The Tyger, William Blake (1794)
"What fearful symmetry, indeed."

After Max The Smutty-nosed Kitten broke curfew and disappeared overnight, I put the pets on lockdown. I might have chosen to do this out of a curious form of spite, for I've been on lockdown for almost three weeks now. I kind of cower within my perimeter, pacing with my head held down as if embarrassed by my limitations. Like our kittens, I know myself to be capable of ferocity when in pursuit, and my still new boundaries more than merely limit my range. They limit my imagination, too. I feel like a clipped-wing bird unable to soar. My mind races endlessly, to no particular end, my perimeter seeming to define more than my range, but also my possibilities.

I always thought that I understood why the tigers paced in their cage at the zoo, but I'm gaining a fresh appreciation for just what cages do, whether they be physical, limiting range, or emotional, inhibiting whim. I begin each day in precisely the same way. I wash my face, adjust the heat upward to ward off the overnight chill, light the fireplace, then take my accustomed place to sit and stare out the front window into predawn darkness. The moon almost full this morning, the clear sky overflowing with stars, I can easily see parsecs into the past. The future seems less clear from here. I peruse the news, clear comment queues, and continue with a kind of snoozing only ever performed while sitting upright. In this way, I steward each night into a rough approximation of day.

Once the sun's up, I feel vestiges of my old engine raring to go. I have no place to go while under the latest and even more severe Stay At Home Order, so my instinct stifles. Overly-familiar routines promise little inspiration. I brew the same bitter cup as the day before, increasingly a chore now that it's my only clear alternative. Variety's clearly missing and every imaginable activity seems so damned unpromising. I write, my sole saving grace preserving my freshly embittered soul again. For a few brief minutes, my spirit freely flows and I lose every urge to go anywhere other than where I am. Once done, my migration instinct kicks in and I begin pacing my perimeter again.

Many infinite universes might well be contained within any defined space, but those exist on a different scale than does lived experience. I can travel anywhere my mind might take me, but I want to leave my mind behind for some excursions. I want mindlessness on a more massive scale, the sort of huge that spawns more stories to tell, the kind that leave my heart welling up inside me. I wish upon the last fading star then start another repetition of just another incarcerated day. I'm free to chase after necessaries. I suggested to The Muse that we might find amusing a zoot up into northern Wells County to see if we could spot any Spring lambs gamboling, if just to remind us of the innocence we're finding so missing within our compound. Certainly such an excursion qualifies as necessary. No?

After this virus runs its course. Once we can get inoculated against the worst it's brought to bear, once the economy finds its feet again, we might roam. Home stopped being where my heart lives a scant week into this isolation. My heart lives anywhere but home now. I can sense it roaming out there on its own, impatient with my continuing not catching up. Those tigers in the zoo can doubtless recognize the truth in what my heart sings, for their's might mumble precisely this tune. Soon, they pray, but probably not today, I'll get away from myself and play again. I'll once again experience the anticipation of fresh experience, like waiting in line to see a performer long held as the best in this world; the crowd around me absolutely boiling in anticipation instead of stewing within this endless homemade simmering. If it wasn't for my routines, my ritual Pacing, I would have gone insane by now. What fearful symmetry, indeed.

©2020 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #WhatNow?, #PureSchmaltz