Live from Planet Bedroom
A rare moment of tranquil, in ‘Doom Eternal’ …
For the first time in the pandemic - and yes … this includes the fever pitch of early March - I’m not entirely sure I’m going to make it out alive, or even want to. There are trivial reasons (the new Tottenham kit is utter garbage; there will be no third season of Succession for some whiles anyway; etcetera), and then there are the old existential favourites: perhaps I have learnt nothing new about myself or about love, or perhaps no one will give a shit, or perhaps (and this is the good stuff) I will be too fundamentally altered, medically or otherwise, to be of any use towards anyone without need of a good proofreading.
Last week I was forced into self-quarantine twice, because this is how close the dreaded virus is now. People who know people you know are receiving positive test results, and the phenomenon as far as you’re concerned is called third-person exposure. You will have to withdraw yourself from normal life, from relationships (even the brand new ones), and wait for at least one symptom to surface before you can secure access to a test. The recommended self-quarantine time varies; one health expert will tell you seven days; another will tell you ten; a relation will tell you two weeks represent the global standard.
I’m normally okay by myself, in my room, in my head, despite what savage wastelands both are. I live with the most darling of somewhat elderly persons, and so my own self-quarantine has required me to stay well clear of the rest of the house: use a separate bathroom, separate cutlery - whilst, of course, monitoring myself so very closely for the onset of actual symptoms.
I make the grudging acceptance that I will not see someone I adore for at least two weeks, and enter self-quarantine upon a Thursday evening. It is a dark time.
Day 1.
My people bring me breakfast, and lunch, and place the tray at my door. A little numbed, I try not to podcast or YouTube or work while I eat, having recently adopted the terrible habit of missing the occasional meal. I have to focus on eating lately, really fork or spoon or caterpillar the stuff down. I pitch a client in my jammies at 2:30. It goes reasonably well. The thespian ease with which I’m able to transition from sighing all morning, into a graphic designer’s receiver, to pitching said client the future … is impressive, even if I do say so myself. A bar fridge is moved into my room. Its engine makes odd barks and bangs every so often, startling me out of half-baked dreams.
I watch basketball highlights for less than hour, unable to consume television series, movies, because long-form narrative is an ask. (I haven’t touched my books, writers writing about writers, in weeks.) I receive congratulations from friends, and new follows on social media, for winning a short story contest. I am grateful, I say, humbled - but the prize I want, dearly, is to goof around with someone I adore.
I surrender to the night around 9PM, far too many thoughts whizzing back and forth across my brain. I believe I eat three apples for supper. A minty pill of magnesium is dessert.
Day 2.
I believe it is a Saturday. I turn my my apps off and don’t intend to launch them again until Monday, which is when my job will require me to be at least somewhat online. I have recently purchased Doom Eternal, a first-person video game in which you, the Doom Slayer, are expected to wage bloody war against the heavily militarised forces of hell. I accidentally miss a phone call from someone I adore, return it, have my spirits raised, and am just about buoyant enough to shoot at demons with ridiculously large guns - at least for a couple of hours.
My people knock on my door and bring me lunch; rice in one bowl, chicken in the other. They bring more apples, and Royal Creams to place in my refrigerator. (Biscuits are rather magical, yes, when refrigerated.) Blowing the heads off diverse monsters, I can’t help but shake my head at how cushy a stint this is. I am sat here waiting for symptoms, lovesick, playing video games, whilst thousands across the world fight for dear life - in rooms, I imagine, they don’t even recognize.
Day 3.
Even if I don’t produce symptoms within 7 days, I could still be an asymptomatic carrier of the virus. I am reminded of this fact by someone I adore, and who I am aching to see - to inundate with my literary problems, to impress with bad poetry, to regale with tales of corporate warfare. Her hopes and fancies, in any case, are ones I can listen to all day. I worry about my relation, and the possibility that I could infect the very people so kind as to tend to me while I wait for symptoms to surface. I worry that I may never see the one I adore again, or that I will try and end up right back in self-quarantine, unable to explain or rectify romantic hiccups or heart-farts. The demons, in Doom Eternal, kick my ass and follow me into my half-dreams.
I eat apples for supper again. Chocolate Tumblers I’ve been saving for Lord knows what modest occasion. I barely sleep.
*
I hope and trust that we’ll find a way out of this thing, even if I’m not so sure, not so gallant about my own chances. That we’ll put our individual needs behind those of the collective, and just … learn to be better people. Love harder. Listen louder. Hug tighter. At each stage of this self-quarantine, which I resent for one thing and for one thing only, I have had to remind myself constantly: you’re on holiday in your bedroom, you glorious asshole; and hope to goodness it stays at that.
