It cannot be held in a single human heart
Sep. 10th, 2020 11:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolorosa_12This is a post about COVID — in terms of the state of the world in general, rather than concrete specifics. I'll still cut, in case you want to avoid this sort of thing.
Melbourne is not a city in which I've ever felt particular at home. I grew up nestled in the dry, suburban plains of Canberra, raised by a mother whose eyes were always half looking back towards Sydney, and those are the two Australian cities of my heart. People I love live in Melbourne, and I've visited it semi regularly, but never enough to easily navigate it, or find any of it familiar.
And yet, of course, that doesn't matter. I cried over Italians singing partisan songs from their balconies in cities I've never seen, over Londoners applauding the NHS from tower blocks, over news from Spain so shocking and upsetting at the time that I'll spare you the details. Familiarity shouldn't be necessary for grief and empathy, and it's certainly not for me.
This week, I've been crying over Melbourne, a city I can no way describe as 'mine' (the way I would say 'my Sydney,' 'my Canberra,' 'the landscapes of my imagination'). There's a particular video clip that's been doing the rounds of Australian Facebook. It's a wordless (save for song lyrics), musical interlude which closed out an episode of 7.30, the prestigious news/current affairs analysis show which airs every weeknight after the main news bulletin on Australia's national broadcaster. What made it particularly remarkable was this specific context: as you would expect, the host of this program is meant to maintain a sense of distanced, journalistic neutrality when speaking to camera. However, after running this clip, as he was supposed to be saying the words to end the show, he was visibly upset, struggling to maintain composure on air. (The fact that the clip is set to a cover version of a song by Paul Kelly, who is basically the closest thing Australia has to a poet laureate, only adds to the effect.)
Every time I watch it (and I have now watched it many times), it breaks me. I should make the caveat that I have a soft and sentimental heart; I cry easily and often. But if you want to see what I'm talking about, consider yourselves warned. The video is here. It's viewable outside Australia, but I'm not sure if it's visible if you're not logged into Facebook.
And yet, for all it hits in the heart of this city lover, this person who feels safest and most alive and human in heavily inhabited urban environments, reassured by the press and presence in public of so many strangers, there was an element of happy crying too. For all that social media is full of ignorant Australians calling Dan Andrews a dictator for enforcing a hard lockdown, for all that my poor sister (who is a policy advisor to an MP in the Victorian state government) has had weeks fielding phone calls from irate representatives of the real estate industry, screaming abuse at her, for all that a disproportionate amount of airtime has been wasted on anti-maskers and coronavirus truthers, these selfish, heartless people are in the minority. Melbourne is deserted, locked down, its streets and trains and sportsgrounds and public buildings devoid of human life, and that hurts — oh, my heart, it hurts so much — but it is also a powerful, visible confirmation of human compassion, care, kind-heartedness and community spirit. It's empty and deserted because people know the seriousness of the situation, and are following the lockdown rules, because they understand the importance of doing so, and care about their fellow human beings.
The stereotype and popular media depiction — at least in the Anglophone countries whose media dominates — is that cities are dehumanising, alienating, devoid of a sense of community, and yet, as this pandemic has made clear, nothing could be further from the truth. We are apart, but together, locked down, but reaching out in every way we can. Those eerie, empty streets of Melbourne are themselves a powerful symbol of exactly that.
The title of this post comes from the incredible, gut punch of a newspaper comic by First Dog on the Moon, about the Australian bushfires, The pain and terror of these bushfires cannot be held in a human heart. I was crying about the fires in January. Sometimes this year feels like it began with weeping, and the tears will never stop.
Melbourne is not a city in which I've ever felt particular at home. I grew up nestled in the dry, suburban plains of Canberra, raised by a mother whose eyes were always half looking back towards Sydney, and those are the two Australian cities of my heart. People I love live in Melbourne, and I've visited it semi regularly, but never enough to easily navigate it, or find any of it familiar.
