August 11–17, 2003 — A different sort of vacation

The power went out yesterday, about 30 hours ago. I understand it’s still the main story on CNN, but I wouldn’t know. The radio tells me to expect rolling blackouts and no longer talks about when the power might turn back on because so many other people have it, but my food is still rotting in the fridge and I still have to rely on the sun for light.

I live three or four houses north of a street called Follis and a bit under two blocks south of a street called Dupont; at the moment, houses south of Follis and North of Dupont have power; one block west, there is power. One block east is still dark; two blocks east the power is on...

For the first night this all seemed novel enough: pedestrians volunteering to direct traffic; shop owners practically or literally giving away their stock of ice cream; life without television, the internet and any number of other evils that require a plug.

And there were stars. In Toronto, the average night does not allow for many stars because the city lights are so bright. But Thursday night was perfectly clear, and for the first time in what might be a decade I lay in a field and looked up. (I started in right field at a baseball diamond in a city park, but the ground was wet, forcing me to the side of a hill where it was dry.) I saw seven shooting stars and made the normal observations about how small and meaningless my life is, observations I would make more often if I weren’t so self-obsessed.

I went to bed early, and when I woke up without power the novelty had worn off. Jeff left to visit Amy in Goderich, so I resigned myself to sitting alone and worrying about the contents of our fridge. And when that got boring, I went for a walk.

I have been doing a lot of walking because there really isn’t much else for me to do: almost everyone I know has fled the city, and those who haven’t aren’t people I would feel comfortable calling. It’s 10:00 pm on Friday night, and I’m at home because I’m bored of walking and thinking how much more bearable it would be to sit around with only candles for light if it were bright enough to read or if I had someone to talk to.

There’s something called a drug vacation that describes the process of taking someone on a lot of prescription medication off of all of it in a controlled setting to see what’s happening underneath. Jonathan Franzen wrote about it in The Corrections and in his essay collection, and I’ve recently read both, so I have been thinking about this more than I should. The problem I have with it is the assumption that the drugs don’t change you, that they aren’t designed for dependence.

And here I am on my media vacation, and I am not doing very well. Without endless distraction, I am a very lonely person. Without electricity providing me with things to do and a reason to get out of bed, there is a constant, dull ache. I pace the house sighing and relearning to light strike-anywhere matches on my thumbnail. But mostly I just want to sleep.

The power came on at around 10:00 am Saturday morning. I’d been awake since 6:00 am, occasionally getting out of bed to try the light switch. When the I flipped the switch and my lights turned on, I stood by the wall and didn’t know what to do. Then I plugged in my computers and checked my email.