Starting in mid-March and through the early months of the pandemic, sheltering in place, time melted. We’d ask each other, “What day is this?” One marker was The New Yorker in my mailbox each Wednesday, part of my domestic life since early childhood. I gravitated to the titles of each section, perennial headers that radiated with new meaning.
QUIN DE LA MER:
After reading Didi’s poem and committing it to memory, I took a long walk. It was dusk, and California’s Colorado Desert was still 109 degrees Fahrenheit. A gentle breeze put large palm fronds in motion, and it seemed they were speaking with the poem in my head.
Filming the visual communication and setting the poem to spoken word, the piece united two seemingly separate parts, expressing a global, even universal connection.