Meditations in a Pandemic
One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes — I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life.
I reread Meditations in an Emergency by Frank O’Hara this summer when reading a book called meditations in an emergency felt relevant and poignant. But it was really this one line from the title poem that stuck out to me.
I can’t event enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store.
It felt like it really named something that I had always felt about myself. At the time, I was in fact living across the street from a record store. I was in fact living in probably my most ideal apartment. A few blocks from BART, close to my favorite bars, a coffee shop a block away, and a backyard (which I only took advantage of after the pandemic hit).
I have always considered myself a “city girl” which is funny because I grew up in the suburbs. But I think the suburbs of Los Angeles are a different beast. And we grew up going to concerts, and museums, and operas, and going out for coffee in the evenings. And that’s the life I always wanted to live. That’s the life I had been living. Dancing, drinks with friends, Saturday walks around the lake that’s nestled amongst the buildings.
And then of course, the pandemic. And suddenly my two-bedroom apartment with the backyard in the middle of Temescal felt confining, rather than the backdrop to my most ideal 20-something life.
And an opportunity to spend some time in the middle of nowhere opened up to me. I put most of the last 11 years of my life into a small storage unit and put the rest in a tiny blue Toyota that I named Betty. And I drove from Oakland, California to the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia — my tiny Toyota barely making it across the Rocky Mountains.
I now live where the air is fresh, the stars are visible, and I can sometimes go a whole week without ever having to wear a mask (or ever seeing another human being for that matter). There are lots of cows, deer, mice to play mind games with, and an occasional baby bear. But there are no record shops. While I feel at peace for now, this is the fact that gnaws away at me, the reason why I know I will not turn into the person that permanently lives the life I’m living now.
There is no record shop — a constant little reminder that I really don’t belong here. This is a getaway, an intermission. For god’s sake, I can barely drive on these country roads in the day. At night, I stand no chance — those stars may be beautiful but light pollution makes it easier to see. It took me driving on the road for about 30 minutes to decide to use my high-beams — a function I so rarely need, I barely even remembered my car even had them. I can go 80 on a freeway with thousands of cars surrounding me but put me in the middle of a winding road and I become a student driver.
I had to buy myself a white noise machine. The quiet became deafening. While I used to complain about garbage trucks rolling through every morning at 5am or drunk assholes shouting outside my window, it turns out, they became essential for a comfortable night’s sleep. Of course, I set the white noise machine to babbling brook, which is silly. The nature outside my window is a void and to combat it, I need man made nature sounds — all-natural artificial flavoring.
And there is no record store. Which is all to say, that I will move into a city again, probably sooner rather than later. It is my driving force, always. I know I’m young. And people grow up and have kids and move to the suburbs where there are no records stores or subways nearby. I cannot say for sure that I will never do that. People say a lot of things when they’re 28. I suppose if the idea ever tempts me, I can always just revisit Frank O’Hara.
