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Notes from the Black Out

I remember the 2003 Black Out in New York City, and how I thought I personally prompted it.

I was in an Upper West Side, Manhattan bookstore, my former neighborhood where I was currently cat sitting. After surmising the “Local Author” section and seeing I was not in it, I approached the guy stationed at a checkout/info computer and asked if they happened to carry my book, or if they would like to since I was a (former) neighbor. He was typing my name into his search bar when there was the sudden flipping of the city switch and everyone in the store gasped, cast into lesser daylight. What seemed at first like a specific, momentary surge—my book and his typing triggering shock in the bookstore network—turned out to be a whole major outage starting from an Ohio power company and cascading through a swath of the Northeast and parts of Canada. I quickly ascended the many flights of the nearby cat apartment to scope out what my situation would be overnight with lanterns and flashlights, reading and food, because soon the minor light one ever gets from a Manhattan apartment window would be gone for good. I could at least read and eat because the apartment owner had a gas stove and some cans and noodles and candles. Cats of course are perfectly fine in the dark, and I would be too.

A year later when I conjured a full calendar of monthly costumed theme parties for Stain Arts Lounge (for any month that had a 31st and my version of ongoing Halloween), I came up with the “Black Out” party where people’s eyeliner was wonky and their socks shouldn’t match, since they got ready in the dark. Canned goods, board games, battery-powered boom box. That night spent squatting on whatever floor marooned in a cluttered apartment that wasn’t mine, I remember hearing the echoes of fun outside, impromptu street gatherings, laughter and music, with envy. But not enough to compel my introverted self downstairs to check it out with the others catapulted off their couches into spontaneous connection. What if the dream man I would someday say I met in the Black Out was out there. At least I could reenact this later at my own bar.

Fast forward to the pandemic—a pajama party black out of sorts, though with devices and blue lights on overdrive—that I also kind of thought I was responsible for by some magic or manifesting. I had wished for just this sort of thing my whole life. Not the death and disease and depression part, but the shutdown. The stopping. Not the bleakness but the slower candlelight intentional moments that it offered, the end of scheduled nonsense and social obligation. If only it came with less electricity.

As I wrote about recently and urged others to follow, I participated in the Mass Black Out from Nov. 25 to Dec. 2, even going so far as to take the time off from work to squeeze every last drop of joy (and anti-materialism) out of this self-imposed eremition.

At first I was clear on boycotting my two least favorite days of the year—Black Friday and Cyber Monday. Those are easy for a buy-nothing type like me to avoid. But the rest of it—no streaming, no travel, no work, the whole luddite monk approach—that’s a lot to ask, and not everyone has the luxury to do it, but I had vacation days to spare, no plans to get on any planes or trains, and a real need for some R&R, so the timing was perfect.

Just as I sent the email to my boss that I’d be out for the Black Out, I questioned what the point is really. Yes, I am personally giddy about the excuse to go to the library and stock up on classics I suddenly craved: reading Orwell’s 1984, Charlotte’s Web, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, watching the original Dune. I would make holiday cards and craft gifts. I could declare a welcome detox from all “news” Trumpian and the barren pablum of “social” scrolling. I would figure out how to sleep through the night. But would my solitary idyllic reboot of the good parts of the pandemic make any difference in the grand scheme of things (where billionaires always win the game they own)? Would my opting out of the machine of modern life (or retreat into what I love and self-recovery) matter to anyone but me at all?

Only hours later that same day, I got an email from the SPCA in Briarcliff Manor, where I recently signed up to foster kittens and took the online “kitten care training” course. We hadn’t had the opportunity to foster yet, as the calls for help seem a little slower in the cooler months when babies aren’t being born so frequently. The calls come not in the form of whiskered beacons in the sky, but emails composed by a master at marketing to a Google group of 100+ volunteers. I could not resist the tragic moan of this “Victorian” desperation duo so I wrote back instantly before they might be snapped up by some other sensitive sucker.

Next up: two very sweet, very dramatic 8-week-old kittens who are currently sick and acting like they might never recover… even though they absolutely will, with a little TLC.

The Details:

• On multiple medications twice a day (don’t worry, they’re small and easy to bribe).

• May need syringe feeding until they remember how to eat like normal kittens.

• Very snuggly, very pitiful, and will definitely make you feel like a hero.

• Foster duration: 2–3 weeks.

If you’ve always wanted to nurse tiny Victorian children back to health—but, you know, in cat form—these babies are for you.

Despite 18 years of cat I never considered myself a cat lady until I lost her. And I never cared for tiny kittens, let alone “dramatic, pitiful” ones who require multiple medications, but suddenly I felt this Wave of Purpose rising in me. My version of striving for personal greatness in these interminable “trying times” could be temporarily cohabitating with, and saving, a whole parade of baby felines starting with these tragic two. I could live in a state of perpetual kitten! A soft purry world of my own creation. The cuteness, the squeaks, the free love! The Black Out was all making sense now. I had time to syringe-fatten these malnourished furballs for a whole luxurious errand-free week. Oh wait, just let me buy one quick Pack-n-Play from Walmart for them to romp in. Apologies to the boycott. I did try FB Marketplace but they weren’t right for these two beauties, marked by Sharpie in their ears by the vet as only spot of Blue or Purple. We called the more pathetic and scrawny one Crusty (purple) and the less pathetic one Dusty (blue). But they were not ours to name, and would be adopted as soon as we fattened them up for surgery.

This (save for my one $25 pre-launch infraction) is all right up the alley of the Mass Black Out movement. There’s more to it than just not shopping big-box.

The Mass Blackout isn’t just about not spending. It’s about rerouting our time, money, and energy back into our communities. This wheel is packed with 100 ways to opt out of corporate capture and opt into care, mutual aid, and collective power, from forming childcare co-ops to joining Buy Nothing groups, supporting immigrant-owned businesses, timebanking, stocking little free pantries, and more.

