Lockdown has me feeling like a doll in a doll’s house, a doll in a doll’s 5km zone.
Like a clay-model miniature in a plasticine world seeming evermore an imitation, a paling animation, a stop-motion version in which nothing ever happens only the tired traipsing back & forth, forth then back, from here to there, then back, back, back again from there to here.
Always in the same place doing the same things at the same time. Skelligs-like in routine & regularity, & even in a certain kind of devotion – to keeping it together despite – but without even the slightest infusion of the numinous, without any golden prospect of the ending of this year-long lent in an outbreak of revelation.
Abandoned to this digitised chicken-coop of an existence, this mock-up of a life, by whatever nauseated god or gods used to spin the wheel and change the record for us now & then, & now have gone off to other cosmic amusements, other casinos in the deep sky.
Now I know, & perhaps so do you, how a doll feels when it’s been tidied away by it’s childgod and left in a drawer alone, to drown-by-the-hour in a slow inundation of dust & disuse.
After ten or eleven months in the shadow sub-world of the drawer, the doll starts to wonder if there ever really really was a childgod that came to play & make adventures for it & into which it would leap
to feel, even for an hour or two, like some true living thing.
Lordan’s Lit 