Love During the Time of Corona — -4.0 — -Moon’s House, South Main Street, Darwin, California, USA
“Yesterday/All my troubles seemed so far away/Now I need a place to hide away…..”
As far as I can tell I am staying in Vince’s old room. His mom owned this house and this room is probably where he stayed when he came home to visit. There are a few hints that he was here. A pure white baby grand piano (Young Chang) in the living room, a professional conductor’s baton (Maestro TR9B) stuck behind a shelf in the closet. From what I understand, Vince is now getting on in years, is challenged by partial blindness, but is still an accomplished jazz musician in Los Angeles. He is having a bit of trouble negotiating the paper work to sell his mom’s house, what with her being deceased and everything. So really I am just borrowing Vince’s room. Again, from what I understand, he doesn’t mind.
It is a simple room. It has a pine closet in one corner, white sheet-rocked walls, a window looking out to the southwest. There is beige carpeting and a double bed. A white ceiling fan. And, off to one side, toward the northwest, an alcove that is filled with junk.
The alcove is about six feet by eight feet. It has a window that looks out on the side yard. It has slanted ceilings so that you can only really stand in the middle. There is a plethora of stuff in the alcove which I have moved off to one side and covered with various blankets. There is a square wooden table painted white. It has splayed legs. There is a swivel chair covered in black vinyl. The entrance to this alcove, an odd sort of triangular arch, is wrapped at the edges with foam padding covered with white muslin that is pulled tight and stapled to the wall. Apparently Vince had some trouble negotiating this tiny passage.
The whole house is very cold. The heaters have been turned off for many months. But the electricity is now turned on and I salvage a small oscillating heater (Holmes 1Touch) to put under the table near my legs. My laptop (MacBook Air circa 2012) sits on the table while I sit on the vinyl chair and lean over it.
This is the way I will confront the new world and especially the monster dog that has been following me, nipping at my heels, growling at my door at five in the morning, every morning.
It is an odd time in modern human history. It is a surreal time. There is little that an individual can do in the face of the Covid-19 pandemic other than find compassion for others by staying away and being alone. Self-isolation and plenty of time.
The profession of travel writer, which was always marginal, has now been, like many professions, completely, if temporarily, obliterated. There is really not much to do in that regard. Luckily I have carpentry to fall back on. To at least earn my keep.
However, I have just spent the entire winter, before the outbreak of the virus, in the ocean desert of southern Baja. I was out there writing a story. And then I was forced to leave that all behind. The story unfinished, my laptop put away safely underneath the seat of my truck.
Arriving in Darwin and completely at the pleasure of strangers, I really have no choice but to dig out the laptop and get to work. This, I’ve come to realize, is the flip side of the pandemic. Many people, all over the world, isolated in their homes, are going to be forced to face their artistic self. It is another amazing challenge, another amazing opportunity.
Writing a story is never easy for me. I am well read and I have very high standards and when my stories do not stand up very highly compared to all the great literature of the past 500 years (and of course they never do), I tend to think: Why bother? Self-appraisal is kind of an ugly thing for artists in any medium. You are always asking yourself: Is this any good? It is a deadly question.
But then there are stories that are like a faithful dog. They follow you no matter what. They yip and bark and will not leave you alone. They will not be ignored and they will bite you if you don’t feed them. They scratch at the door at five in the morning and they say in their dog language: Get to work!
My dog followed me 1200 miles all the way up the Baja peninsula, across the international border, up along the east side of the Sierra Nevadas, through Lone Pine and out past the gateway to Death Valley and the town of Darwin. He was barking and biting my tires. Just his morning when I was sitting at my desk and I had reached a point of awkward difficulty in the writing, I started to get up.
My dog was sitting in front of the door to my room. Sitting there, blocking my exit. He raised his head, looked me in the eye and growled.
I sat back down. It’s a weird world out there right now. My advice: find your story, find a way to tell it, find your dog.
And feed it.
It follows me around like a faithful dog. It growls when I don’t feed it.
