It appears to be that time again in the pandemic, everyone seems to be on edge. It’s almost like a witching hour is upon us, if our COVID reality existed in the microcosm of one banal spring day. As I sit here writing on our deck, dawn is breaking overhead. I can hear it. But even the typical cheery song of our backyard birds is off this morning. The goldfinches dive and dance but their show is interrupted by the screech of a dusty old blue jay sitting on our shed. Too loud for this time of day, his blue feathered head seems an unlikely source for the caustic noise distracting me. “Shhhhhhh!” I hiss in the Blue jay’s direction. He hisses back and continues screeching.
You might be asking how does one experience deja vu during a global health crisis of unprecedented magnitude and widespread civil and cultural unrest? Who knows, but it’s reminding me of the restlessness I felt in early May. Pinot Noir seemed to be the answer then but, alas, this second influx of turbulent energy seems to be magnified now. Adding wine to the flames, well we’ve seen what that does for the Brynnsta. Alas, as the forlorn cries of my backyard blue jay fade into the background, my senses tune into the new wave of mask-muffled hysteria rising from battered cities and snoozing suburbs across the country.
It’s like a meme I saw earlier in the pandemic that insinuated the initial weeks of lockdown held some novel appeal, but that status had since faded, it’s last line reading: “things are just getting dark now.” It summed up my frantic and fraying psyche perfectly, as I assumed it did with everyone else hoping the Twilight Zone episode we were living in would end as soon as possible. Puzzles and cherry tomatoes can only float one’s sanity for so long.
So back to May, it was right around this time my writing was getting nuttier and nuttier. Typically if I’m writing nonsense it’s for one of two reasons, the only one pertinent here is… likely trouble is afoot. Rereading posts from back then, it’s the ones where I’m naming trees and plants that seem scariest. I do love our woodchuck, Nigel, though.
Inside the house, we ate and ate and ate and drank just as much. I attempted to mitigate the effects these adventures in gluttony by obsessively peddling to nowhere as fast as I could every single day of the spring. It was like groundhog day, but a horror movie with endless loads of spandex laundry and Dua Lipa remixes.
Those dark days of late April/early May saw the rise of my first pandemic outfit: flannel shirt over a cutoff rumble hoodie, leggings, bean boots, black mask and Carhartt hat (it was the coldest, wettest April on record since, idk, a while). As my sartorial vibes teetered on and ultimately over the edge of decency, I let go of any semblance of hair and/or skin care regime. Pictures of me from this time period resemble Joe Exotic pre-polygamy but mid-meth.
Aside from the scariness of a global pandemic earlier this year, the bad weather cast a shadow on every scene of my day. Having coffee in the dark led to working in the dark huddled near my desk lamp. Then I’d walk Hudson under the shadowy April clouds between the rain and snow. By dinner the only thing cutting through the heavy layer of depression was wine. Thank god for wine.
But then, just like that things started opening up. I don’t mean stores and restaurants, although they did and are still open up here in Massachusetts. Mid-may the seemingly permanent clouds began to dissipate as well. I refused to go inside. We bought plants and imported truckloads of loam. I became the CEO of lawn maintenance and obsessed over our new bird feeders. After work evenings were spent working in the yard follow by, I insisted, a celebratory bonfire, even if Steve wasn’t home. Hudson hates fire but I demanded he also participate. To this day if I light a citronella candle, the look of weary compliance on his face takes me back to that brief descent into madness. The neighbors must think I’m a witch at this point.
As dove headfirst into sunny days, the pandemic wasn’t too of mind. Perhaps it was the constant itch of my monitor bite riddled ankles, but the isolation of April seemed to be in the rear view. Then Steve began going into Boston to help with the nighttime looting and violence. Work picked up. I snapped. He snapped. Things were dark again.
Thinking about those early summer weeks now, though, it’s clear the energy this summer isn’t what I felt in April and May. It’s not a cloud or storm, but a microscope. It’s less of a feeling and more of a scramble. I began assessing the value of the every thing in my life, cataloguing imperfections, and obsessing over the dumbest thing.
