Pandemic February edition. I’m midway through a week without reading or watching anything. Media fast is my new magic mushrooms: an adventure in my own brain. I recognize that the week of the First Ever Impeachment of a Former President of the United States of America (Who Has Incidentally Already Been Impeached Once Before) for Inciting a Violent Insurrection Against His Own Government seems like a strange time to take a media fast but I’m working through The Artist’s Way with a group of buds and though the religious language was, early on, a challenge to get past, the course feels like it’s brewing something in me and this is the week that the course calls for media fast and since I committed to the buds I am compelled to play it as it lays. So I allow myself Heather Cox Richardson’s morning report and 5 minutes of Instagram every couple of days because, well, because these times are not easy, my friends. Thoughts and feelings are electrified when not pacified by the consistent cramming of media down my mind’s gullet. Below is a somewhat random selection of the places my mind goes when undistracted the bludgeoning force of external content.
• Impressed by the ROI in digging out a dog run in the backyard.
• Ad Rock’s rhymes in Fred Schneider’s voice is a new thing I invented that is not half bad.
• I just described an open-face burger as “cool” and while I acknowledge that’s boring of me I am into it to the degree that it’s possible that no one on Earth has ever described an open-faced burger as cool and that potentially makes me a pioneer. A pioneer of banal frontiers is still a pioneer.
• Finding this photo of me as a child made me realize that I have always had Resting Skeptic Face and that the expression is so comfortable I usually don’t know I’m wearing it until I hear Chafe say, “OK but just hold on and let me finish what I’m saying.”
• Curious why someone my age who loves winter as I do has waited this long to buy her first pair of snow pants and suspicious it may have had something to do with grown-fat-kid shame.
• Moved to tears by a visceral memory of my childhood adoration for Olivia Newton-John. The word dreamy was invented to describe her voice.
• Diaryland > Facebook. Let’s please make Diaryland a thing again.
• Can’t determine whether I should be troubled by how much I relate to Olive Kitteridge but, glory, is that a beautiful book. Also a beautiful book? Song of Solomon. Pilate is the Crone Empress the world needs.
• It turns out with nothing to pacify my brain I am left — unprotected — to have to think the thoughts that need thinking and feel the feelings that desire to be felt. The process goes a little like this:
Whoa, hey, there’s that visual memory of my dog having a seizure. > My friend is dead. > My other friend is dead. > And that friend is also dead. > So many dead friends. > Dead Friends was such a great band. > So many people are dead. > So many other people are going to die. > Welp, I went and loved all these people and now I am probably going to have to grieve some of them BUT NOT IF THEY HAVE TO GRIEVE ME FIRST.
Clearly a regular weekly media Sabbath — to ebb the firehose, to blow the dust out of the ducts — is in order. We’re almost in the home stretch of February, folks. Mercy.