Day 32

Someone down the street cranked up their amp and played modern blues for hours this afternoon and evening. It was professional level playing, too. A good balance of rhythm, harmonic structure, and Fourth of July solo licks.

Am I right in thinking we should probably move?

Generally I feel like I'm handling isolation pretty well. I know how to amuse myself, so I go around thinking it won't take too much of a toll on me. Which is when the habitat-mate points out I was saying something, got halfway through my sentence, trailed off, and apparently forgot I was talking to begin with. Granted, I always did that, but now it feels portentous.

In the movies, cabin fever looks like a frenzy, the bug-eyed sufferer pulling his hair and chattering. But I'm starting to suspect it works more like hypothermia, where the worse it gets the warmer you feel. When the living room starts to feel oppressively large and looming, you'll find me snug in a closet, making myself a cozy little fort.

"Go out for a walk? No, no. Here is where it's nice. Stay. Yes. Wrap the blanket tighter, now."

Seriously, though, I feel the call of the wild like a dog when he hears the coyotes yip.

I'm lucky because I have a lawn to mow. I can make the world smell like fresh cut grass any time I want. (Not the nighttime, obviously. Stop being pedantic.) When I think of the people isolating in their studio apartments I have little trouble seeing why the grocery stores are selling out of wine.

I sort of get why the state parks are closed, and the beaches and the hiking trails. Somebody's always bound to do something stupid, and the park rangers have to get unsanitarily close to rescue them. It's probably good we're leaving the forest alone for a while. Let the forest vines grow. Let them drape down thick and strong. When they finally let us out, I don't think I'll be the only one tearing my shirt and going full Tarzan.