Now & Then (Corononavirus)

walks for the future

   lessons from the past 

are for the future

   are for the past

Mostly these blog posts only dip a foot into the personal. They rarely touch on the moment of their composition. They look back to work on chronic pain and imaginative access to landscape made last year, and forward to work on paths and walking that I am making during this residency. The nature of the residency may have to change.

though life narrows

the walk is wide open

In this one post I wanted to register now and then, meaning: what's to come and what we're in. Coronavirus.

what’s for you will

not walk by you

Each morning I write a short poem at my desk. Most days I have my feet in a bucket of warm water which helps to ease the residue of muscular pain that I wake with. No big deal. I started the habit of writing these morning poems on Hogmanay; it would be good to make it through to the end of the year.

a walk is something to take with us

as we leave it behind

When I read a few weeks of them together then the practice of writing something short every day looks like more than it is: Dailies allow a moment to reflect on time from a personal point of view, but then sometimes history sticks its nose in to all of our lives at the same time. 

there’s nothing left of us

but our paths

In this post I want to include a few of these morning poems and note the arrival of Coronavirus. We don't yet know what this event will mean. It is changing every day. 

Celebrating social and creative walking it's impossible not to wonder what the next few months will bring. I already know a friend who knows someone in isolation after returning from a holiday in Italy. And now Italy is in lock down. And soon, to some extent, we will be.

when we are walking our body is living

when we stop walking it begins dying

For those of us in a high risk group this is an event we've been expecting, or dreading, since swine flu. The question was always when, not if, this would happen, especially as climate breakdown exerts an impact. 

I'm aware that there are people who attend PFA health walks who will also have reason to be worried. Some walkers will need to self-isolate.

the news used to come in 

the room at walking pace

now it trips and rushes

Most of my work just now is planning visits to these groups, meeting walkers, and preparing a program of Day of Access events for May and June. I'm also co-ordinating some school workshops in late April. I wonder which of these will happen? I'm already postponing plans. The next few days or weeks look like a path into a different world. 

Contagion is a particular measure of time and space that we're no longer used to. Like rumour, it flicks around us. The sun is shining on the rooftops and the world appears the same as it ever was, and yet...

death is at the centre

of life, not its end

I don't think these daily poems need any notes, though some will be obscure as they come from chance meetings, memories, or dreams. For now I wanted to set them down as a record of the first phase of the virus and the arrival of The Emergency. A record is what any poem is. I will update and add to this post as the weeks pass. I wanted Dailies to mark how the virus intruded in our ordinary lives and, seemingly, how it will change our world, and how we adapted.

We'll all see how our work and health is affected. We'll hope to get through. We'll hope to be walking in the Autumn.

things to share

            colds

            &

            walks

An event like this, in which the state is mobilising to protect us, and we need to learn to alter our behaviour, is a reminder that for years we've been living the slow contagion of climate breakdown and refused to take similar measures. That has felt unlikely to change in the ways that were necessary. These fevers move at different speeds, but only if we measure them in terms of human time.

The gains made in such crisis are the basis of the new society that will be created from the old one by all of us.



















Coda

I developed symptoms for coronavirus on March 16, which sharpens the edge. I caught it two days before my 54^th birthday. So far I have been through much worse in the past. It will affect everyone differently – we hear reports of typically, but illness is as individualised as our smell. Everyone with auto-immune system illnesses is living in a heightened state: do what you can to show solidarity. I know some friends who have had to give up their carers and manage alone, as the risk of human contact is too great.

For me, after it was established, the illness came on in waves, once in the afternoon, and then worse at night. In a way I've lived this before, when I had swine flu for 5 months, and then was bed-bound for the following 3 or 4 winters with the kind of pneumonia symptoms that are now widely reported. Back then I got no hearing from GPs or specialists. 

For some, with a virus such as this, the membrane between life and death becomes thinner – you feel your breath thin and shallow, the alien pressure on the lungs, as if one was submerged deep in the ocean, and the weirdness of the virus pulsing through the immune system and breaking on the brain. 

