into the more removed origins of heroin (which Dreamland does in depth). Dreamland was definitely much more compelling to me, but there’s certainly room for more than one book and angle.

Freshwater, by Awaeke Emezi: I’m not sure if I saw this on a list of recommended books or if it was something I clicked on while scrolling through the “available now” Kindle offerings of the Brooklyn Public Library, but I started it late at night (early in the morning, technically) and stayed up later than was advisable reading the first 1/3 of it before falling asleep with the Kindle resting against my hand. I don’t want to say too much about it because I think the experience benefits, the way certain movies do, from not having too much information going in. The opening is elliptical but not hard to follow or piece together; the writing is sharp and poetic. Two points of fascination: on their website, Emezi describes this as an “autobiographical novel” and I wonder to what degree they mean; the name Awaeke is eerily close to “Awake.” Emezi has another novel coming out in August, so that’s something for me to look forward to.

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The Need, by Helen Phillips: This book is fucking amazing. It’s my last read of the ten books long-listed for the National Book Award in fiction, and I definitely would have made it a finalist…it’s so amazingly odd in its beats. It’s also hard to discuss without giving too much away. I think I’ve heard people describe it as being “a trick,” “about a child,” and “the story of a paleobotanist,” and when someone asked me about it I wavered for a while before saying it was about motherhood and dualities, some more literal than others. The structure is perfect, the language is fresh, and the ending – which was going to have a hard time living up to the rest of the book/tying things up without being pat – was executed expertly. It will likely be one of my favorite books of 2020.

In the Distance, by Hernan Diaz: This book has lived on the floor next to my bed for six months, as I renewed and renewed it from the library since it wasn’t on hold. It should be on hold. Everyone should read it. I don’t remember where I saw it recommended, but once I’d received it I read the description again and thought it might be a miss for me…historical fiction and set in the west (granted, Blood Meridian is one of my favorites, so maybe I should have been more immediately excited about this one). It’s beautiful and uncanny, completely mesmerizing. Without giving too much away, the main character’s journey and the endless open plains on which he makes it felt tonally perfect for the early days of voluntary quarantine.

The Human Stain, by Philip Roth: Reading this in quarantine was slightly jarring somehow. The writing is excellent and the story is totally compelling (this was actually my first Roth novel – I’d only read Goodbye Columbus) but there was something…cunning about it? As if he had carefully selected which characters would say which things in order to very neatly sidestep potential criticism for those sentiments.

10:04, by Ben Lerner: I wanted to say “I don’t think I like meta-fiction” but that revealed my shallow understanding of the meta-fiction canon – I do, in fact, like Slaughterhouse 5, Pale Fire, If on a winter’s night a traveler, and Cloud Atlas…so I guess what I disliked here was either the execution or the more specific self-referentiality of the narrator, rather than that of the text. There were many things I did like – the return to various types of imagery, the ideas, the connective tissue among those ideas and motifs – but the meta elements didn’t do anything for me except frustrate me. An odd quibble: though I always appreciate a return to/new layering upon images that have already appeared, I was distracted by the repetition of several words throughout – namely craquelure, dissection, proprioception.

The Most Human Human, by Brian Christian: I went to college with the author, and I remember him posting about the book (and the contest that’s central to it, the Loebner prize) at the time, but somehow never read it until now. Because it’s from 2011 (and focuses on 2008-9), I wondered if it would be outdated, but although AI and technology are central to the premise, the specifics of current AI aren’t so important. Most fun for me are the inquiries into communication structure and linguistics. The situation is AI and the Turing test, but the story is “what are humans trying to create when we try to create AI that behaves in a human-like way?”

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Two really excellent decisions that took place with no pandemic in sight but now seem as if they were perfectly planned:

1. My boyfriend gave me an Aerogarden for my birthday last year, and now there are salad greens growing in my bedroom
2. Two Christmases ago I had all of my middle-grade and young adult fiction shipped to my Brooklyn apartment (it was…a large number of pounds of books, because as a kid I never wanted anything but books, and my parents felt bad that I had to have braces twice, so my reward for going to the orthodontist was a trip to the nearby bookstore), and now I’ve decided it’s time to reread all of them…and possibly narrate the process. Don’t worry, I’ll refrain from starting a podcast (people have already gotten there first, in any case, with their Babysitter’s Club and American Girl pods…but I don’t know if anyone has done non-series titles…anyway, I’ll stick to blog posts)

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I think I intended to title a post “28 Days Later” (original, I know) but time is so stretchy that 28 days came and went and I didn’t have this tab open, so I forgot.