And yet, of course, that doesn't matter. I cried over Italians singing partisan songs from their balconies in cities I've never seen, over Londoners applauding the NHS from tower blocks, over news from Spain so shocking and upsetting at the time that I'll spare you the details. Familiarity shouldn't be necessary for grief and empathy, and it's certainly not for me.
This week, I've been crying over Melbourne, a city I can no way describe as 'mine' (the way I would say 'my Sydney,' 'my Canberra,' 'the landscapes of my imagination'). There's a particular video clip that's been doing the rounds of Australian Facebook. It's a wordless (save for song lyrics), musical interlude which closed out an episode of 7.30, the prestigious news/current affairs analysis show which airs every weeknight after the main news bulletin on Australia's national broadcaster. What made it particularly remarkable was this specific context: as you would expect, the host of this program is meant to maintain a sense of distanced, journalistic neutrality when speaking to camera. However, after running this clip, as he was supposed to be saying the words to end the show, he was visibly upset, struggling to maintain composure on air. (The fact that the clip is set to a cover version of a song by Paul Kelly, who is basically the closest thing Australia has to a poet laureate, only adds to the effect.)
Every time I watch it (and I have now watched it many times), it breaks me. I should make the caveat that I have a soft and sentimental heart; I cry easily and often. But if you want to see what I'm talking about, consider yourselves warned. The video is here. It's viewable outside Australia, but I'm not sure if it's visible if you're not logged into Facebook.
And yet, for all it hits in the heart of this city lover, this person who feels safest and most alive and human in heavily inhabited urban environments, reassured by the press and presence in public of so many strangers, there was an element of happy crying too. For all that social media is full of ignorant Australians calling Dan Andrews a dictator for enforcing a hard lockdown, for all that my poor sister (who is a policy advisor to an MP in the Victorian state government) has had weeks fielding phone calls from irate representatives of the real estate industry, screaming abuse at her, for all that a disproportionate amount of airtime has been wasted on anti-maskers and coronavirus truthers, these selfish, heartless people are in the minority. Melbourne is deserted, locked down, its streets and trains and sportsgrounds and public buildings devoid of human life, and that hurts — oh, my heart, it hurts so much — but it is also a powerful, visible confirmation of human compassion, care, kind-heartedness and community spirit. It's empty and deserted because people know the seriousness of the situation, and are following the lockdown rules, because they understand the importance of doing so, and care about their fellow human beings.
The stereotype and popular media depiction — at least in the Anglophone countries whose media dominates — is that cities are dehumanising, alienating, devoid of a sense of community, and yet, as this pandemic has made clear, nothing could be further from the truth. We are apart, but together, locked down, but reaching out in every way we can. Those eerie, empty streets of Melbourne are themselves a powerful symbol of exactly that.
The title of this post comes from the incredible, gut punch of a newspaper comic by First Dog on the Moon, about the Australian bushfires, The pain and terror of these bushfires cannot be held in a human heart. I was crying about the fires in January. Sometimes this year feels like it began with weeping, and the tears will never stop.
no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 12:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 07:48 pm (UTC)It's strange and sad to see the city empty like that; but it's also wonderful, seeing what is possible when people make the right calls to keep everyone as safe as they possibly can.
That's exactly it. We are small, and our lives are small, and the things we fight against are so overwhelming, but there is a kind of power in our collective smallness, a luminous goodness in that choice to comply with the rules, keep the streets and public spaces empty, and keep each other safe.
no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 08:03 pm (UTC)<3
no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 12:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 07:48 pm (UTC)Sorry to hear about the RSI — I had it for years before I got my standing desk, and it is ghastly.
no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 12:54 pm (UTC)Also, that Dog on the Moon piece, ow my heart.
no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 07:50 pm (UTC)Also, that Dog on the Moon piece, ow my heart.
I love his comics. He did a great one about public libraries a few days ago, and although I generally think there is too much vocational awe in my profession, I did love the sentiment.
no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 07:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 03:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 07:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-10 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-11 11:19 am (UTC)