by Emma Grace
Mixed Experience - a very Freudian definition of Trauma. I am living through this pandemic, isolated in my tower, my bedroom in my mother's ground floor apartment, Rapunzel wearing a mask. My television set is the window from which I look out over the world, seeing some, neglecting most. There is a man lying prone in front of the altar at St. Patricks, not on the marble floor, but on the cot which was set up by the National Guard, Tuesday's project. His religious denomination -- New Yorker, his prayers -- petitional, his lungs -- collapsing, his numbers -- dropping. His last words, unbeknownst to him might have been, "I'd like a clean shave." He is in the lonely company of retired medical professionals, strangers. He just remembered that today is the day his twins turn twelve.
With seeming panoptic perspective I watch the story of 2020 unfold. The story is narrated by David Muir with guest appearances by Newsome, Cumo, Garcetti and Donald. Story time is at 6:30 , although the story never stops unfolding.
I would have spent the next academic year in Florence, a first venture outside the country. That education too has moved to remote instruction. Images of dolphins swimming in the canals of Venice, of David truly naked -- disrobed of the adoration which had adorned him, of the Sistine Chapel and its single occupant on Easter Sunday fill my eyes. What reverberates in my mind, however, is the blue light. The world is once again flat, 21" x 36" to be exact and HD.