The doughnut shop isn’t up to code; / danger makes a delicious dish. / Here, hello is flash-fried catfish.
Something awful happened in March. Brennan and Lark—longtime housemates and very good friends—moved out of the House. This is awful for two reasons. The first being on a personal level because they are in Chicago and no longer readily available to hug and watch His Dark Materials. The second, however, is more ephemeral in nature. Seeing someone every day naturally means that you will come to take them for granted. The second they’re gone, their importance stands out with so much brightness that you almost have to close your eyes against the glare.
My grandfather's jaw is locked / into the smoothness of my chin / a mechanism that helps me chew / the fat at Christmas
I need to write something. It needs to be 500 words. It needs to be posted today. At first, I was going to post a poem because I have lots of poems stored in the archives, but then I decided that would be cheating. So, here we are at the edge of burnout. This week marks one year in quarantine. One year of sitting in my bedroom, day after day: wake up, walk the dog, work, eat, work, walk the dog, work, walk the dog, eat, scroll, sleep. Intersperse that with some major dissociative episodes kicked off by mindlessly checking social media, and you’ll have a good idea of what this pandemic has looked like for me. It’s probably been the same for you, too. Or maybe you’re one of those people who had the personal strength to get super into CrossFit and cut carbs out of your diet for good. If you are one of those people, good for you. I am not.
Pen clicks mark time / in a unit where no gets / to leave.
It’s a new year, and I am reflecting on the nature of my relationship with creativity. I’m learning to fall in love with reading again in the hopes that it will lead me back to writing. That was the case for me when I was younger. I read so much that the words tumbled out onto my own page with relative ease. Of course, writing and reading were both coping mechanisms for a rather gentle-natured child who did her best to handle the emotions of those around her. In any case, we are approaching the first anniversary of the Bug Eyes recording, which was released in November to surprising success. I say surprising not because the album isn’t good but because I am not as familiar with the feeling of success as I’d like to be.
As so many of you may well know, there is a lot to be said about Yelp reviews. The best thing to say about them, of course, is how useless they are; however, from time to time, they are poetic. I took a recent post and snipped it apart and sewed it back together. Please, enjoy this poem, unlike someone's sandwich.
Last year I ended things by asking 2020 to be gentler with all of us. I read that this morning and I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. I laughed until my sides hurt. I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks. I laughed until I started coughing. I stopped laughing because many of my family members are sick right now, but I'm not. A lot of my friends are out of work right now, but I'm not. A lot of people are struggling to make ends meet, but I'm not. There's a lot that I have to be grateful for right now. At the same time, I know that it is unhealthy to force myself into an optimistic mindset just because of my fortunate circumstances. And because this blog is based in truth, I have to tell you that I'm tired. No, I'm weary.
Until I was about eight, I thought my grandpa was a Spaniard. This may have had something to do with him looking a lot like Antonio Banderas in Zorro, but probably had more to do with the fact that I couldn’t understand a single fucking word he said. And like most kids who grow up in Florida, the only other language you are even a little bit aware of was Spanish. Meaning: that when he talked and I couldn’t understand him, I thought he was speaking Spanish.
I’ve resolved to be more prolific, like the old days when writing every day wasn’t such a chore. Hard to say what that looks like, but I think sticking to some sort of posting schedule is probably the way to go. This year has been hard in more ways than one and getting myself to work has sometimes been impossible. Despite what my therapist says, I don’t want to use the pandemic as an excuse to not write. 2020 will not crush me, I won’t allow it.