It is a well-established fact that the House is unusual. Let's not talk about the revolving door policy we have, which exposes us to dozens of people we would not have otherwise met, but instead celebrate the fact that there are so many years between our youngest (currently me) and oldest (currently Josefina) residents. It's been a little over half a year since we became a multi-generational household, and let me tell ya, it feels like it's been a lot longer than that.
My piece "in conversation with yet another therapist i stopped seeing" was announced as a finalist in the Lascaux Prize in Poetry competition. To rank in the top 16 out of 2000 is to realize that I may, in fact, be a poet. The work will be published later this year and I am STOKED.
I am pleased to announce the very recent acceptance and publication of my poem "Passive Drop" on Dime Show Review today. It is an honor to be included in this publication for a second time.
Another year has come and gone, and I have to admit that 2018 was amazing. With 2017 being such a roller coaster, the consistent joy of this past year was a relief. I found myself in this position of, for the first time in years, feeling utterly safe and comfortable--which led to this bizarre experience of being able to flourish (sort of like a house plant that's been replanted in more enriching soil).
After ten minutes out in the fresh air this morning, my fingers are numb. It's that time of year in Boston where it can be perfectly pleasant one day, but bone-chilling the next. Luckily, with the holidays coming to an end, the House is warmed by the return of housemates from far and wide. We end the year as we began it: together.
It's been a while. Life has this strange habit of going fast and slow all at once, a sort of wormhole effect that you don't realize you're in the middle of until you're halfway through your third ill-advised Wednesday cider and find yourself wondering how the hell it's nearly December. The last few months in the Bond House haven't been uneventful, but between travel, events, and the sweet beginnings of seasonal depression, I've been apathetic towards writing. In fact, it took me over a week to write this. But that's my problem, not yours. Just like my daily decision of whether or not to wear my heavy winter coat or to punish my body for a few more weeks so the cold doesn't destroy my soul--my problem, not yours.
I can't believe that I've actually had 10 pieces accepted this year. After setting the goal for myself at the end of July, I never thought I would actually accomplish it; and yet, here we are. For the first time in my life, I am proud of myself as a writer. Please, be a part of my joy and check out my work: "Polytrauma" and "A Great Greco-Roman Romance" are forthcoming in Chantwood Magazine. "Hooping" with be out with Streetlight Magazine. "Interlanguage Fossilization" is out today with Into the Void.
I finally come to terms with my self-inflicted solitude over a tartlette citron (which I'm pretty sure that I'm supposed to eat with a fork, but there's none to be had, and I'm a dirty American tourist so who really cares) and five fresh manuscript pages. Both of them are so good that I say, "Fuck you" out loud. No one is around to be embarrassed. Something about that is freeing. And when I inevitably get lost without my GPS and wind up stomping up and down an avenue I can't pronounce with no one to witness both my failure and my triumph? There's something freeing about that, too.
I start the day later than expected, but this is understandable when one considers the night full of fun and pho (another shout out to Victoria and her patience with me and my glorious introduction to picone beer). My hair is at peak fluffiness, I'm feeling strangely energized, I'm optimistic about what the day will bring. Then again, I feel this way a lot and sometimes wind up being nearly arrested, or lost on a train, or drop my food on the floor, or I'm accused of being a "snitch" by some rando on the street (I'm still highly offended by this bold claim. Mama didn't raise no snitch). Perhaps today really will be a good day. Or better yet: Today will be as good as I make it. Optimism is the secret to all good things in this life. Where better to be optimistic than in the City of Lights?
I love it when things work out. A few days ago a German woman and I made tentative plans to travel to Versailles together, but I didn't think we would actually follow through because that's what people do in this day and age. This morning: I wake up far too early for a hostel breakfast so we won't have to fistfight our way through the tour group crowds when we get to the palace. The hope is to have an issue-free journey, unlike the last time where somebody had a meltdown in the metro and needed to call a Lyft (it's me, I was the baby. Sorry, Lisa). But with beautiful crisp weather like this, what could possibly go wrong?