I would argue strongly in defence of thinking about extremely stupid stuff that has nothing to do with the current hellishness
Given that my response to the start of the Gulf war was to write that night in my diary, “Renewed my membership to the New Kids On The Block fanclub!!!!”, I am very familiar with being accused of caring too much about frivolity in times of gravity. The day Diana died, I made the schlep to Kensington Palace to see the flowers; but I also stopped in at Tower Records afterwards to buy an album (Backstreet Boys by the Backstreet Boys: Diana would have approved). Even now, when I know I should be spending every spare minute studying a long read about contagion/China/capitalism, I am instead reading Craig Brown’s ridiculously enjoyable new biography of the Beatles, One Two Three Four. Because, sure, we’re living through history. But did you know that Ringo once tried to save money on house repairs by buying his own building company?
At the time of writing, the British lockdown has lasted a month and, initially, it was pretty much all I could talk about: the fear, the weirdness, the uncertainty. “It is what it is,” my friends and I would sigh down the phone to each other, because when you have no idea what to say but think you need to say something, you turn into an Alison Steadman character. But after a certain point, there isn’t – if you’re lucky – much else to say. If you and your family are well and have enough to eat, what’s your conversation going to be? “Yup, still inside. Still washing my hands. Doing the same tomorrow – catch up then?” If the lockdown experience was a movie, even Terrence Malick would be thinking, “You know what? This story really needs some plot.”
Continue reading...from The Guardian https://ift.tt/3ePIMRD
