Cafe culture in the time of corona means basements stocked with rice and beans.
I’m reminded of Márquez these days. And Camus. And Becket. They all speak to forces that push us around but exist beyond our control, and if there’s one thing binding us together these days, it’s our shared contention with forces beyond our control.
I’m also reminded of Soylent Green (The original book is called “Make Room, Make Room” and it’s terrific!), and Earth Abides, and The Walking Dead. Forces beyond our control sometimes manifest in the natural world, sometimes the socio-political world, but most often, intersections between the two.
I’m reminded that beyond the four close walls of my artist’s lair, there’s a vibrant, dynamic, challenging, colorful space outside.
I remember the sounds of music in crowded spaces. I remember the vibration of city traffic, the clatter of chairs pulled out for team meetings, the smell of popcorn in a darkening movie theater.
I remember choosing fresh vegetables, meeting friends, drinking coffee in cafes.
I remember, and I start to dream.
There’s an old-school Star Trek episode when the Enterprise crew found themselves on a beautiful world where fruit was poisonous, rocks explosive, and grass saturated with acid. It wasn’t one of the best but it provokes a long moment of contemplation as I consider the many things that don’t care one whit for what we fragile mortals do with our lives. The natural world is what it is. How we choose to behave in it, and how we choose to behave with each other exist on separate planes.
As I look outside my window, I luxuriate in the sight of pear tree blossoms bending limbs as if weighed down by snow. Color returns to the world with buds beginning to set, and yet, I’m also aware that suffusing the springtime idyll, a virus lurks, sight unseen.
We are all living in a dystopian science fiction story. I sit quietly when daily news reports echo lines from political leaders in The Hunger Games. I listen, and then I realize the reason my jaw hurts is because I’m clenching my teeth too hard. My heart accelerates as I’m forced to contend with Stalinesque officials co-opting my information portals. Like everyone I know, daily life has suddenly become a series of existential questions, some serious, some comical, all entirely unexpected from what were were probably anticipating for the Spring of 2020. It’s science-fiction come to life when we realize that the entirety of humanity suddenly seizes with an unseen, lethal pathogen, sober, scientific prowess unable to easily turn the tide. It’s dystopian when we admit that our divisive, suspicious, self-interested nature as a species is largely to blame for the malady’s rapid spread.
But I’m a creative soul, or at least, so I like to think. I like contemplating alternatives and I like creating them. I like stories. I care how they turn out, and, moreover, I care how they get told. Characters who populate stories matter to me for what they represent as much as for what they do, and narrative characters become representative proxies for the people I know in the real world.
I’ve also got a journalistic gene. It goes to the bone and runs in the family. That’s why the travails of our collective current circumstances compel me to action as much as they infiltrate my concentration.
That leads me to this: I’m working on something. Something that I hope will feel “real” in the face of what certainly feels surreal. I’m currently telling the story of our collective present, and I’m asking for video submissions from those who want to participate. You don’t need to be a filmmaker; you just need to want to tell your story. 60 seconds talking into the camera? Fine. Daily video submissions, with sunsets, kitchen adventures, guitar playing on the porch, even critical trips to the hospital ICU (I wish I weren’t serious, but I am!): send your footage. I will welcome your generosity.
If you’re interested, please get in touch; I’m taking submissions until April 12. You can be a part of how we share the narrative of overcoming this mess through common experience and ingenuity rather than divisive fear and defensive positions.
I remember when I got to work closely everyday with other creative types, and when I could have friends and family over to supper, when I could easily dream of a reasonable future. Things now are in doubt. “Always in motion is the future,” says Yoda. Yes: true. But in telling new, alternative stories to replace the dystopian ones we’re all desperately trying to overcome, we repair the world today. Repairing the world today promotes a future worth cultivating for tomorrow.