The final day of June spent at a lake in Wisconsin dreaming about lochs in Scotland and the vast oceans of South East Asia; which is all just to say that I’m very homesick indeed. Mum and dad mentioned they plan on retiring in January — if 2021 ever comes — but between now and then, their zip codes, time zones and mailing addresses are somewhat up for debate. It’s the unknown that exhausts me, for what I can remember, the year has always been this way. The cusp of this new decade will always be remembered by this mist of uncertainty, of an odd recollection of time, of the odd notion of remembering nothing at all… What will happen if? What will happen if not? Can we trust her, him, them? Can we trust anyone at all? Is the virus here? Is justice anywhere in sight? What happens now?
The intersection of modernity and literature always astound me — as the world falls apart around me, even in the sanctuary of this little midwestern house beside a little midwestern lake — as I approach page 294 of Lanark: A Life in 4 Books, written by Alasdair Gray, a line jumped out and slapped me across the face.
“Duncan, modern history is just beginning. Give us another couple of centuries and we’ll build a real civilization!… There’s not a country in the world where folk aren’t stirring and searching. Don’t be fooled by politicians. It isn’t loud men on platforms but the obscure toilers who change things.”
