So here’s a thought that legitimately caused me worry recently: I didn’t do the pandemic right. Now that I’m getting out and living again, seeing movies and hugging people and eating indoors, I’m experiencing the weirdest sort of amnesia about quarantine. What exactly did I do for 16 months?
I read a lot, I know that. Finishing The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich will possibly be my quarantine headline in the future.
“So what’d you do during quarantine?”
“Became an expert on the Nazis.”
“That tracks.”
I got into film history. And rock history. (I finished my 60s playlist by the way.) I made some breads, but not egregiously. I started this newsletter. Otherwise, it’s kind of a blank.
In a conversation with one of my kids yesterday, I made the following comment: “It’s funny—parenting small children is such an intense experience and then at some point you kind of forget most of it.” I’m feeling the same about COVID quarantine.
What got me thinking about this was Bo Burnham: Inside, the new Netflix show that has everyone talking. You should watch it but you should also gird yourself before you watch it. Besides having the greatest description of the internet ever put into words, it’s also a rare opportunity to watch someone slowly lose their mind. It will bring up emotions you thought you had successfully tamped down. It will likely be one of the most beautiful pieces of art to come out of the pandemic.
One surprising emotion that kept bubbling up for me while watching it was a fun combination of jealousy and regret. Why didn’t I create art? Why did I focus on other people’s output instead of my own? Why in the hell didn’t I write a book? I am in awe of the ballsiness of Bo Burnham. He didn’t shrink from showing us his ugly parts and it worked. He’s receiving rave reviews - SlashFilm even called it a masterpiece - and helping us sort through our own ugliness to boot. What is my Nazi expertise doing to help anyone? Nothing, that’s what.
I know what you’re saying to me right now and I know you’re right. I’m being far too harsh with myself when every mental health professional in the world has repeatedly told us to be gentle. I survived the year. That’s an accomplishment in itself. I know all that. But I’m also grappling with a surprising amount of regret for a time when I had nothing but time.
Don’t misunderstand—I am SO thrilled to be vaccinated and out in the world again. I would not re-live last year for all the whiskey in Ireland. I don’t think we’ve spent nearly enough time marveling at what science did for humanity in such a brief amount of time. (Here’s your friendly reminder that vaccines normally take 10-15 years to come to market.)
But I also feel like this momentous, once-in-a-lifetime event just happened and... I don’t remember a damn bit of it. Shouldn’t I have some sort of personal relic from it? Shouldn’t it have more permanence? If it doesn’t, does that mean it matters less?
I don’t currently have the answers to any of these questions. Perhaps what you’re supposed to do after something like this is to spend time pondering. Maybe the art doesn’t have to come immediately. Maybe my book is still percolating in my brain.
Or maybe it’s just okay to be a consumer of art. Maybe I just need to chill the fuck out and get into the vibe of this picture.
What about you? How’s your mind treating you on re-emergence?