Bill Taylor's photos come without captions in this series for the goodish reason that they are mostly drawn from the past and therefore have no direct relevance to Covid-19, leaving the reader to work out the indirect allusions, itself a rewarding exercise.
I did say the series had run its course but would also remind contributors that anything they provide will be published. Bill's are easy because he posts them anyway at Facebook and I merely reproduce them ... meanwhile, join the fun at Salut! Live and nominate your best 10 male singers, any genre and your best 10 female ...
Sceptical notes from the trenches:
David Remnick, editor of The New Yorker, calls it “a communal pact... because we know that life now depends on our withdrawal from life”.
Social isolation has become the social norm. It may take a while to get over that once we’re back in an existence that permits us to get over it.
Fight or flight isn’t much of an option when you can’t see what you’re fighting against. It just naturally makes more sense to run away.
Even when you’re pretty sure… well, sort of sure… honestly not sure at all that the enemy has retreated.
We’ve taken a lot on faith so far and it’s helped bring us to where we are. Wherever that turns out to be. It’ll take a lot of faith, too, when they finally start telling us: “You can come out now.”
We could find ourselves confined still. This time inside a paradox – hungry for contact, for companionship, but instinctively shrinking from it.
One hand outstretched to shake, the other hand clutching sanitiser.
I mean… no offence, and you certainly LOOK fine, but can I be REALLY certain you’re in the clear? That this virus thing has gone away and isn’t just lying low… and maybe you’re one of the people it’s lying low on? You didn’t quietly cough just then, did you? Sure?
I mean… no offence, but let’s maybe hold off a week or two before we get together for dinner. Although, I really do want to see you.
And yes, I really, really do. I do.
People talk about the great get-togethers they’re going to have, the parties and the picnics and the hug-fests and the high old times.
The operative word, I think, will be “time”. As in “take your…”
Restaurants filling up as quickly as the maître d’ can write your name in the reservations book? I’d love to think so. I have some good friends in the restaurant business and I know how much they’re hurting.
But I can see people calling up and saying: “Do you have a table this evening?” And being told, “Absolutely, we’re only about half full.”
And replying: “That many, eh? Okay, maybe we’ll wait.”
Or maybe I’m wrong. I certainly hope I’m wrong. I’d love to be wrong.
Maybe when the all clear sounds, we’ll rush outside and link hands and sing and dance in the streets. Maybe it’ll be bigger than the Raptors bringing the NBA championship home to Toronto.
Maybe.
I dunno. The tide took its time going out and I think it’ll take its time coming back in. Maybe not quite as much time but still.
Too many maybes. Not enough certainties. But I’ll give you one. An almost certainty, anyway:
Those characters you used to see at street fairs and carnivals, offering “free hugs”. I always found them on the creepy side.
I think they’ll be out of business.
We’ll hug who we want to hug. Even if we take our time in doing it and hope not to be noticed as we quietly pull out the hand sanitiser.
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