Grey
"Did I say the roof of that hall was made of bones? No! It's like a great mist of folly that covers the whole sky: and we shall never see to go by Frith's light any more. Oh, what will become of us? A thing can be true and still be desperate folly, Hazel." — Fiver, in Watership Down by Richard Adams
Sheffield, indeed most of the UK, has been grey and wet through the best part of June, and the rain continues into July. Weather and mood are intimately connected, and my own mood can best be described as flat these past weeks, lacklustre, fair to middling, grey; perhaps depressed, but in the original sense of the word: melancholy, sorrowful, downhearted, disconsolate. The world as we enter post-lockdown is an uneasy place. Fear rises to the surface and displays across social media as anger and abuse towards those who think differently. There is a growing split between the self-righteous, self-assured majority and the quieter, less sure, questioning minority. A culture of shame is enveloping us, a great mist of folly.
I do my best to stay away from conversations about masks, and social distancing, especially those that contain the phrase "Science says", which engenders a sense of disquiet within. Is this really a secular society, I wonder. The mechanisms we've employed prevent deaths (which, by the way, is not the same as saving lives) but I wonder why death prevention of the already-vulnerable is given priority over other aspects of a caring society. The terrible toll of lockdown is slowly emerging, showing a dramatic increase in domestic violence (a euphemism for the beating, terrorising and murder of women), child abuse, depression, attempted suicide and sheer loneliness. It is sad when people die of COVID19. It is tragic that they must do so alone, in sterile rooms, denied the loving arms and tender words of friends and family. A thing can be true and still be desperate folly.
I feel a great sadness when people talk about how great online work is, and how people won't need to go back to the office ever again. Life and human relationships reduced to a computer screen, no smell, no touch, no bodies, heads and shoulders only. Soon there will be no reason to wear trousers, or any covering at all below the waist, or even to have legs. Kurt Vonnegut's Galapagos comes to mind, with it's manatee-like humans who have morphed away all unnecessary appendages and lost all human traits except for the blond curly hair of their ancestor and the tendency to laugh when someone farts. The future begins today.
I planned to begin work again around the summer solstice but I find myself reluctant, wavering, unready. I'm not sure if it is the weather, the sheer ennui of this extended lockdown or the surrounding culture of fear and mistrust that is causing me to pause, to waver. It's as if I departed the world of work, one that I was never much a part of anyway, and now I don't know how to return. I can't find the right door. Meanwhile our family savings dwindle and tax demands lie on the horizon. I resort to prayer, which of course is meaningless without the footwork. The only footwork I'm experiencing at the moment is the kicking of my heels. And I stay rooted to the spot. Here's Fiver again.
"You're trying to eat grass that isn't there. Why don't you give it a chance to grow?"
I hope to have some news of workshops later this month. I'm slowly getting it together. If I offer anything online I promise to wear trousers, but maybe not shoes.
04 July 2020