today, i understood the restrictions of a 'small' space. in a few bedrooms, a living space, a kitchen, three bodies move. they might mill; they might hasten. they might be at rest, but their minds might be running. in a 'small' space, three bodies might occupy it from wall to floor to ceiling. three bodies might be stuck, all glued to the cushions of one 'small' couch, weathering whatever this might be. it is hard to think about what this space used to be. before the v*rus, this space might have been even smaller. it was just a resting ground, a place between places; a collection of rooms that housed my necessary and unnecessary objects. now, it is an ecosystem that so audibly breathes. it rustles awake in the morning. it slows down before bed. i can hear it laughing and sighing. everything happens in this 'small' space now. almost every memory from this month, and maybe next, will happen in this 'small' space. will the space be big enough to hold it? will it have to grow?
Instead, the world feels larger, not smaller. Right now, with over a third of the world on some sort of lockdown, with the entire world going through some version of the same crisis at once, we are suddenly frantic to touch one another. It seems more important to reconnect with friends. It seems more important than ever to be sweet and silly. We all know someone who’s stuck in a house by themselves, trying not to go bonkers. We all know someone who’s stuck in a house with someone awful, trying to survive the hotboxing of an already toxic relationship. And many of us, by now, know someone who’s sick.
I love the contradiction here, that to better understand crisis, we may need to recognize the slowness of how conditions evolve, how power operates, the patience to build and fortify over time. Committing to maintenance as a form of urgency.