Now they’re saying the virus spreads by talking and breathing. We can kill each other just by being a person. One million infections worldwide, six thousand dead in America, and fifteen hundred dead in New York City.
And yes, I’m beginning to pray even though I don’t believe in much and I don’t know what to say. For now, I bow my head and hang on to a line from Voltaire: “Doubt is not an entirely agreeable state, but certainty is a ridiculous one.” An old man in New Orleans once told me that doubt is a conversation.
Some shops have signs taped to their doors: mask required to enter. We’re finally becoming a culture of masks in America. But the more critical shift is understanding that we wear them to protect others, not ourselves. And it’s a tragic twist, this spirit of collectivism borne from social distancing. Each day the American government reveals its staggering contempt for its citizens. We might finally take to the streets. But we can’t. Not yet.
Nights are getting weirder. So many sirens. Lone drunks vomiting in doorways. A man leans against a mailbox, eyes covered by a hood and hands pressed together like a prayer, mumble-chanting and grinning. Another ambulance speeds down First Avenue.