Now that experience is being lived by hundreds of thousands of people. The trauma of fear is also meeting with the trauma of grief and loss, as individual cases that touch families are woven into a web of “news”.

My thoughts go out to everyone on the same path. We need to create a movement of radical kindness. It begins in our sick bed, or at home, looking out of the window, noticing and valuing ordinary things. It becomes a politics of empathy in which all change is possible. 

I know many people with immune system conditions who aren't being offered protection or care. I know people who have been disabled and persisted in working, often in precarious circumstances, because the system refuses to integrate them. I don't know if that will change, but it has to. 

I know that some people have longstanding experiences of these kinds of illness, and of the constraints of isolation, which society can learn from. To adapt a culture to such a cultural and economic shift requires learning from people who made similar journeys in the past. 

March 30, day 14: I was able to go outside for the first time in two weeks. I thought I was safe from the virus, but knew rehabilitating my lungs will take some time.

April 5, day 19: another spin cycle through the virus, as the immune system cannot cope with a full recovery yet and needs to impose fatigue, to insist on rest. As many people have reported, it can take some time to heal.

It takes so long for tips to circulate: yesterday a friend told me, don’t spend all day lying on your back, it compresses your lungs. So I watched Catch 22 and some Harry Potter, lying on a pillow mountain, on a futon, looking along the floorboards to the screen. It does help. Today, on the news, we’re told Boris Johnson is probably being turned over to lie on his front. How slowly the information reached us and how it depends on the famous being affected.

April 7: my third week, recuperating again. For people with my condition, ME, the average – take 1,000 typical cases and stick a pin in the middle to find the mythical average – seems to be around 6 weeks. 

This morning David Aaronovitch was sharing his experiences of being in ICU, critically ill, to offer insights into our Prime Minister’s situation. People benefit from acts of witness. We need to hear what it really feels like to have an illness, to have a tube in one’s throat, to be dependent on the care of others. 

I couldn’t help thinking back to when Aaronovitch doubted people with ME/CFS were medically ill. Pain is something we each feel as intensely real, within ourselves, but for some the concept of the typical is simply a way to elevate their own suffering or pain and relegate others. 

Boris Johnson’s illness will help more people understand the impact of this virus, which is so varied. All the guff about his courage or strength of character means nothing. He is perhaps learning – finally – what it is to be vulnerable and that boisterous enthusiasm and flags, puppyish talk of fighting spirit, and nodding furiously towards mythic historical events, are not the same as endurance and perseverance. 

I can think of thousands of people who could give lessons in what it means to recover – or endure – because they experienced the equivalents of CO19 before this mass event grabbed the world by the balls. The discipline of the will in convalescence is sometimes the need to do nothing, to rest, to be still, and even, sometimes, to give in. Those who survive being on a ventilator will need a year or more to recover. Many people will come down with post-viral illnesses. Many will need to learn what it's like to manage their lives with limited energy, fatigue, pain, and constraint. Many will enter a benefits system that is deliberately hostile. The definition of what is typical will shatter into many differently shaped shards.

There are a host of other voices we should be hearing from. If our culture was attuned to healing then there would be more people lying on their tummies and doing breathing exercises. For now, arses in the air is where we're at.

April 21: this is my day 34. My breathing is still at around 50%. Sleep is shallow, with panting and waking muzzy headed. I know others who have had the illness, or the after-effects, as long. The lungs feel as if they are in a new gravity, a thicker gravy. The days are slow, the hours fast, and there's a necessary period of quiet collapse each afternoon.

May 6: day 49, no better, no worse. Stuck in the middle with you.

