“I have a friend who uses his drive time to feel sad. Perhaps that’s why he drives from Barre to Burlington, almost every single day. Not for employment, not for mission critical shopping, but so that he can allow himself to cry. Did I do that, he asked? I used to, I say. And to myself, I think, until that part of my faith in humanity went on strike. You can only get whipped so much, cry so many tears, before they dry up. So, it’s good to know that hardening yourself to your own tragic reality is not the final chapter, if that’s the kind of life you have. No, it’s an incredible, confused opportunity, an offer of deep spiritual process. Which my friend is pretty much wired to pursue but doesn’t quite know it and so I have to tell him,, and I’ll have to remind him again. He’s just so tired right now, of being “the rock” for others. He’s so tired, yet still adopting the rescue dogs no one else wants. He’s so tired, and yet excited to tell me, that he bought the burgundy colored guitar, not the sea foam, Miami blue, surf green, turquoise, or daphne blue - not any of those. Because I had said those shades “weren’t my favorite”. When you take this isolation stuff seriously, either out of a sense of civic duty, or abject fear, or because you’re sick of being around people who are acting out something their government told them is happening, it’s all the same somehow. Those of us, single, struggling, living off the good will of a few stalwart friends, and our already fierce sense of independence, hell, we make our own decisions, for better or worse. “That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it! “. I forget who used to say that, as a kind of aphoristic ending to the telling of so many tall tales. Yes, I have a story that I will tell, when all this is over. You might be in the mood to hear it, on the flip side. You might be ready to listen then, after so many months barricading yourselves in, happy & relieved to be in possession of your very own private property, gated paradise, a veritable island of exclusion. This is perhaps the dark under-belly of the Vermont’s upper middle class, also known as “the landed gentry”. Those who have been able and willing to follow orders without really giving up any of their privileges will be rewarded for having done so, and get back their “normal”. Those of us who did not accept the narrative, will continue to be punished, unless we stand up and fight, and the time to do so is now.”
