Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Think’st thou that I, who saw the face of God
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?
– Christopher Marlowe: Doctor Faustus (Scene III)
Every day is Sunday now. Lawnmowers hum in the low sun like the reinvigorated bees that surround them, joyous in the warm spring light. Pelotons of mouthy mamils speed perilously through the village, leaning inattentively around busy, sometimes blind bends. Small happy huddles of prattling people descend from the windmill in their mudsome wellies. And yet a peculiar – (mostly) car free? – silence presses sharply on my eardrums more painfully than any aeronautic descent. This time it is my mind – my soul – tumbling rapidly (once more) towards perdition.
So many things feel so fragile: and thus I grasp them tightly: testing, trying their solidity; mumbling fervent orisons to their love and longevity.
My quotidian walk temporarily stills my mania; jogs my muscle memory; repairs those neuronal circuits controlling my tender feet, irritated legs, aching arms and sore shoulders; the rhythm of my ageless walking stick unsynchronized, out of joint. As is time… “That ever I was born to set it right!”
I wander to observe the unique, soul-filling beauty that Tysoe so represents; to strengthen the sinews of my unhappy heart; breathe in nature at its most creatively unclouded and charismatic; and to evict the smog from my asthmatic chest. Circling the village, however, increasingly resembles a pedestrian M25; and my paranoia therefore increases (whilst my mood plummets yet further) as I try to calculate how many shedded coronavirus particles are being corralled by this (hopefully) cleansing easterly… – now swinging southwards; but still painting the opening skies that glorious springtime blue. Folks keep, or make, their distance from me; but even “Good morning!” now feels weaponized.
[I vow, in the future, to only venture out shortly after dawn: when most heads are still filled with dreams of false security on plump pillows; before reality becomes too frighteningly concrete; before the curtains shading teddy-bears and rainbows usher in welcome sunbeams; before the dining table once more – like mine – trembles in time with work-at-home laptops, crumble-covered with croissants or hastily jammed toast; before Animal Crossing echoes through newly-opened windows, competing with the radio’s awful stories of screwed-up statutes; before cars tremulously leave their overnight resting places. (More ‘parks’ than ‘drives’, I think; just a whole lot less green.)]
Although I could – possibly – circumnavigate the village blindfold (I have definitely explored parts of it at times when the absence of streetlamps in the fullness of time rendered the Milky Way crisply, magnificently, crystalline, and sparklingly precise), my centre of mental certitude has dissipated; and “I'll go walking in circles while doubting the very ground beneath me Trying to show unquestioning faith in everything…” – but failing. I need to rest awhile.
Every day is Sunday now. And yet the church is lifeless; uncharacteristically free of its wonted enclosure of snug sabbath automobiles.
I lower my too-rigid body onto one of the proudly monarchal benches, saturated in that magnificent, pure brightness; suddenly aware – perhaps jolted into realization by the encroaching hordes of memento mori… – that my endeavours towards relaxation and happiness are momentarily futile. Tears storm down my juddering face as I circle the event horizon of the mother and father of an emotional black hole: emitting only small stochastic sparks of elusive joy. Such is the pyromagnetic force of depression’s unassailable resistance. (My anxiety was already at dangerous levels, according to the perceptive clinical psychologist I have been seeing. But now can no longer access. Of course. Such is the self-reliance and resilience we must all now muster.)
Such is why I now write. Again. At last. Of course. The physical act of typing – hitting the keys; watching my scrambled thoughts solidify slowly on the screen; copying and pasting to give them a semblance of order… – seems to pacify my cheerless mood somewhat. The physical act of creation – no matter how gloomy the author… – still gives me that addictive thrill I have always so craved; that so many recommend – and have seemingly practised – in the time of coronavirus; that is the reason this blog exists; and was, for so many years, regularly replenished.
When I reach home (still terrified), I let the cat out, to police his Lilliputian domain; sunbathe; birdwatch; test the invisible leash between us; but always return to the front door – painted with his finest Cheshire Cat grin… – once commanded. Later, once rewarded, fed, and in need of recuperation, we both settle on the sofa: my left hand resting lightly on his flank; his calm breathing releasing my stress one whisper at a time. Sometimes we stay so connected for upwards of thirty minutes, such is his balm. For Felix – of course – every day is Sunday.
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