As a welcome break, for the Fourth of July, Steve and I went to visit my aunt and uncle on LBI. We colonized the beach shack behind my Aunt Karen’s clothing store, Sandy Banks, in Beach Haven and extended our stay twice. I cried when we left. There’s no obsessing at the beach, especially in Beach Haven, the town where I spent my childhood summers. And with nothing but sun and sand and forgetting reality on the agenda, I took a deep breath.
On the actual night of the fourth, Steve and I walked to the beach under an artificially stormy sky, it seemed everyone had their own fireworks which they fired at will. Imagine The Purge but more patriotic. The intermittent pops and flares seemed to grow brighter as we neared the beach. Upon arriving I realized it wasn’t the fireworks that lit the sky but the moon, in all of her maskless glory. That night everything paled in comparison to the moon.
I spent some lazy beach time the following day perusing google researching my new interest in the heavens. Turns out it wasn’t just any full moon this year in July, but the Thunder moon — a lunar eclipse during a full moon. Now I’d like to say I don’t subscribe to all that astrology mumbo jumbo horoscope and planetary movements mean things crap, but I’m trying it on for size and have been a low level dabbler in all things zodiac for years (duh, I’m a taurus). No, you won’t find me dancing naked over a bonfire anytime soon but there’s something to be said about the effects of mercury in retrograde. Also it’s fun to read about and, honestly, zodiac signs I find hilariously accurate.
Of course, I immediately zeroed in on the fact that a thunder moon has an unsettling effect on a lot of people (source: weird astrology websites so sketchy my computer likely has COVID at this point). Most of my “highly reputable sources” agreed the Thunder Moon is a time of weary introspection for many people, and feeling lost or unsure in both personal and professional endeavors is common. The word “scrambling” was used on many sites to describe the changed energy caused by the converging planets in a full moon. Apparently, this phenomenon also causes unceremonious and involuntary trips down memory lane. Several experts noted during this time it is a reminder to let go of the past and issues that are inhibiting a forward move in one’s life. Apparently thoughts of mortality and life’s meaning have often been reported. I know, a little heavy for Phase 3 of COVID reopening.
I don’t know if any of this is true but it would be nice to attribute the existential itch I’ve been feeling to the interactions of planets millions of lightyears away. That way it becomes less of a me problem, and more of a 2020 problem. Now the fact that I heard from three ex-boyfriends out of the blue that week and received a telephone call from my 7th grade history teacher the night we returned home from New Jersey certainly suggests this stormy moon might actually make waves.
So here I am. I’ve got the past knocking on my back door, the global pandemic in my kitchen, a moody cop outside mowing the lawn (Steve), and a celestial hurricane in my head. Though the same questions distract me day in and day out, I’m still not sure what they mean. Aren’t we all just trying to get by these days COVID-free, keep our masks on at Whole Foods without hyperventilating, and not rip our significant other’s heads off? Now I’m stuck here wondering things like “what are my actual dreams in life?” and furiously checking horoscopes while obsessively trying to figure out who I want to be when I grow up. F you, moon, if this is your fault.
But maybe it’s me. Perhaps I’m just restless. Maybe I’m wondering what life could look like in a few years or in ten years. Perhaps I am curious what my memories will show when I’m sixty, will I be happy when I hit play on those old movies? Will I be proud of the life I’ve created? It could also be the pandemic causing my internal crisis. It’s not a huge leap to suggest the torrent of thoughts about the meaning of life could be due to traced back to COVID-19. Nothing like the mounting death toll from the pandemic being shouted from every corner as a daily reminder of one’s impermanence and mortality.
What will I leave behind? Regardless of the cause of my new uneven footing, it’s time that’s the real issue. Time, like the minutes passing by right now. I’m feeling an urgency in so many ways and the moon can’t be blamed for that. Time is the only real currency, my friends. Maybe at 33 I’m reminding myself that a third of my life has passed. Perhaps the real question I’m positing is (god willing): what do I want the next 33 years to look like?
The Dog Hair Diaries 
What do you want the next 33 years to look like?
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