Then I started it again on day 30.

Now it’s day…37?

30 days. That’s a whole unlimited metro card. My brain is not moving seamlessly anymore, but thinking only in discrete units of time. One month. How many more?

We are of course lucky. We’re not sick, we’re not driving each other nuts, we still have much of our previous employment. I miss the springtime, which feels far from here. I miss smelling things (I haven’t lost my sense of smell – there just isn’t anything of note to smell in here). I miss my parents. I wish we had the Olympics to look forward to. Of course these are petty complaints.

When we have to go out – to Rite Aide, when we can’t get groceries delivered – we go out at 1 am, wearing masks and sunglasses and looking like bug people. Our one-block journey takes us directly past a police station, where there are nearly always at least a dozen officers gathered, laughing and talking, so close to one another, no masks in sight. It’s like we’re inhabiting two different planets.

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Back in Manhattan, 250 square feet. We go to Rite Aide wearing masks and scarfs, goggles or sunglasses even though it’s 1:30 am (we’re trying to go when no one else is there). It turns out the Rite Aide cleans their floors at that time, which is generally good but specifically bad because it’s kicking up mist and we have a fear of aerosols (I know about the floor-cleaning Zamboni only secondhand, because my role was to wait outside of the store – not too close to the entrance – to help carry things home, so that only one of us would be around (hypothetical) people. So I have no mask on, just a winter hat with earflaps into which all of my hair is tucked, which would look incongruous for this early spring night if there were anyone to see it. We can only see the police officers at the nearby station and hear a group of people in the parking lot across from it. A group of people? Surely they’re not actually in a physical group – maybe they’re at their windows? I try to peer into the lot as we pass and think I see people gathered around a car, but I don’t pause to be sure.

I don’t remember if it was before we ventured out or after we came back empty-handed that the fireworks started. It sounded like they were coming from the backyard, but I didn’t see any light when I went to the window. Who is setting off fireworks? There are enough frightening loud noises as it is.

About the backyard: this is a small building, and most of the tenants seem to have left the city. The backyard used to be easily accessed, and now there’s a sign that forbids residents from entering or from touching the door that leads out there. This is not because of the virus. It is, actually, because of us. When the building smelled of gas one night, we called Con Edison, and when they arrived they determined that what we were smelling was spilled gasoline…but then they found an unrelated gas leak, called the superintendent to come unlock the door to the building’s basement, quickly grew annoyed by his stalling, and had the fire department come break down the door. The super and the landlord were not thrilled by this and told us as much, but we did not find their argument (“you should have called us and we would have told you it was just spilled gasoline”) compelling, given that there was an actual gas leak that we wouldn’t have known about otherwise.

That evening, back in January, COVID was known but not yet looming; a gas leak was far more frightening. The Con Ed workers stayed – in the backyard and basement – until after 1 am, jackhammering and doing who knows what else. Our private suspicion was that they found illegal construction and that the new “no tenants allowed” signs are to prevent something like that from happening again. As such, since it doesn’t seem like they want people to stay away because of danger but because of nosiness, we decided that the yard might be the safest outdoor space we can access for the next…period of our lives.

But the person who really deserves to have use of the yard is a woman who lives two floors up, who’s lived in the building for decades and generally takes care of it and makes sure things are okay even though she’s not affiliated with building management or ownership. This afternoon, when I looked out the window, I saw her gardening there. Humans in the natural world! It was the best sight of the day.

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We walked from the East Village over the Manhattan bridge back to my apartment in Brooklyn on Tuesday. It was heartening to see most people doing as we were – moving to the side of the road/sidewalk when other people were approaching, avoiding stopping to wait for traffic lights in the same spot as others, etc. We managed to frogger our way through downtown Brooklyn pretty easily, though there was one woman who walked directly at us while crossing the street and proclaiming into her phone, “I’m not going to get it! I’m a young, vigorous woman!” upon which we skittered away like bugs, less afraid of cars than human vectors.

