April 1, 2020
I’ve been the subject of lovely compliments from Tara in a tweet thread or two recently — this one, Monday, particularly nice:
For example, I'm sharing a (decently-sized) studio apartment with another person (which helped make it nice to wander around someplace expansive, like the lake, while it was still too cool out to be crowded) – but at least it's with the person I'd be happiest quarantined with.
— Tara (@tara_ann_) March 31, 2020
Quarantine isn’t exactly the word for our situation, but it’s the expression that’s taken popularly, lately, of course. We aren’t sick, and we get outside for essentials (groceries, mainly).
It can’t be overstated how really irregular and unexpected my life has run since soon after my move to NYC, Dec. 2014, or how weird it is to watch as the pandemic crisis suddenly compelling collective attention simply merges in, in my private experience, with the situation of seemingly permanent moderate-level crisis I’ve been living for years. I don’t like to present my story in these terms — hence, in no small part, the public/private divide on this site. It’s hard to avoid, though. Replying with polite brevity to inquiries about how I’ve been is a long-standing difficulty.
Pride aside, I don’t like to present my story in perpetual-crisis terms especially now, as in spite of everything I enjoy a period of real, exceptional happiness, making (however meagerly) a home for two with someone I love and who — in spite of everything! — very much wants this with me.
If I felt like listing ways my life could be a good deal worse, possibly, than it is, the headlines in this spring of the year of our Lord two-thousand twenty offer a convenient point of departure: a little success, three years ago or so, and I might’ve been still living in New York.