Yet another day in the longest months of mankind 

We’re waking up yet another day in the longest months of mankind (me first, Jean later. He didn’t have a zoom call at 8 fucking am and he slept through cultural studies). Now, we’re taking another break. It’s not even 10 am but we took 3 breaks already and we’re concerned how life will ever turn back to normal. Am I gonna require three breaks an hour now? Or did I change with the uncertainty, and free time, and not showering, will I ever put on makeup again? High Heels feel like the most useless thing in the world at this very moment. Umbrellas, blow dryers (honestly, life is too short to blow dry your hair in crisis or not), makeup, 

and an iron. It’s useless now and maybe I will never find its value again. I doubt it. Jean never found it valuable but he’s also smarter than me so maybe I need to live from a cat’s perspective from now on.

 

Too much clothes. Too little closet. Or maybe the closet is perfect but the amount is too much. Too much. We all reached a point of too much. Clothes or isolation. Too much. Time or meaning. Too much. Worries or news. Just too much. I need to leave some things here. I can’t bring them to Denmark. Because I will go back to Denmark when the semester is over even though I don’t want to. For the first time, I feel more home abroad than in my home country. Home. Country. I want the US to be my home but US immigration won't consider here my home. I don’t have permission to stay. Calcentral calls me a visiting degree-seeking student. Seeking after a degree. They make me sound greedy. But visiting for 13 months. Yet just a visitor. My visiting-visa and visiting papers expire (the chronic state of being temporary) June 15. To leave and go “home” to another country than my home country and hope to extend my third ID number. 971611T202 (yes, it is my real ID number - go ahead and steal my identity so I can become a new me. A new post-COVID19 me). 971611T202. T. T for temporary. But no visitor. Yet no citizen. Access but no belonging. Tolerated or wanted. I shouldn’t speak. I have access that others are denied. But belonging. Belonging comes when you no longer fall over words and pronunciations, watch their national Christmas shows and know every name a 10-year-old is getting taught in school. I have a long way. Maybe I should just hope for another two years of a temporary ID number and go home. My actual home (country).

 

More stuff on the floor lacking its place. A designated place. Maybe I am the stuff. Maybe two months before the big return left me just as misplaced (or non-placed) in life as the books (why is the ‘Why women have better sex under socialism’ book placed like that). Even the bottle lost its function and has not seen water in ten days. Ten days is a long time for anyone to be without a purpose. The board says deadline. With a line dead. Now where people are dying, we should reconsider deadlines. Or just the word. Dead-Line. Dead. Line. Line of Dead. Or really not. Just a fucking due date for a paper I don’t die from not turning in and my professor doesn’t die from not grading. Both of our lives continue after the deadline. Contrary to what is happening outside bCourses. Outside our screens, and shelter in place, and our zoom lectures, and notes, and papers, and all. Outside. Outside was a long time ago. 

Before the crisis, I would be living in another house. Nothing more distancing, separating, clinical, minimal, cold, and steel than these restrooms. Someone left their coffee in a to-go cup that won't ever be used again. Depersonalizing a home to 600 people and 80 or so nationalities by its to-go cups. Clinical as my clothing and clean. Clean and antibacterial. Clean and isolated, not inhabited, pure, purity, untouched, innocent. This restroom is a virgin.