I lost my sweatshirt jacket somewhere between Manhattan and Brooklyn, or more likely when we stopped to rest at a bench on the Brooklyn end of the bridge. I had been wearing it draped over my head to provide some modicum of sun protection – even in these times we still found ourselves thinking, “Oh no, I forgot to put on sunblock!” and “I didn’t bring earplugs to protect against the screeching of the subway,” these quaint, tiny measures to protect our health that we used to follow with such vigilance. So I was wearing my sweatshirt over my head and trying to stuff the fabric into my ears when the train passed. And now it’s…somewhere on the ground, c’est la vie.

Last night was the first time NYC applauded for health care providers and grocery store workers and sanitation departments and post officers, etc., (or it was the first time we heard it?), and even though I’ve seen tweets to the effect of “my doctor friend doesn’t care if you cheer for her, she cares if you elect responsible politicians” (which I agree is more important!), both things can happen simultaneously, and I admit to feeling a mix of “now I’m going to cry” crossed with the old, weird, classroom/choir anxiety of “is it too late to join in now? Have I missed it? Will people be able to hear (gasp, horror) my voice?” and a touch of the anticipation one gets before fireworks (granted, it also sounded like someone in the neighborhood was setting off firecrackers, which…is this really the time?)

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City-mandated social distancing is technically only three days old, although we’ve been doing it for more than a week now since we were fortunate enough to be able to work from home starting then.

To stay spirited, we’ve developed series of actions that functions both as a routine to “keep us sane” and a way to measure just how much that sanity has slipped. A coded system that doesn’t rely on colors or numbers. Roughly in order of plot-based to losing-the-plot:

• Reach out to friends
• Continue doing some form of physical activity. A gallon of water weighs more than 8 pounds! (This is…not useful to me personally)
• Dust bust!
• Bed karaoke
• Gather family and in-laws online at www.wordsplay.com (is it Word Splay or Words Play? Intrigue!) and then figure out how to play Drawful remotely.
• Procure a table so that the bed is not the only place from which to work or Skype
• Discover that tolerance level for wine has followed the same trajectory as the US stock market: that is, after half of a glass, my ears turn bright red and hot, just like they did the first time I had several inches of a wine cooler when I was 18.
• Fold all of the clothes and putting them in the closet, instead of allowing them to continue their typical migration pattern of washer/dryer –> floor between washer/dryer and refrigerator, sometimes draped across two table-less chairs –> drawers under the bed if they’re lucky –> thrown onto the single easy chair until its shape is completely obscured –> getting picked up and examined to see if dirty, and thrown into the empty laundry machine if yes.
• Armpit farts vs. back-of-the-knee farts: a battle royale
• A definitive and exhaustive examination into all of our possible misconceptions about the world. Is it really bad to microwave plastic even if it’s a frozen food item that TELLS you to microwave it? (We haven’t looked into this one yet but the answer is YES, YES IT IS BAD, never give me anything that has been sopping up plastic particles in a dinner food sauna for 90 seconds). Does the heel of the bread loaf REALLY contain more nutrients, or was that just a statement parents everywhere devised to get out of having to eat the end piece themselves?
• Are those stomach noises hunger, digestion, or did you eat something particularly weird while I wasn’t looking?
• Detailed descriptions of what the woman who lives in the apartment above ours is likely wearing, based on her footsteps
• Trying to plug your computer charger into your phone and not understanding why it won’t fit
• Holding a wedding for our pair of Line Friends stuffed animals, who are either dressed as each other/wearing each other’s skins, because “one of them is already wearing white and the other is wearing a (skin) suit” (we have a number of these stuffed creatures – these two from Line Friends and the others from BT21)
• How many times can we listen to/watch “My Stick” and “Seagulls (Stop It Now)” before tiring of them? (There’s a reason this item is last. The reason is: we are still listening to them.)

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…you know, like idle…

Why no, I have not done reams of writing and editing this weekend, but I have probably read several fathoms of Twitter feed.

I’m working on a short story that takes place during the August 2017 eclipse, and what I wouldn’t give for that to be the collective event everyone’s talking about right now!

And growing salad greens.

And trying to keep up with exercising; I was so proud that my resting heart rate had dropped as low as 67 for the first time ever (since getting a FitBit, but realistically…ever), and now that I haven’t been in two weeks and have been reappropriating my former elliptical time for More Anxiety, my rhr is at 75. It fluctuates, but I was on a good streak of staying below 73.

And practicing all of the songs from Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the harp.

