It’s all personal, it turns out, a global pandemic. Personal, like when your friends and neighbors get killed by it. That kind of brings it all back home, what?

Personal, like the realization that, as an older person, you, too, could very much be killed by it. Focuses the mind, does the immediate fear of death.

That early March of three years ago, I had just returned home from the giant writers’ conference AWP, 10,000 poets and novelists gathered each year in one place — in 2020, it was San Antonio. There was this thing out there called COVID-19, and some of the whiny academics involved didn’t show up, and some chastised organizers for persevering in person, rather than going “virtual” — whatever that might mean.

We were writers, and so we went to bars. My cousin drove over from Austin for a River Walk barbecue lunch and we bumped elbows in greeting, laughing at the new ritual.

Back here on March 11, my lifelong friend’s birthday, we gathered as always for dinner. Phones were on the table. “Wait — Tom Hanks has got it, down in Australia?” OK, so Everyman can get sick. “Wait — they just shut down the NBA.” When billionaires throw in the towel, there’s your sign everything in our world had just gone south. And that no one really knew what to do, other than hide.

And so, we hid. It was the logical thing to do. You don’t have to be a virologist to understand that. You just have to be a parent. When our kid got a cold, caused by a coronavirus, we got a cold, too, unless we were incredibly diligent about the hand-washing and the not-kissing. And here was a novel coronavirus that could, and did, kill.

Then, the experts so many Americans unaccountably love to hate, …read more

Source:: Los Angeles Daily News