Let the isolation commence!

I write to you hunched on my sofa, swaddled in a wool blanket I bought from an old mining town tat shop in the Sonora desert. The hum of electrical appliances strangles silence. I imagine a clock ticks, because I certainly don’t own one. I have always had an irrational dislike of facing time. I prefer it a wooly concept, like conceptual art, the internet of things or the dishwasher. I prefer life in the abstract.

Good writing gets to the point. And I do not want to get to the point. I am procrastinating because I do not want to write that today, time stands still. My life becomes an abstraction. Any other time, I would love it. I would properly relish the opportunity to float away from the world, untethered. But today, every part of me thrums with life, ready to juicy bite out of an infinite nowness. And I can’t. Because today I have to remove myself from society for three months. Because I have a kidney transplant and while I rarely ever consider myself anything other than Empress of the Known and Unknown Universe, She Who Must Be Obeyed, I am also an actual human being with vulnerability. And god do I feel it right now.

Of course, I don’t actually have to lock myself in a cupboard for twelve weeks. That would be ridiculous. Merely move through the world like a whisper, an unmoored phantom, a prisoner with an offal ball and chain. Don’t you fucking touch me, I’m made of blood-stained glass.

I would like to think I will use this time to write some sort of revolutionary fiction, launch a cutting-edge brand consultancy, create boundary-breaking art. I was ever desperate to prove myself worthy, to prove that a weak body can house a brilliant mind. But the truth is, I don’t think I will do any of those things. I was never a closer, and always a vague disappointment. High possibility, low probability.

So I record my memories. Because what else can I do? The truth is that I write words for cereal packets that no one ever reads, and very occasionally, someone chuckles at a joke I hid on a chocolate bar. Those words shill commercial fantasy, they are all fuzz and bluff. A flossy little fancy you rent to make the day pass pleasantly. Memory is something else. Something we have to dig into the soil of our souls for. It’s in the bones.

There are memories, and sadnesses and joys to be shared. I hope you can share with me as I share here. Why? I suppose to show that even though the darkness is choking, we strive for light. To show that we matter. That we haven’t given up.

Excerpt of the Eclectica newsletter by brand writer, strategist and human Becca Magnus, going slowly mad after one single day of self-isolation. It’s going to be a long three months. Sign up to the newsletter: https://tinyletter.com/beccamagnus