Letter from the Vineyard 03 21 2020 Hasn’t it been just…

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Letter from the Vineyard

March 21, 2020

Well, hasn’t it been just…

First of all, thank you to all who have reached out to check on me.  I’m fine, right now, and doing all I can to stay that way.  And I am concerned all of you are doing fine…

Morning came with a mystic fog snuggling the island, a sight which would have made me smile though today it seemed emblematic of our lives, moving through fog.

The week has been spent making homemade disinfectant and homemade hand sanitizer as none is to be found, a task adding to the surreal nature of the moment.

Everything seems life or death right now, wiping cardboard with disinfectant before unloading books, looking at every surface as an enemy, washing my hands with the frenzy of Lady Macbeth at Dunsinane, crying “out damned spot.”

It is rumored, not confirmed, Monday will bring an order to shelter in place in Massachusetts, becoming another state to do so.

It is the states which are leading the fight against this contagion.  On the Federal level, it beggars the imagination, which adds to the surreal feel of the moment.  The center from which we expect guidance dances the light fantastic; localities are banding together to direct us.

Shame on Washington.

Though God bless Dr. Fauci, the man who knows too much.  Read about him here. He is a national treasure and thank god he is still here.  He has led us through AIDS, Swine Flu and been the medical voice of reason for generations.

The Italians, having now passed China in the number of deaths, isolated in their homes, go to their balconies and windows to sing, god love them. View the video here.

The other night, in a text exchange, my dear, dear friend Lionel sent me this.  Would I had the way with words of Fitzgerald; it captures this time, as it did his moment as Spanish Influenza marched its deadly way across the world.

A LETTER FROM F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, QUARANTINED IN 1920 IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE DURING THE SPANISH INFLUENZA OUTBREAK.

Dearest Rosemary,

It was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I thank you for your letter. Outside, I perceive what may be a collection of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so. At this time, it seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one. Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza? I’m curious of his sources.

The officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us.

You should see the square, oh, it is terrible. I weep for the damned eventualities this future brings. The long afternoons rolling forward slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z. says it’s no excuse to drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand. In the distance, from my brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloud line of an evening’s cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.

Faithfully yours,

F. Scott Fitzgerald

So, I too, “focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.”

May it be so for all of us.

God bless us all, however you perceive god.

 

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