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All the quarantine memes talk about how slowly this month is going. For me it isn't going slowly at all.
Two weeks ago it was -20. Now it's up to 18 some days, isn't supposed to freeze at night for the next week, and all the snow ran off everything in a rush, creating its own creeks and spilling the banks of the ditches. My squashes are up, my tomatoes have their 3rd leaf coming out, most of them, and presently I shall have to separate my tomatoes and cabbages.
I've done much less than I should do at work; deadlines are rushing forwrd.
Instead I feel like I've blinked and leapt into the future. I suspect I'm spending an awful lot of time dissociating. The heart of the house, the woodstove, is shut down because it's plenty warm out now with just a trickle of supplementary electric heat. My other timekeeping is skewed: things go bad in the fridge when I could have sworn they were only a couple days old; the sow I swear was just about to farrow is just... staying in the same condition, while Penny has leapt from skinny to bagging up; the garden is uncovered and chives and stinging nettles are starting to grow and I barely had a chance to think about it; I keep running out of cat food; the pile of eggs entirely covers my downstairs table. I don't know how any of these things have happened. I don't remember the time passing.
I need to plant greens and make an appointment to put summer tires on.
Everyone else is also in a bad state. My partners are not well, nor from what I can see are my friends. The internet is terrible for me, except for the couple of individual connections that make it too much of a problem to drop it. My industry, which depends on the movement of seasonal workers across the territories of indigenous people and small towns, is not sure what it's doing with itself.
I want to bring order to it. I want a stately series of conversations without constant chatter. I want to reconnect with the land without being pulled away. I want to talk to my plant people and see how their year is going.
But I feel unable to commit myself to such things. What if I'm supposed to meet someone for a video dinner and I've found a moment of peace in the garden and don't want to come in? What if I want to throw myself into this feeling of timelessness and someone feels unloved because they're ignored? It's a little ironic that in this time of what's supposed to be separation I feel so responsible for other folks, except that I know our good habits slip in times of stress. That's probably why I'm reverting.
We're all going to be doing our best right now. And of course, none of it will be enough. We will get by, though.
Two weeks ago it was -20. Now it's up to 18 some days, isn't supposed to freeze at night for the next week, and all the snow ran off everything in a rush, creating its own creeks and spilling the banks of the ditches. My squashes are up, my tomatoes have their 3rd leaf coming out, most of them, and presently I shall have to separate my tomatoes and cabbages.
I've done much less than I should do at work; deadlines are rushing forwrd.
Instead I feel like I've blinked and leapt into the future. I suspect I'm spending an awful lot of time dissociating. The heart of the house, the woodstove, is shut down because it's plenty warm out now with just a trickle of supplementary electric heat. My other timekeeping is skewed: things go bad in the fridge when I could have sworn they were only a couple days old; the sow I swear was just about to farrow is just... staying in the same condition, while Penny has leapt from skinny to bagging up; the garden is uncovered and chives and stinging nettles are starting to grow and I barely had a chance to think about it; I keep running out of cat food; the pile of eggs entirely covers my downstairs table. I don't know how any of these things have happened. I don't remember the time passing.
I need to plant greens and make an appointment to put summer tires on.
Everyone else is also in a bad state. My partners are not well, nor from what I can see are my friends. The internet is terrible for me, except for the couple of individual connections that make it too much of a problem to drop it. My industry, which depends on the movement of seasonal workers across the territories of indigenous people and small towns, is not sure what it's doing with itself.
I want to bring order to it. I want a stately series of conversations without constant chatter. I want to reconnect with the land without being pulled away. I want to talk to my plant people and see how their year is going.
But I feel unable to commit myself to such things. What if I'm supposed to meet someone for a video dinner and I've found a moment of peace in the garden and don't want to come in? What if I want to throw myself into this feeling of timelessness and someone feels unloved because they're ignored? It's a little ironic that in this time of what's supposed to be separation I feel so responsible for other folks, except that I know our good habits slip in times of stress. That's probably why I'm reverting.
We're all going to be doing our best right now. And of course, none of it will be enough. We will get by, though.
