Two years ago to the day, to the hour, I sat where I’m sitting now: on the sofa, laptop in front of me, TV tuned to the nonstop, non-erotic news cabaret of Max Mayfield warning us that the time for hubris had passed. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.
Jonno and I–stubborn by nature–weren’t convinced. Or maybe we were, but neither of us wanted to admit it. We’d milled around the house all day, trying to pretend that everything was going to be okay. Finally, at 10pm on August 27, something snapped. We snapped. We caved to the hype and the fear and the incessant stream of text messages from Don and Drew. Two hours and ten minutes later, we were on the road heading west as fast as the contraflow could carry us.
I hate this cliché–really I do–but it all seems like a dream now. I’m really good at throwing myself into projects, and for the past two years, I’ve done so nonstop. My job, theatre, design projects, this old damn house–anything to keep my mind occupied. It’s a trick I learned to refine working in restaurant kitchens: when things get overwhelming, put your head down and do your work, and when you’re done, you’ll look up and see the clock and wonder where the time has gone. Yeah, maybe it’s denial, but who ever said that self-preservation had to be healthy?
But while the last two years have been an ambivalent blur for me, many of my friends and family haven’t led such pleasantly purgatorial lives. My dad, for example: I was talking with him on the phone earlier this evening, and he confided that he’d had a serious bout of depression for months after the storm–which is surprising because (a) he’s even more stoic than I am, and (b) he live 90 miles inland and several hundred feet above sea level. He’s fine now, but it’s still weird to think of him that way.
Anyway, I’ve said all this before, but given the date, I thought it bore repeating. Bottom line: we’re still here, and it feels like things are looking up.
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