Their website has a Solidarity Wheel to spin for activity prompts, which I recommend for any time beyond a formal Mass Black Out. Not sure if there’s a cat entry on it, but here I am, in my cathouse, pleased as punch. Friends with kids want to come over and see. My daughters stop by three times a day when it’s not even my custody week and they bring friends. I know I’m not supposed to do nonessential travel but my workaround is I drive an old used Tesla that has free supercharging for life, so no money is going to that man, although I will pull from the strained grid more than I’d like. But showing up for the loaded holiday meal seems surprisingly pleasant despite the political divide tension when there’s these kittens to set the tone. And then I’ll head to my mountain treehouse where the cyber-detox part is a built-in part of the experience.

The kittens will come to all these locations in their playpen. Now instead of inventing yard work when I get to the woods, I’ll have kittens to do. Their meds and mews take up a good part of my day now. Plus the photos! The percolating sound of their purring requires videos!

They say the obligations of having to care for something is what imbues your life with the most meaning, more than any of your solitary ambitions. Having a pet, or a child, or simply volunteering to play the part of a caregiver for a few hours or, in my case, 2-3 weeks until these sickly beings gain a pound and get re-homed, deepens that connective tissue we have to our communities and the fulfillment one feels by being necessary and needed.

We all know developing and maintaining stronger (deeper) social bonds can help ward off depression and even chronic disease and serious illness but what about the pets? Research shows that animal relationships count under this umbrella of general social health. Interactions with animals reduce stress, alleviate loneliness, increase physical activity (at least for dog walkers), and facilitate more social ties with humans (which still is the ultimate thing we need, not in abundance, just some good ones).

There’s a powerful message in a forum I found about pets vs. people. That loneliness can pervade even when we think we are very populated, even when we have all these “connections.” This melancholic woman shares:

I receive a lot of human interaction on most days, because I work in retail. I meet hundreds of different people each day and fill their needs. I smile, I make small talk, I show them where to find what they are looking for, I wish them a good day but no, This does not cure my loneliness, in fact, some days it makes me feel even more lonely.

I text people and send them a funny meme and they write back “haha”, and that’s it. That makes me feel more lonely.

I have a couple acquaintances that call me on the phone and tell me everything that is going on in their life, while I listen patiently and ooh and ah about all the new developments with them. When there is finally a pause, I tell them what’s going on in my life and they turn the conversation right back to themselves, Every.Single.Time. This makes me feel more lonely. I don’t even enjoy talking on the phone anymore.

I used to try to connect with people on Facebook, I can’t think of anything that made me feel more lonely then watching people living their best lives, lying on beaches, eating scrumptious food, and all the while I’m struggling to pay the electric bill. That made me feel lonely. (I rarely go there now.)

I have a friend that reaches out to text me every so often but answers my questions in only one or two words. “How was your weekend?” “Ok” “How’s work going?” “Good” I get so bored I just stop texting. I just want to have a deep conversation with someone!

When I go out to eat I look around at people in groups and families. I notice something I didn’t notice 20 years ago…instead of talking to one another, they are all staring at their phones, scrolling endlessly, looking for their next adrenaline rush. When I was a child, we all sat down to dinner together. Some of the best quotes of wisdom came from my parents. We actually had conversations. People would sit outside in their yards and barbecue. They would invite the neighbors over to join them. There were real conversations, reciprocal too, where one person would talk and the other’s would actually listen instead of interrupting or turning the conversation back to themselves. This was before computers and cell phones. I miss those days. My friends and I rode our bikes, played Kick the Can, Frozen Statues and played Hopscotch and jumped rope. We talked, we laughed we cried, we argued, but we were connecting! I don’t feel that any more. I don’t really want friends as an adult. The last five “friends” I had didn’t call me on the phone because they wanted to see how I’m doing. They called because I’m a good listener and they were looking for a free therapist.

Times have changed, people have lost the art of communication, and as a result we are a very lonely nation.

In answer to your question: “Is human interaction necessary for avoiding loneliness?”

As you can see, I have a lot of human interaction on a daily basis, and I would rate myself as one of the loneliest people alive.

It’s not human interaction that helps to dispel loneliness; rather a deep and meaningful connection with one or more humans.

My daughter is probably the only person I know that actually listens to me when I talk, she really listens, and she doesn’t cut me off or turn the conversation back to herself like other people do. If I text her a paragraph, she responds with a paragraph. If I text her a full page, she writes back a full page. It is this feeling of being heard, of being valued that makes me feel less lonely, not the human interaction itself. She is the only person I know that doesn’t turn the conversation back to herself or just answer in one word like “aww” or “ha ha” and she doesn’t turn the topic around to herself. She stays focused on the topic at hand. She’s not superficial. I wish I knew more people like her.

We are living in a ME generation, and it is becoming harder and harder to find people like my daughter. Sad, but true.

If you are dealing with loneliness, try to find people that make you feel heard. Those who treat you with respect and not with those who only want to focus on themselves. The people who get you, those are the ones who will chase away the loneliness. Pay close attention to how you feel when interacting with different people. If you find just ONE person like this, it can really help to chase away loneliness.

I hope this helps someone else who is struggling with this.

She didn’t answer the pet answer exactly, but she really addressed why our human bonds are lacking and why we have so many holes to fill that pets might help with. These cats in and of themselves aren’t enough to live on. It’s when my teen daughters appear and we all bathe them together in the sink and their friends visit to help blow dry their tiny bodies and everyone’s laughing as we chase them under the hidden parts of furniture because it looks like we have a few tiny drowned rats with Keene’s big beseeching eyes.

I have become important to them, for now. And I already feel nostalgic for this moment.

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