What makes it all worse is the lack of any semblance of national leadership. It's like we're in the Alamo, surrounded by an enemy army, and help is most definitely *not* on our way. Plus there is no way out of here.
Instead, back in Washington, they fight, they squabble, they call each other names. I feel like watching the news, which I'm doing less frequently, might just be a beast worth killing. And that is not a good thing for a journalist to say, even a retired one.
But this battle is not going to be won, if winning is even an option, by pointing blaming fingers at one another. Such games belong in a sandbox, and I don't mean the tech type.
***
I've been hearing from some old friends recently, which is wonderful. One of them pointed out how much worse this situation is for 21-year-olds than the senior citizen lot. He's right, of course. I have a 21-year-old and I feel terrible that she is missing out on her rightful time to be 21. At that age, you should be free to go out, party, meet new people, laugh, have fun, fall in love if you wish, explore what the world offers you as a legal adult.
Instead, our 21-year-olds are locked down with their parents. They deserve a special pass that allows them to be 21 again any time they wish in the future.
We all have stories. Many of them will stay within our families. Others find their way into the public realm. It is in the nature of time that what happened 30, 40, 50 years ago is of interest to the younger generations today.
A steady flow of documentary producers have visited me the last few years as they seek to capture the memories of us who are still around and sentient enough to articulate those memories. Since a fair number of the people I am asked about have passed away, I never feel entirely comfortable discussing what I remember about them when it involves negative stuff.
The good stuff I recall much more clearly. Besides the bad stuff is pretty much on the record somewhere out there anyway.
***
Today one of my grandchildren had a science class that included a virtual visit with an astronaut on the Space Station. It's probably not all that bad to spend time in space while the virus rages down here below.
Every time there is a public hookup with an astronaut in the media, I'm reminded of the morbid short story called "The Morning of the Day They Did It" by E.B. White, published in the New Yorker in 1950, long before there were astronauts. It's a funny disaster scenario -- check it out.
White was one of the most influential authors of the 20th century. His "Elements of Style" is the first book I recommend to young people who want to become writers. It is a slender volume. A lot can packed into a small amount of space like that.
When my book collection was being redistributed to the community in January, my kids advised me to keep a few. Among the ones I did keep were volumes about the evolution of the English language, including White's. I love this language, its specificity and precision. It's a finely cast tool when we use it the way it means to be used.
***
Whenever I hear a Bob Dylan line, I match it against my recollections of his biographies, including his autobiography. It is clear he knew how to identify with the thief
"'There must be some way out of here'
Said the joker to the thief
'There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief...'"
-- Bob Dylan
If there is no way out this time, what will the joker say to the thief? Probably something like "Dude it's time to go back to that neurologist. After all, she tells better jokes than the one we're in."
-30-
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