For weeks now, I’ve seen quad bikes tearing down my street, riders raising their fists, almost standing. They’re masked, balaclavas like black palm leaves. Hungry. Urgent. Perhaps wanting the air to bite back, the stillness beaten out of it. I find myself frequently staring down the street, both ends, to make sure I’m on top of things.
Objects seem precarious, smaller, and kind of sullen. A wheelie bin. A storm of plastic bags. The JCB in my driveway. Right now, I’m familiar with more machines and junk than people. But that’s quarantine for you. We’re living with it differently. We’re each reckoning with the familiar, and seeing how familiar we are in its glow. Any sense of rapidity in our lives has mostly been obliterated – and I may be alone here in more ways than one, but I want to read something faster, more gregarious. I want to feel there is a lot going on.