That pause between waking up and tearing up because everything is different becomes slightly less traumatic each passing day. Hoping this is due to innate inner strength and not, as I suspect, a gallop towards hallucinatory mania. To maintain sanity, I went for an evening stroll through the neighbourhood. Turned a corner and saw hundreds of black dots crisscrossing the empty road. Assumed my eyes were playing tricks but when one dot paused mid-scurry to shoot me a look of deep revulsion, I realized they were rats. Took a deep breath and walked right back up to tiny apartment because one plague is enough thank you very much. Makes sense now why there are no feel good pictures of wildlife returning to NY on lockdown.
On my way back I see a couple shouting at each other loudly on street facing fire escape of building. “It’s my life!” she screams and flings a box into air. White lines torpedo out in graceful arc from box and tampons rain down at my feet. Politely cross street to avoid Corona Cotton because we are all in this together.
Tuesday
Try to follow along to a Youtube exercise tutorial in an effort to sweat, only to give up halfway through and eat orange. The truth is I only workout so I have an excuse for what has become my second favorite part of day: The Symphonic Shower. While water warms up, I bring up playlist of days set and begin solo concert in shower while speakers blast ballads though steam. Briefly lost my voice during yesterday’s Tribute to Whitney but hoping today’s Disney Medley 12 will be fine. Arranged my shampoo and conditioner as backdancers, as it takes a village. Have also been changing outfits for every meal to breed a sense of ceremony.
Been avoiding eating out because of plague obvs, but also sick of seeing people’s posts about their perfect Asian fusion that they just “threw together”, especially since theirs look like the cover of a food mag and my last pasta looked like cat vomit with a lemon garnish
Wednesday
Love/hate relationship with kitchen as it is sole provider of both sustenance and dirty dishes. Been avoiding eating out because of plague obvs, but also sick of seeing people’s posts about their perfect Asian fusion that they just “threw together”, especially since theirs look like the cover of a food mag and my last pasta looked like cat vomit with a lemon garnish. Begun narrating my cooking as if on my own cooking show, speaking kindly to the wall in front of me as I show them how to open a tin. Do second episode of cooking show in evening when I show my viewers to turn leftovers from lunch into loathsome omelette because eggs were expiring soon.
Thursday
Food supplies running low again. Realize after today’s concert (“Back with Barbara”) that needlessly changing of clothes means I have nothing to wear. Find only clean things: which is how I end up wearing a gold sequined jacket, tie-die pajamas and a facemark to walk to grocery store.
White Americans blithely holding hands and not wearing mask on city streets is today’s equivalent to unsafe sex. Look at them with thin-lipped judgement before I realize a homeless man is hurtling towards me, riding his shopping cart like a skateboard, and I get off the middle of the road. Most people walking down roads now since there are no cars. Store greeter liked my jacket but later I got into stare-off with a woman who reached for the last bag of potatoes. She said something aggressive and so I took mask down and coughed at her without breaking eye contact. Never seen an eighty year old run that fast.
A New York city rat
Friday
Everyone is on Instagram Live all the time. Feel like Instagram is now like old sketchy website chat roulette, except now am hurtling through living room after living room of people – all saying the same thing. Despite this, I am hopelessly addicted to Instagram Live sessions if only to verify what the insides of people’s homes really look like (Naomi Cambell has a triple height lounge). Currently also a making paper mache sculpture of Maria B’s soaring window from her insane video as weekly craft project.
Saturday
So over Facetime. I’ve chatted to so many people during the week that have no conversation left for weekend (also, in the immortal and timely words of Lady Grantham: “What’s a weekend?”). It is, of course. lovely to be loved but also how many times can one say “The world will never be the same” and “There’s no such thing as the antichrist” over and over again?
Sunday
Local Laundromat closed down because of plague so today washed clothes in bathtub using shampoo and singing songs from Indian movies, pretending to be pounding shirts by river bed like Dhobi Ghaat. While clothes dried I cleaned house with bandana around my head singing “Matchmaker Matchmaker” until next-door neighbour slipped passive aggressive note under the door asking me stop. I know who I am going to cough on next…
