Storyweaver's Farewell to 2020

 Storyweaver Says Goodbye to 2020 

 In the beginning, we cowered before every other human being, masked or unmasked, reticent, scared, leaving plenty of space in between. Virus Armageddon Part One, The Reckoning. Fear of catching the plague, and the very, very worst year in a long time.

 Then came the sanitizing of boxes of Cheerios, being afraid to leave the house, go shopping, take a walk, get your teeth cleaned, even smile at someone from a distance. It was simply never to see your family or even to touch your own face again for fear of contagion, and maybe scarcely to breathe.

 Eventually we became enveloped in the Curse of the Masks; all you thought you saved on going to work, the movies, a restaurant, outings with friends or family, a life, quickly was spent on a bevy of sanitizing wipes and cheap, annoying one-time-use, paper thin coverings being manufactured in what seemed like the billions. The thin ear loops would snap even before you left the house, your only other choice those flimsy cloth things you had to continually wash. By hand. . . .

 Continual hand washing of course precipitated hands dried and chapped by all the frequent hand washing. And if the hand washing didn’t finish off the hands, the profuse hand sanitizing completed the job nicely.

Eventually, when the weather warmed, a new activity arose: consuming meals on the sidewalk, under a plastic tent as people hurried by and/or stared or passing dogs did their thing- the only alternative eating "out" in your car. Lunch, breakfast, even dinner on the pavement or while driving, especially during those months when it stayed lighter longer, became a Thing. These days you barely can stuff that yogurt or slice down your gullet before the sun starts to set. It’s cold outside, the days are shorter, car “dining” more haphazard, we’ve had our first hefty snowfall. 

So we prepared.

My glove compartment now looks like a small pantry of paper goods, plastic utensils, and tiny bathroom cups for sipping. The dash is my new table. The back seat holds packages of trail mix, the floor cradles bottles of water, both plain and sparkling. The trunk is packed floor to ceiling with extra grocery bags and backup toilet paper. There's a small paper towel section.

 While on foot I see others eating in their cars too, through their windshields, sometimes while I'm waiting to cross the street. They eat parked and drink moving- the latter usually through those sippy cups with black lids for grownups. Most people do not look particularly comfortable with this arrangement, though occasionally you will find a solo driver cozying up to a  tepid frappuccino and/or bopping silently to some beat on the radio, like a car mime.

 I’ve tried to make up for this sorry state of things by consuming as many jelly donuts as I can to get in the mood of the season, mainly the new type with the vanilla cream in the center. How could we ever have forgotten how good these are? Don’t get me wrong, the traditional ones with the actual jelly filling are still great too, but the new variants (yes, there are chocolate filled)  are something to behold.

One late afternoon of a Sunday during the crisply cold Christmas weekend, just as the winter sun was starting to ponder its inevitable descent, I decided we needed to treat ourselves. With the dial on WQXR and the soothing strings of a classical and tranquil melody filling the car, I gave in rather easily to what's now become a totally guilt free pleasure. Slowly, languorously we each consumed a whole milk decaf latte (better froth, for sure!) and two small though quite exquisite chocolate rugelach. This, bien sur, was a high tea-  we were transported. And if  it all means becoming a pastry sociopath, then so be it. We do what we must to survive. 

 But I’m fine. Really.

Just another New Year’s of eating out, really.

Au revoir, 2020. . . . 

The Nootch Says Goodbye to 2020

                                                                             

 A few weeks ago the Nootch wanted to share the moon with me. She tried to drag the laptop over to her California window so I could see the unusually bright and cheery orb at it its fullest. It didn’t quite work, but I told her not to fret because I actually could see that very same gorgeous sphere of dazzling bluish white lighting up the darkness of the same sky we share from my big ol’ living room window right here in New York. For some reason this made us both very happy.             

                                                                                                                                     

 Then she announced which fairy tales were her favorite (yup, Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella still continue to top the charts- amazing! Maybe now they’re just read as wistful, fantastical blasts from the past of a time when women did not “work” outside the home for fear of fainting bouts or fits of hysteria and mild insanity).

