As I write this, I’m making Bolognese.
At least, I think it’s Bolognese. I had a conversation once about the difference between a Bolognese and a Ragu, and I think it’s primarily regional if I remember that correctly? If not, please let me know, I’d be curious for the actual distinction.
It’s a meat sauce. There’re carrots, onions, garlic, celery, some ground beef, tomatoes, red wine.
Given the nature of my industry, and the industries of some of my family, actually sitting down to a family meal is something we don’t get the chance to do much anymore. It’s a rare opportunity, a moment of calm, in the middle of an increasingly turbulent time. And it is a turbulent time.
It’s a lot like my favorite weather, which might be an odd comparison to make. I love the feeling right before a storm- and I do mean right before. When you feel the shift in the wind, that change in pressure. The clouds have blocked the sun and the rain is seconds away from falling. It gets cooler. It gets at once faster, and slower. Maybe there’s the tiniest whisper of thunder. I love that feeling… Except I suppose when the storm’s life itself.
When I was in high school, one of my favorite shows to watch was King of the Hill. It’s an odd show, an adult animated cartoon that, apart from a few episodes, does it best to be unusually realistic- I think. I liked the show for its human character, its quirky edge, and odd animation style compared to other shows. In times like this, I recall a quote from one of my favorite episodes, a necessary little pick-me-up. Like Bolognese.
“I know how dark it is for you right now; curled up, lying in your own emotional vomit. You're in hell now, Boomhauer. And the only way out is through a long, dark tunnel. And you're afraid to go in, because there's a train comin' at you, carryin' a boxcar full of heartbreak. Well, let me tell you something: all you can do is let it hit you. And then try to find your legs. I know, I've taken that hit more times than I can remember. Look at me, Boomhauer: I'm fat, and I'm old, and every day I'm just gonna wake up fatter and older. Yet somehow I manage to drag this fat old bald bastard into the alley every day.”
In all fairness this exact quote goes on to encourage Boomhauer’s continued brand of sexual promiscuity, so maybe it’s not the most relevant or even necessarily comforting quote. But there’s something about standing in front a train, feeling it coming towards you, that uncertainty in what comes after and the certainty that it’s going to hit you all being felt at once that seems relevant.
What measures are being taken, and how they will affect the world and our country, will happen… they’ll hit us. We’re in the tunnel, and the only way out is through.
You know, a lot of my recent posts have had a lot to do with melodrama, that careful balance of cynicism and romanticism that lies somewhere inside of me. I like to think it doesn’t exist in my heart, but it might. There’s the possibility of it here, of a sense of overblown analysis, of anxiety and fear, of overly cautious pessimism and despair. Some of that, though, has to do with what happens when we come face to face with the real fragility of not necessarily existence, but existence as we know it. All the plans, the steps we thought we were going to take forward, the emergence of spring and the promise of summer, the friends and the dinners we’d share with them, the nature of work and income and passion, are suddenly gone.
They’re at the end of that tunnel.
But first, we have to let the train hit us.
My industry will suffer because of something entirely outside of its control. But we suffer so that others might not. We close, and we huddle, and we wait it out so that the wait might not be as long. We avoid the risk of exposing others to something they might not be able to handle, even if we might not. We sacrifice.
There’s a danger in idolizing sacrifice, as if the thing itself is a noble act, which it isn’t. There are plenty of things to sacrifice for that may or may not be worth it, and which render the sacrificial act meaningless. But what we face now, and what we sacrifice for, are the people in our communities who need protecting, who need safety, and who need health. Because we’re in this together, not for ourselves.
Of course, there are vulnerabilities in any system, and the damage that will come from what’s happening will affect everyone, possibly for a very long time. There’s no knowing how long the tunnel is, and it is from that uncertainty that most if not all anxiety stems. It used to be a matter of when not if, and now even the answer of when is entirely absent.
What do we do, when we don’t know when the tunnel ends or when the train departs?
We take it one day at a time.
This is, of course, something I am historically quite bad at. I am, quoting the Joker (of all people), a schemer trying to control my little world. Maybe that’s why I write. That opening line of my own book comes back to haunt me.
“There is not, perhaps, a more visceral or passionate war in mankind than that between freedom and control.”
Is it narcissistic to quote myself? Probably. But what else am I going to do with my time, now?
Oh, right. One day at a time.
Like writing. One sentence at a time.
Like cooking. One cut, one stir, one taste at a time.
Like walking. One step at a time.
When’s a book done? When the story’s been told. When’s this sauce bubbling on my stove going to be done? When it’s done. When will my walk be over? When I finish it.
When is this going to end?
When it ends.
When we stand and try to find our legs.
So, for now, I’ll make Bolognese (or at least what I think is Bolognese). I’ll open some bottle of Brunello I saved for an occasion that’s as imagined as any other. I’ll be happy for the chance to sit with my family and eat and drink and talk.
Then, maybe, I’ll write some more. Tomorrow, I could take a hike (a socially distant one, of course). The day after that?
I don’t know. I’m not there yet.
But if we do things right, we’ll make it there.