I feel lucky.

this is the decade

   when saying it

could 

   make it happen

1.I.20

overnight my legs’re

slimmer

between celebs

the ballerina

dated a plumber

5.I.20

do too

much little

tie in

a lie in

19.I.20

the path 

of intention

                                    ink

the path

of resolution

                                    wash

the path

of correction

                                    line

22.I.20

what’s to switch off

stung tissue?

stick a match to

that wad of sage

27.I.20

the crystal comes

with me   as

does the pain

7.II.20

the snow fetches back

her walk for candles

to pen imagined flowers

through the dark hours

10.II.20

either get your feet wet

or build yourself a nest

in the thick of 

those dark branches

18.II.20

exchanging emails

with my Mum

saying not saying

what covid can mean

1.III.20

wash your hands

for as long as

it takes to sing

The Killing Moon

3.III.20

poverty, storms, floods

and a plague

but save us, please,

from Genesis

4.III.20

to brook

a Flemish cold

almost worth it

for the pun

7.III.20

close to the sandpiper

has shabby down

lack of fear’s

a symptom of winter

8.III.20

this being a crisis

the ministers meet

around a coffin-

shaped table

9.III.20

time

to add

a stone

to blossom

& 

pollen

14.III.20 (grave poem)

stick a pin

in the plan

until it can

happen

16.III.20

shelter in place

make a list

of "freckle" pass-

words for loved ones

17.III.20

the new Mantel

arrived with the symptoms

at least I know

how it ends

18.III.20

boom times

for the Savonnerie

of Marseilles

19.III.20

here it comes –

how many days

have those tulips

in that water?

20.III.20

the scent of 

my birth-

day hyacinths

is to die live for

21.III.20

where you sat

sipping a spritz

by the canal

dolphins are swimming

22.III.20

manifesto:

if your life

is normal

something's wrong

23.III.20

(lockdown)

the odd walker

on the path

with an aura

of danger

24.III.20

her reiki hands

feel a steely-blue

strangeness – alien-

ness not auf Mars

but animals

25.III.20

DAY

   X

crossroads

or cancellation

26.III.20

subject:

the self

inside

content:

the world

outside

27.III.20

“the greatest dignity”

– an invisible medal

(I should tell

my pals the sparrows)

30.III

how do my lungs feel?

like a three-week

old party balloon

covered in fag-ash

31.III.20

the old trade:

seeing the same boats

in the same berths

for bastard lactic legs

1.IV.20

I’ll call it my grianan

this futon I drag

around the room

in a fold of sunbeams

3.IV.20

the thistle-tweaker

or painting-by-

numbers bird

  goldfinch

4.IV.20

the mouse is getting

to feel at home

how soon ‘til we

exchange poems?

5.IV.20

the streetlights

flickering over the firth

seem so far away

6.IV.20

if the deer crashing

through the trees

towards us was

fate then the dog

following on behind

must be life?

7.IV.20

how many people

died cause they

weren’t told to lie

on their tummy?

8.IV.20

she says every

catastrophe

carries col-

lateral beauty 

9.IV.20

you break up

with the virus

then it gets

back together

with you worse

10.IV.20

she says she heard

the pear trees talking

after a much needed 

manure mulch

11.IV.20

cupped hands cover

the cup of smudge

still smoke lisps

through my fingers

12.IV.20

in his game

each cell with

one or even

no neighbours

died of loneliness

13.IV.20

i.m. John Conway

take your water

with a pinch

of ascorbic

do as the tea

says: breathe

         deep

14.IV.20

at the zoo 

the talk is of

feeding animals

to animals

15.IV.20

take a blow cinders

blue fingers

and blue toes

how strange

to have shadows

16.IV.20

picture the punch-

bag between you

then let go

18.IV.20

it’s safe to sleep

on the lion

when the lion

is asleep

20.IV.20

the ink silence

of my pandemic note-

books lit up

with pictures cut

from LRB back issues

21.IV.20

he says he hopes 

I am as healthy 

as a cucumber

so I sit a little longer

in the window sun

22.IV.20

Lesley dreamt I sang

‘Nearer my god to thee’ 

strangest of all

with a beautiful voice

23.IV.20

I wouldn’t throw

bills in the bin

when I’ve a shelf

they can go on

24.IV

life with lock-

down (37): more

notebooks, brassier

birds, less breath

25.IV

the sag 

of the quilt 

must be

my knees fault

27.IV.20

my sparrows can

fledge in a finger’s

width of mortar

between stone and rone

28.IV.20

he says this is

its latest and for

the time being

final form

30.IV.20

when were you

last happy BF?

you mean when

was I last safe GF?