 In any event, this month, after driving three thousand miles or so eastward with her parents, and bunking in low risk and sometimes chilly campsites along the way, the Nootch got to enjoy the first winter storm of New England, where they are hanging for a spell before landing in the cool and chilly, mid December Big & Frosty Apple. And guess what? Her favorite weather now is rain, not only because she hardly ever sees this phenomenon in her desert clime, but also because she found the perfect puddle in which to jump. Fancy that!

 And her favorite season she says now is snow, especially after navigating her first, honest-to-goodness northeast sled ride, piercing shrieks & all as shown in a brief video, as she somewhat terrifyingly though bravely swerves and careens her little saucer down a genuine sledding hill on the chilliest of snow blanketed, early winter days.

 She is honing her knowledge of the four, distinct seasons, and particularly winter, firsthand. You know- the kind of season where at least she will not have to dig her car out anytime soon. And so this part of the year still promises her loads and loads (and oodles and oodles) of all kinds of fun. When you’re almost six by just a couple of months, a pandemic may not figure quite as large, especially when doing your first real winter sled ride.

 Oh, to be almost six.

The Story of (Blank). . . .

 The Story of (Blank) Land

 Far, far away from fires, floods, earthquakes and the dreaded coronavirus that has upended our lives, there’s a magic place that the five and half year old Nootch has fashioned for herself.

I would like to reveal the exact name and location of this paradise and super safe harbor. However in keeping with 19^th century concerns and literary protocols about privacy in novels and short stories and the young storyteller's trust in my discretion, I can only say that it’s called --------Land.

 In this distant world- which apparently holds “a hundred and thirty thousand people” according to the Nootch, a kind of funny language  is spoken, and one in which the Nootch appears to be quite fluent. This strange though lilting tongue sounds like a combo of Hungarian, Polish and Spanish, and a dialect with the occasionally trilled "r;" further, there are lots of vaguely Eastern European sounds and constructions as well, along with other syllabic formations that seem totally new and quite insensible. I’ve witnessed on screen the Nootch having animated conversations with residents of this strange land on her toy, princess iphone. She even has volunteered to translate certain words and sentences for me, when now and then I want to know how to say something specific in ---------language.

The Nootch not only finds solace in the mere existence of such a place along with many new friends there to keep her company during our sad, lockdown life, but she also has an essential job: that of keeping everyone in  --------land absolutely safe. Yup, she is in charge of that huge responsibility, and they pay her the incredible sum of ten dollars for this! She instructs the residents on how and where to hide from monsters, and she’s even “writing” a kind of manual on colored cards with more specifics about the technique. She also assures- just by the by- that there is absolutely no coronavirus in ---------land. It’s just not there.

 Her five year old innate creativity is flourishing, keeping her safe, allowing her some control, and showing how badly she misses our old, normal life, the one in which we see friends, family, new things and places, the one where we have less worry about breathing the air or being eaten by monsters. I think of a whole generation of five year olds, and children younger, and older, who must be having similarly unusual thoughts these days. . . .

What new, trendy,  pigeon holing catchword will we attach to these future generations?

How about the whole, damn alphabet? The A to Zers and how they (and their parents and friends and families) survived this, both now and in years to come.

More News From Fairyland

Children's fairy tales are not what they used to be, and five year olds possess a level of sophistication that is astounding. It almost makes you kind of want to do your life over, as them.

The plot and message of the story that the Nootch and I were reading the other day was unmistakable. When the enchanting Princess Elizabeth decides to rescue the hapless Prince Ronald from the lair of the annoying, fire breathing, crazily narcissistic dragon, she opts for a deceptively simple disguise: an ordinary, sustainable, everyday item from the grocery store, so as to avoid detection. And thus she transforms herself into "The [covertly stealthy and super smart] Paper Bag Princess." Clothes may make the man as Polonius admonishes Laertes, but modern women  buy on sale, if at all, and just get to work.

The author Robert Munsch (this was written by a man???), goes on to relate the fiery trials  Elizabeth endures to free the hapless prince from the flaming environs of the silly, self obsessed dragon, a feat she accomplishes through a series of carefully crafted manipulations designed to appeal to the monster's ego, and in this manner wear him out.

When all is said and done, the freed but not liberated prince- instead of thanking his fiancee- rather immediately makes mention of her disheveled, unsightly, unglamorous, soot covered look. Elizabeth quickly decides to chuck the guy, then, as the beaming, accompanying illustration indicates, lives happily ever after.