I still do pilates on a yoga mat that fits between my bed and my door, and for which I only occasionally have to open my closet door to spread my arms out adequately, infrequently bang a foot against my dust buster, sometimes have to scoot nearly under the bed.

Grocery stores and pharmacies in my neighborhood all have ample toilet paper. The cold/cough aisles are fairly picked over, but Charmin is stacked in pyramids.

Every time I see an image of the pandemic curves, I want to reach out and physically squish them into the shape we’re after, as if they were made of modeling clay. And from relative lack of use – the walking to and from the subway, or the coffee shop, or the library, is no small thing in aggregate – my body is starting to feel less human and more like clay. And really less like clay and more like one of the gummy erasers you can stretch apart and then force back together, until what started out pliable and clean has the consistency and grayness of old gum.

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I was supposed to go to Philadelphia yesterday to visit my cousin, and even yesterday morning I thought for sure I would still go. I’d be taking the train, not flying; my cousin is my age, not older, and not high risk; I was still working and taking the subway as of Tuesday, so it wouldn’t be much different; it would be easy to come back to NYC if needed. Also, I was only going for 48 hours and it was looking like it might be my last trip anywhere for a long time.

I didn’t go because by yesterday afternoon things felt so different from how they felt 48 hours earlier that I could imagine everything would feel that much or more different (the exponential growth of a collective feeling of dread, if you will) by the time I got back to NYC on Saturday. There was a definite shift towards buying groceries, staying away from the subways, and working from home. I’m not super worried about getting coronavirus myself – though I’d prefer not to – but if it’s easy for me to stay in, not get infected, and not potentially infect higher risk people around me, well, obviously I should do those things.

I have students who are taking the ACT in April and are wondering if it’s going to be canceled. It’s hard for me to resist cracking a joke about how keeping students six feet apart from one another is just good anti-cheating practice, regardless of what state or stage of pandemic we’re in (and why is it that high school and college cheating is so frequently referred to as “epidemic”? That’s a rhetorical question).

I’d much rather do these things now and have people look back and say “we overreacted” (note: I do not think we’re remotely overreacting) – if the worst thing that comes from overreacting is a surplus of rice and cliff bars and a little less vitamin D, why not overreact, when the worst that could come from failing to act is so dire? The situations in Italy and Iran are dire and we have the benefit of being a few weeks behind them during the course of this. Preparation and proactivity don’t necessitate panic. They prevent future panic.

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Covid sounds close to co-morbid. Co-morvid? What are the afflictions that come, hand in (thoroughly washed) hand, with Coronavirus? Malaise, both physical (quarantine, avoidance of gyms as petrie dishes even in the healthiest of times, lack of movement beyond a certain safe-feeling radius) and mental: we’re in a holding pattern, as if the entire globe is a single plane circling above its destination indefinitely, uncertain of when we’ll land, what the landing will feel like, or if we’ll run out of fuel first. A terrible snow day that doesn’t have an end in sight.

The event that marked my first year of college was 9/11 – it didn’t affect me in the same way it affected students who had just moved to NYC, or my classmates who were from NYC, but it defined our year and especially our fall. Classes weren’t canceled immediately (and, obviously, the tenor of the tragedy made cancelations a step taken for emotional reasons rather than physical ones), and students without direct connections to New York wandered around Providence – the city we’d lived in for just two weeks – speculating abstractly about the event, until they ran into a friend or unit-mate from New York and suddenly nothing was theoretical anymore.

Many of the students I teach now weren’t born in 2001. Some of those who were (barely) are now in their first year of college, not yet sure if they’ll be going back to finish second semester. They’ve spent their entire lives online to one degree or another, and either because of this or in spite of this they’re desperate to go back, physically, to the places they’ve only recently begun to think of as their own.

There’s is something poetic about the measures we take to minimize risk and exposure. I envision the standard protocols – wash your hands, don’t touch your face, avoid groups, no hugs or handshakes – as a series of face masks, each filtering out smaller and smaller particles. None is a guarantee of continued health, but each reduction builds on your percent chance of not getting sick. On its own each might be minimally effective, a wet piece of tissue struggling to sustain a heavy burden, but as the layers increase so does the strength.

I keep wanting to not post this until I’ve revised it or thought about it SUPER carefully to make sure I’m saying what I mean, but everything is changing so fast that if I do that, everything I’ve said will be out of date.

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