’76
Journalism
After living five years on an island off the coast of Belize and two years in the magical Mexican city San Miguel de Allende, isolation is just another change that we hadn鈥檛 planned on.
Recently, while commiserating with a friend who had squirted a tube of oil paint on a wall while trying to open it, it occurred to me that accidents are art waiting for vision to give them purpose. The corollary to that is: There are no accidents in art. So, let鈥檚 substitute the word 鈥渓ife鈥� for 鈥渁rt.鈥�
Accidents鈥攐r events beyond our control鈥攁re art waiting for vision to give them purpose. And, yes, there are no real accidents in life.
And so, here we are, isolated in a building that was once a salon for artists, poets, musicians, and intellectuals. Reputedly, a long-ago owner and professor from Boston was romantically involved with the great architect Frank Lloyd Wright. It is just a rumor, but a charming one at that. I’d hate to destroy it with facts.
In the building are several Frank Lloyd Wright chairs. You can tell by their classic lines and complete disregard for human comfort.
The tiled sign by the entrance says we live in Casa de Los Poetas鈥攖he House of the Poets. The house is now carefully carved up into four apartments, of which ours, at the very top, is the only one occupied since the Coronavirus siege began.
We are surrounded by terraces that look out over the city. I can count nine Catholic churches in a single sweep from left to right, including the iconic Parroquia de Arcangel San Miguel and my neighborhood church, San Antonio. In isolation, I have learned to count the bells and decipher their meaning. Church bells have spoken to the people here for hundreds of years. It is practically a second or third language.
From the rooftop terrace, practically all of San Miguel is there before me. It almost feels like a castle turret, and I imagine fending off an attacking enemy with rockets and arrows. Or, these days, Purell and face masks.
In PC days鈥攑re-Covid鈥攚e would sit up there in the evening and watch fireworks almost weekly. This town celebrated so much and had so much to celebrate. In the morning, hot air balloons鈥攁s many as five鈥攚ould rise sleepily into the sky and lazily float over the skyline, occasionally rasping for a hot breath to lift themselves ever higher over the church spires.
The balloons and fireworks are gone for now and so are the sometimes intrusive sounds of city life. Into this vacuum has come the melodic symphony of songbirds. Maybe they were always there鈥攍ike the nightingale in Berkeley Square鈥攂ut who could hear them?
We have a park-like garden in the back with a table and benches, a fountain and sculptures, and a stately sweeping Jacaranda tree that offers shade in the afternoon and endless sneezing when the lavender flowers are in bloom.
In a physical sense, even while sequestered, there is always someplace 鈥渢o go鈥� without leaving the house.
Being the only occupants, my wife can dance with abandon in the living room and not irritate downstairs neighbors. And she does. For a former ballerina and dance teacher and now a Pilates teacher denied use of her studio, movement is cathartic.
She studies Spanish, cooks amazing meals, knits, and binge watches 鈥淗omeland,鈥� but she needs to be in motion鈥攜oga, Pilates, and dance (with LOTS of music) are the punctuation marks that give her sentence of house-arrest coherence.
Being a writer, I lead a quieter life.
Sequestration has opened up wider spaces for thinking. My wife calls them naps, but you writers out there know better, right? I also enjoy the time to explore my inner-introvert. I like being isolated.
Toward the end of March though, I began to wonder, 鈥淲hat am I really doing with all this time?鈥� OK, writing a novel. But who isn鈥檛? That鈥檚 only worth talking about when it is done, if it ever gets done. Meanwhile, what鈥檚 up?
In 鈥淒andelion Wine,鈥� Ray Bradbury鈥檚 highly fictionalized and stylized memoir, the pre-teen Doug is laying out the harsh reality of summer to his younger brother: 鈥淓very year the same things, same way, no change, no difference. That’s one half of summer, Tom.”
“What’s the other half?”
“Things we do for the first time ever.”
So, what is that 鈥渙ther half鈥� of isolation?
To find out just what I am up to, I decided, like Doug in 鈥淒andelion Wine,鈥� to keep a list. My sadly empty and utterly useless 2020 daily appointment book has come in very handy. Each morning, I turn to that day鈥檚 blank page and begin to log the things that I do.
Not 鈥渢he same things, same way, no change, no difference鈥� kind of things鈥攍ike showers, eating, naps, shaving, self-inflicted haircuts, buying wine, laundry, walk the dog, doctor visits, mail runs, buying more wine, and dishes鈥攗nless they fit into the 鈥渙ther things鈥� narrative in an interesting way.
They usually don鈥檛.
What I have found is that I am filling my day with about 6 to 10 good things that I find personally interesting and enriching.
I drop down into a highly-focused and self-directed rabbit hole.
