But not today

I got up at the crack of dawn. In fact, no: that’s just an idiom, and a lie. Dawn hadn’t cracked yet; it’s me, I suspect, who’s cracking up. Anyway, the reason for this early rising (an excellent way, please note, to make the endless days of lockdown even longer; highly recommended) is that it became very important, at not-quite-six-thirty in the morning, to worry about the amount I’d paid at the supermarket yesterday.
     ‘Bit much, wasn’t it?’ Brain said. ‘Perhaps it’s a mistake.’
     ‘Shut up,’ I muttered.
     ‘We have the receipt. LET’S CHECK!’ Brain insisted.
     ‘Can we check in an hour?’ I proposed, reasonably.
     ‘No! NOW! NOW is THE ONLY POSSIBLE time for this!’
The cats meowed and scratched at my bedroom door; they can sense consciousness. I turned around, pulled the duvet over my head. Squeezed my eyes shut.
     ‘Oh THE STRESS of NOT KNOWING!’ Brain screamed.
     Fuck it. Fuck you. Fuck everything. Up I got. The cats, at least, were happy. As in, hungry. As in, yeah alright, good morning, WE’RE STARVING, WE’RE GOING TO SUE! They both pawed at my knees as I sat on the toilet. I peed, fed the demons, dutifully swallowed my happy pill, and pressed the magic button that makes coffee pour out of a sprout; the machine came to life with a blink. Brain, in the meantime, having gotten me out of bed, had forgotten all about the supermarket question, and had moved on to a long list of other random things to feel anxious about.

Coffee brewed and cigarette rolled and lit, I sat on the sofa and brought out the receipt. And no: it was no mistake. I really did spend 46 euro on a bagful of shit. How wonderful. How fun, that I’ll soon resort to eating only eggs and rocket leaves (the two things that I currently, self-sufficiently, produce) and smoking dried oregano. Happy thoughts and fucking unicorns. Maybe I’ll ride one and fly out of this mess, into clouds of candy floss pink.

I could eat candy floss right now; I could eat anything, everything. Mostly I do. In the unending stream-of-consciousness narrative of this lockdown life, eating is punctuation, and I like punctuation. I’ve always been a fan. Punctuation is important. Marbles, on the other hand, are overrated. Sanity? Meh. Where did it ever get us? As for structure: look how easily it collapses. The solid things are much fewer than we thought. It’s getting hard to know where to stand and what to lean on. I’m not sure what, if anything, could take my weight right now, augmented as it is by the ever-growing list of assorted worries and all the punctuation I consume.

I’m tired. I’m so tired of it all. Not depressed: the happy pills keep my serotonin levels sufficiently high, so I don’t sink too deep into the pit. And I don’t think depression is an appropriate response to the current situation, anyway. Not per se. It’s more of a restlessness, a spiritual unease, that can either drive you on, to seek other routes where the usual ones are closed, or immobilise you when you keep hitting one dead end after another. Welded to the sofa, playing solitaire; letting time swirl away like smoke.

I want to get off the sofa, literally and figuratively, but I’m tired. I’m so tired in my body, like there’s something feeding on my energy from the inside. And I’m pretty sure it’s corona, though I have no access to a test to confirm or disprove that theory. But my body has its own intelligence, and it’s telling me, in no uncertain terms, that there’s something here that isn’t ours. A foreign presence, an invader, though it’s been very polite in the symptoms it’s given me. It’s a gentle enemy, but still, I can feel it lingering, nudging at my defences for a way in. Hence my self-imposed quarantine; hence I’ve only left the house twice in almost as many weeks, both times wearing a mask, in order to over-spend my ever-dwindling supply of cash on essential supplies. Which, apparently, include the ingredients to make brownies. Hey ho, the fun we had, pouring cake batter into the cracks of our lives.

I’ll make those brownies today. And a loaf of olive bread: this suggested itself, as a sparkling solution to all my troubles, yesterday evening. How had I never thought of it before? How did my life even make sense without olive bread? Which reminds me: I can add olives to the rocket leaves and eggs of not-so-distant future sustenance. I have a cupboard full of them, and another five or six jars in the fridge. I’ll be alright; olives are very nutritious. And maybe one day, when all this is over, in the literal sense, we will reflect upon our coping mechanisms and the reasons why humanity, in this time of crisis, turned en masse to baking and the hoarding of yeast. Essays will be written on the great baking obsession of 2020, one day – but not today. Today we just need to get by.