December 2019: I’m at Atlantic Terminal in Brooklyn waiting for my train home. I’m on the phone with Leah.
“I can’t explain it, but lately I feel — the presence of God. Very suddenly.”
(Side note: This is not a thing I EVER say. Not, at least, in precisely this way.)
Leah, accustomed to my manic fluctuations of spirit, continues to listen as she drives home from her office in Los Angeles.
“I just feel like… (searching for the why of the feeling/the vision/the impending hugeness): This production of Godspell is gonna be BIG.”
******
How can I explain this moment to you now? Before Covid began (for us). And how, to an audience of my peers in humanity… I mean, you were there so, you know. But do you? Do we know… what just happened?
I have become transfixed by the period from December 2019 through March 12, 2020 — in charting the eery red flags, not just of the encroaching viral pandemic, but of the omens in my own life of instability, of a narrow bridge about to smack, tear, sever and hang in the breeze over a massive canyon.
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