1.V.20

gab to the mirror

there’s a friend

to make with

a finger of dust

2.V.20

OVER-

a friend’s

death

LAYS

the term

of a birth

3.V.20

the dog’s bound to

not want the gulls

to have the scraps

of bread he doesn’t

4.V.20

in the quiet night

the glue’s put

right the teapot

5.V.20

share   (a breath)

(pop)   a bubble

6.V.20

eachy peachy

one side says

no better

pear plum

one side says

no worse

7.V.20


at 60 you have 6 

problems so they say

at 70 you have 7

and 54 at 54

8.IV.20

a wheelchair

could be got

but could

it be pushed?

9.V.20

BEAT

back

THE

to

RETREAT

bed

10.V.20

9.V.20

use of oars

makes squalls

let her drift 

(keep lookout)

11.V.20

the same idea

has arrived

in other words

and a different name

12.V.20

leg stretches

into possibilities

does this breath

get me out?

13.V.20

days in the week:

scant good in

a slew of bad

14.V.20

you’re never sure

if the wasp’s in 

the hanky ‘til it’s 

out the window

15.V.20

for this first-waver

long chain replication

pushes the pain

through day 60

16.V.20

flipping the journal

recto to face

recto to pass in-

to spikes of pain

17.V.20


amy’s cold water

cure works for

pain as well

as melancholy

18.V.20

for Amy Liptrot

growl if you’ve

more chance 

of getting meds

from a vet

19.V.20

the first apple 

speaks as it ripens

the second apple 

listens as it falls

the third apple under-

stands as its eaten

21.V.20

after Mandelstham

the sun blanket

pegged out

all night

in the storm

23.V.20

my wee world

will stay wee

but what of

my hurt heart?

24.V.20

those swimmer’s arms

forced you far

dream dragged you back

draped in wrack

buried in sand

25.V.20

she dreams we

held hands

in the undersett

of a tartan rug

26.V.20

look! (silly –

there’s no-one to

see) a perfect

wonky avocado

27.V.20

if you can walk

a half mile

places connect

if you can walk

100 yards

then that’s it

28.V.20

meng, tr. duh

when the oracle

says don’t ask

I’m saying nothing

29.V.20

the drawing gone wrong

becomes the loveliest

paper for lists

 

9.VI.20

 

 

do as              the river

does:                  flow a-

round           the boulder

 

11.VI.20

 

 

counting the days

‘til the back 

channel meds 

pop through

my letterbox

 

12.VI.20

 

 

the voices of Hannah Peel

and Sarah Mohr-Pietsch

are the music

 

13.VI.20

 

 

I can see the sea

but it’s so long

 

since I could walk

to the harbour

 

14.VI.20

 

 

here’s to love,

pure breath, and

 

a bolt of sun

up your arse

 

15.VI.20

 

 

it was OK to sink

in the water

then but this

time you’ve to learn

how to kick

 

16.VI.20

 

 

down in the defile

among rocks and thorns

starved of light

a tree speaks

words of dust

 

17.VI.20

 

 

raise the arms

over the head

palm-to-palm finger

tips holding a beam

let the body open

 

18.VI.20

 

 

the postures

we make

 

the postures 

we take

 

the postures

we keep

 

19.VI.20

 

 

the tiger

in the tank

 

(the thorn

in the paw)

 

23.VI.20

 

 

snuck behind 

the cause

 

is the cause

of the cause

 

24.VI.20

 

 

filling out my PIP

form in pencil

 

there’s no tick-box

for ‘in the sun’

 

25.VI.20

   

The photos were taken on recent walks.