Pandemic Diary: Time, time, time, what has become of thee?

“Time, time, time, see what’s become of me?”

Ok, people, something is wrong. Very badly wrong. Time is not working the way it should, and if this was an episode of Star Trek—I’m watching Star Trek: The Next Generation in the background of some of my life—Data would have already noted this discrepancy and we’d all be trying to pull Spaceship Earth out of the event horizon-anomaly-vortex-thingy.

But it’s not Star Trek, it’s real life, and we’re stuck.

We’ve all been commenting on this phenomenon throughout the past year. “This year has lasted a week and a decade.” “The last five months have been the longest five years of my life.” “How is it still Tuesday?” “How is it Friday already?”

Time is just not working the way it’s supposed to.

Time flies–or is it drags?–when you’re drinking gin…

What’s most concerning to me is that, theoretically, I should have more time. Right? I mean—there’s no place to go. Nothing to do. No one to do it with. (Apologies to my COVID cluster, whom I’ve been ignoring for the past two weeks—I’m so sick of you. Aren’t you sick of me? I mean, I don’t even want to text you any more right now. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. You?” Ugh. I’d rather be alone than bored with you, true fact, I know I’m a terrible human being, deal with it, you’re not that awesome either.)

(Um. Sorry about that. Pandemic, lockdown, eternal darkness in Viking Hell, January Blues, you know. I’ll love you again after the Equinox.)

Where was I? No place to go. Nothing to do. No one to do it with. I should be awash in hours and hours of time that I’d be struggling to fill with god, I don’t know, yoga, meditation, writing, exercise, learning Farsi.

(I’m still on Chapter 1 of my Conversational Farsi textbook. I. Can’t. Remember. Anything. But my calligraphy is getting marginally better… I now write like a four year old, rather than a three year old.)

I’d probably make more progress on that Farsi if I actually opened the textbook… see if there in the background?

Instead—blink. Snap. The day is gone—I have accomplished a quarter, a tenth of the not very much I was planning to do and, fuck me, tomorrow is half over too—how is that possible?

Some of this is due to the low grade depression most of us are in (some of us are in full blown depression; when a friend of mine called the Canada Suicide Prevention hotline last week1-833-456-4566—they got put on hold), some of it is due to the lack of external time/schedule anchors in our work-at-home, learn-at-home, stay-the-fuck-home-unless-you’re-a-politician-with-a-timeshare-in-Hawaii orders, and some of it might actually be the rsult of the Earth spinning faster now—I saw the headline of a study to that effect th eother day but, you know, I didn’t have the time to read it.

Time, time, time.

Tick-tock, tick-tock. Deadlines, schedules, appointments, alarms.

Tick-tock.

Killing time on tik-tok.

Time. “It’s a hazy shade of winter…”

xoxo

“Jane”