At the end of the tale, we had a little discussion about the book as we usually do, and I asked the Nootch why she thought the princess jettisoned the prince.

Without skipping a beat, this five year old with the thirty year old sensibility of a true post millennial replied with confidence, equanimity and certain knowledge: "Ronald is a jerk!"

As if to imply, isn't this self evident?

Like the sun rising each day and the Earth being round, stories do not always end the way they used to, and everyone knows this. 

Oh, uh, okay. . . . Got it. 

Silly me.

Taking It Slow

The world is moving at "multi tasking" lightning speed, though in silent, staccato clicks. 

It's all on your phone. A life's history,  a running tally of friends, family, shopping habits, bills, cares, fantasies, health concerns, dreams worries, all the places you may have visited  in virtual reality, in your imagination, in real time and/or in your car or on foot. 

An entire diary of one's hopes, desires, fears, frustrations, favorite tunes and prosaic daily tasks. A detailed, satellite picture of your every footstep, whether in truth or imagined. 

The question that continually comes up: why do we need to get all this done anyway, in the fastest way possible, then meticulously inscribe and post every movement, interaction, image  and blip of consciousness into the ship's log of your existence? Is there a  soundtrack for this?

During the first small heat wave in June I was headed to the market in my battered, little Civic- masked, locked and loaded against all and any germs- when I turned on the radio and heard- nay, was enveloped by!- the familiar, eternal chords of Swan Lake. 

Without a doubt, the exquisite, shape shifting myth is a strange tale of transmogrification, a poignant, tragic narrative, inducing the creation of a magical and majesterial ballet suite, a symphony of deepest fantasy.The story of Odette and her prince, their dark doubles Odile and Rothbart, eternity and mortality and the forces of good and evil give rise to a kind of shattering, indelible music. I acknowledge that the die hard Baroque groupies and such will turn up their smarmy noses at this shamelessly romantic, emotional outpouring of fairy dust schmaltz that brings me to near tears every time I hear it, but no matter.

As the music filled the parked car and the story unfolded in my mind, for one crystal moment, the sight of all those tired, over heated souls with face coverings as observed through the windshield, dragging themselves along the hot streets during the summer of not-going-anywhere, suddenly melted into a kind of suspended, melodic collage of pure, happy listening.

So you see, I'm not really talking about the pandemic anymore. . . .

Enough Already

I started the coronavirus posts (eventually comprising yet another kind of Coronavirus Diary) shortly after the "lockdown," on March 20, 2020 (gosh, all those repeating numbers! Is that some kind of mystical palindrome in reverse, or not at all, or something else, but equally, esoterically mysterious? Or not? Okay, just wondering; what else do I have to do these days).
                                                              
Now I'm ending it, just about three months later, following the summer solstice and prior to the July 4th holiday. Honestly, can't stand to think about this anymore. Living with it is hard enough!

And even if putting the brakes on the "diary" for now (because I can't bear to write about it anymore) does not mean the pandemic is over, then so be it; there has got to be something else to talk about. Hopefully I will have discovered what that is two weeks from now or so at the next post.

See ya' then!

If Only Pre-Schoolers Ruled the World. . .

If only pre-schoolers ruled the world, things would be so much simpler! So infinitely less complicated, so full of clarity!

Out of the mouths of babes often comes the most basic, sensible and elementary information we'll ever need for creating a peaceful, functioning and light hearted existence.

Just to prove the point, here are several examples from recent conversations with a pre-schooler:

1) In reference to those playful though extremely messy little house mates in the mythic forest with whom Snow White finds shelter, regarding the sorry state of the cottage-

"They're just dwarves- they don't know how to clean."

2) Comment about miniscule crustacean rolled up into tiny ball living in jar on pre-schooler's window, serving as pet, when asked whether creature minded if we talked about it-

"Roly-Polys don't have ears."

These observations speak for themselves. . . .

Pre-schoolers also love to bake and have the patience to watch cookies cook until the edges brown & they're really ready.

Such incredible common sense and down home honesty! Unlike politicians and "news" platforms, pre-schoolers tell it straight!

That's all for now, folks. I need to go put my head in a bucket of whipped cream and hope this all ends soon, you  know, the pandemic, soon, very soon. . . .