I can hear you saying, 鈥淥h, he spends all day surfing the Internet.鈥�
But that鈥檚 not it.
I started on March 27 with listening to Bob Dylan鈥檚 new song, the epic 鈥淢urder Most Foul.鈥� Several times. Then I looked up the lyrics and put on a headset and followed Bobbo one more time. After which, I sat and meditated for a half-hour. I photographed our Jacaranda tree in full bloom as it was looking especially gorgeous in the daylight.
I read three essays in the New York Review of Books 鈥淧andemic Journal,鈥� as I find writers make the best reporters in times like these.
This sent me in pursuit of meaningful quotes on the concept of history鈥攚ho writes it? Who controls the narrative? How does history fit into a fact-free environment? One from Orwell was worth writing down.
I continued to read Flann O鈥橞rien鈥檚 鈥淎t Two-Birds Swim鈥� because the masochist in me won鈥檛 let me quit. I wrote to my grandson Brody. Did the New York Times crossword puzzle and one in our local paper. Read the latest New Yorker鈥攂y latest in Mexico, I mean at least a week old. And by evening, I鈥檇 return to Flann O鈥橞rien before falling asleep.
Just before nodding off, I took a photograph of the page and posted it to Facebook and that other social media mind trap, Instagram.
People liked it. So I kept posting each evening, just before turning in.
I find myself watching old movies like 鈥淭he Big Sleep,鈥� listening to Patsy Cline and Anna Netrebko and the 鈥淢oonlight Sonata鈥� and 鈥淢editations from Thais,鈥� and reading daily letters from humorist-turned-humanist Garrison Keillor and political historian Heather Cox Richardson, and watching Season 3 of 鈥淥zark鈥� and ZOOMing with kids and grandkids and friends on lockdown in San Francisco, London, and Belize.
One day, I listened to six versions of the pop song 鈥淲indmills of Your Mind鈥� and savored the many interpretations. The same day I listened to two BBC readings of the 1889 comic travelogue 鈥淭hree Men in a Boat,鈥� a book I鈥檇 read at age 12 and loved. The next day I watched a 1975 film version of the same with Michael Palin and Tim Curry.
I read Nobel Prize lectures from Pablo Neruda and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After reading three essays from Lewis Thomas鈥檚 鈥淟ate Night Thoughts on Listening to Mahler鈥檚 Ninth Symphony,鈥� I naturally listened to the symphony.
Reading 鈥淎 Luminous Republic鈥� by Andres Barba sent me off to find a recording of Tartini鈥檚 鈥淭he Devil鈥檚 Trill,鈥� (mentioned in the novel). I listened to several versions. Tartini claimed that the Devil himself gave him the composition in a dream.
So I glided through Robert Johnson鈥檚 鈥淐rossroads,鈥� where the devil gave him his prowess with a guitar and straight over to Charlie Daniels and 鈥淭he Devil Went Down to Georgia鈥� and the Mark O鈥機onnor-fueled fiddle-fest 鈥淭he Devil Comes Back to Georgia.鈥�
And I kept posting these bare-bones lists online.
Another outlet that wasn鈥檛 getting much attention was the blog I started after we鈥檇 moved to San Miguel: https://sanmiguelmusesandmagic.com/ . When everything is closed and nobody is around and you can鈥檛 go out, the local subject matter falls away.
So, I now post my daily calendar pages to the blog and add annotations and links for entries that cry out (in my mind) for more information. Now the blog posts get posted to Facebook and I get to recapture some of that lost traffic. Yes, my several readers 鈥�
The truth is, I used to do stuff like this all the time, though not as much and not as intensely. Whereas listening to a symphony or a concert was background, it has now become foreground, subject to greater scrutiny, evaluation, contemplation.
I see connections and pursue them. For example, Barba鈥檚 “A Luminous Republic鈥� leads to Tartini鈥檚 鈥淭he Devil鈥檚 Trill,鈥� which leads to the amazing story of the Lipinski Stradivarius (first owned by Tartini), which leads to the movie 鈥淭he Red Violin,鈥� which borrows from the Lipinski tale.
The other thing I have begun in isolation is to write poetry.
Not a lot. Just a few, which I post to the blog. And people seem to like them. They all have to do with the changes that have come to San Miguel with the closing (and to put my crude attempts into a more positive light, I add very attractive pictures of an empty San Miguel).
I鈥檝e not written much poetry before, and certainly none when I became a journalist and first saw the movie 鈥淭he Front Page.鈥� Who wants to be known as the pressroom poet after that movie?
I hesitate to even call this poetry. The form may be there but mostly it is observational prose. But it feels right.
Although, I can鈥檛 help but think that the ghosts who inhabit this one-time salon, The House of Poets, may have a hand in guiding me.
Yes, there are ghosts. But that is a story for another time.