The Second Quarter

The schedule is shot. Obliterated. Smithereened. Kaput. Things look bleak. Shall I despair? Don’t be stupid. My “schedule,” like my “plan,” is a phoenix that has arisen from the ashes so many times I’ve lost count. Things fall apart; we put them back together. Suffice it to say, for the last two months I’ve been in the falling apart portion of the program. Maybe you have as well.

April: When the new normal due to COVID19 started, thanks to the current administration’s criminally negligent failure to adequately prepare, I was like everyone else: determined to make the best of it. I tried to stay on task and did for awhile. During all of April, for National Poetry Month, I posted an original poem on my Instagram feed every day. Sometimes I posted poems that were previously published. Most days I either dragged out old drafts of poems that needed revising and revised them, or I wrote new poems. At any rate, it was a poem a day every day for 30 days. Maybe some of y’all write poems that you’re going to immediately allow other folks to read every day. I don’t normally write a poem every day, much less one I’m going to be ready to share every day (and I’m sure in some of those IG offerings, it shows). At the same time I was doing my bit to celebrate poetry month I was also working on my novel. As a result, I had no writing energy left over for this blog during April. Sad, but true. Anyway, when the calendar flipped over to May 1st, I was pretty tired.

May: About this time, I noticed many people were writing entertaining things about working from home and the challenges it poses. At first I was, “Welcome to my world,” but then I grew resentful. I’ve been writing (and by “writing” I mean “alternating between writing and TRYING to write what with the incessant interruptions and intrusions on my time because WRITER isn’t the only hat I wear and when you work at home but don’t have an editor, agent, or publisher for your current project so ‘deadlines’ are open-ended and people start to make jokes behind your back because you’re ‘still working’ on that novel EVEN THOUGH you’ve written a ton of other things since you first conceived of ‘the novel’ and it’s not like you’ve been working on it NON-STOP the whole time, everybody thinks it’s okay to interrupt you because, hell, that novel has waited this long it can wait some more, and that includes you, Moose, and if you aren’t vigilant you stop setting your own priorities because you don’t have an editor, agent, or publisher for the novel or any current project”) at home for a long time. Are people interested in stories about working from home now? ‘Cause I got stories. I decided I probably had missed the boat on that one, dammit.

I also had a Reimagined Love Story hanging over my head. I blogged back in March to expect its appearance here. I toyed with it off and on in April and early May. I couldn’t get it done. I couldn’t capture my concept with my words. Nothing I tried gave this unlikely couple’s story the breadth and depth required. Self-doubt is a powerful drug, and not in a good way. When it came to my writing, I was in a period of constant frustration. It’s easy to de-prioritize a source of frustration. At the same time, I was experiencing the pandemic shut down with the rest of you with its requisite anxiety, worry about loved ones, uncertainty, and sadness. Even though I am a hermit and I stay home most of the time, I don’t stay home ALL the time. I go places and, like you, I miss it. I miss going out to eat. I miss going to the pub. I miss hugging people when I greet them. I miss dropping by a friend’s house, sitting close by my mom or daughter, being in the physical as well as spiritual company of my poetry group, going to the movies. I love going to concerts and all kinds of live sporting events … I hadn’t realized how much my relatively meager social life means to my self-care. So we’re talking frustration, anxiety, and the slow but sure erosion of self-care and routine throughout May. The days started to run together and everything seemed more fragile …

Then on May 25 we together witnessed the horrific murder of George Floyd.

June: Nationwide, an already emotionally vulnerable citizenry was begged AGAIN to finally own up to our nation’s most deadly and despicable original sin: racism — the kind that’s baked in to the system; the kind that has allowed with impunity the killing of unarmed black citizens over and over and over all over this country. I became obsessed with the news, the updates, the marches, the speeches, the mourners. I marched in my little hometown. And I watched with hope and elation as people from all demographics stood up to be counted on the right side of history in numbers that are staggering; even in the face of the same old missteps and mistakes of well-meaning white people; and, in spite of the backward, ignorant, ancient, virulent, irrational, active hatred of the white cob rollers. They’re still standing up. Of course, being obsessed with the news made it damn near impossible to filter out the daily onslaught of chaos brought to us by the most corrupt president and administration in modern history, and we were still in the midst of a worsening pandemic. Still are. So my June was spent crying and grieving and planning and hoping and despairing and fighting and learning and scratching my head and sometimes just being paralyzed. It’s likely my June was much the same as your June.

And now comes July. My 2020 plan has not changed. The goals for the year have not disappeared. I’ve just added new goals. A poet friend, Dede, and I are starting a new project to confront racism (ours too: see “White allergies”). We don’t really know what the project will end up being. Maybe a book will come from it; maybe a series of blog posts; maybe it’s simply a “salon” devoted to exploring the issues that matter to us. Whatever it turns into, we hope to inspire conversations that improve race relations because it’s a subject we each have cared deeply about for a long time. We had begun our discussion about such an undertaking in March after I heard her read a poem she had written that so beautifully described a brief and subtle moment in the mind of unconscious white privilege. The poem hit me hard. Last year, a friend of mine had told me a story about a recent racist encounter she had experienced. I shook my head and said, “I’m so sorry,” to which she replied, “Don’t be sorry — just talk to your peeps.” Dede’s poem was, for me, a great example of how to do just that. Soon after Dede and I started to talk about a mindful sharing with one another, more details emerged in the news about Ahmaud Arbery’s murder in Georgia and law enforcement’s criminal negligence regarding same. And then came George Floyd’s murder in Minneapolis. Dede and I didn’t speak about any of it until the middle of June. The need to “talk to our peeps” had gone from compelling to urgent in a short period of time for us. For our black brothers and sisters, the need for real and lasting change has always been urgent.

And now you know: I took some time to fall apart in quarter number two. Now I am reassembling myself. It happens all the time. What’s different this time, though, is everything else. Look at the world. It’s falling apart too, and I think it needed to fall apart. I believe even as the dust settles, we will reassemble it together. We’ve already begun. In a new way. A better way. Selah.

I Set for Myself A Task That Proved Too Challenging

Last blog post I wrote, I said I was going to write a reimagined Love Story, based on some of my forebears whom I never knew; I only knew of them. I worked on it, worked it around, until I realized I was really working it over. I said “Uncle,” and decided I just could not do what their story wanted me to do, at least not right now. All I can say is, I will use my notes and excerpts for a poem or to include in some longer work of fiction, or as the short story I had originally envisioned.

Apologies for overpromising and underdelivering, but look for the “How come” in my next post.

Wash your hands, wait your turn, give people room, and, please, WEAR A DAMN MASK.

A Love Story Reimagined: Part I

Like many of you, I’m having difficulty coming to terms with the new normal of necessary widespread social distancing in light of COVID19. I was going to write about that today, as there are a couple directions I could go. I could share how it reminds me of being on bed rest when I was expecting my daughter, and the lessons I learned then. I could write about how a certified hermit like me feels about everyone else suddenly appropriating the space I occupy (literally and figuratively), but while I was out walking earlier, another idea captured me, so maybe next time.

As I wandered in my neighborhood, appreciating the blooms of the Judas trees and how the temperature of the gusting breeze is just perfect today, I found myself thinking about weddings. Full disclosure: I was listening to an audible book in which the narrator is anticipating her own upcoming wedding. It’s early in the book, but all signs point to the soon-to-be-articulated fact, no doubt, that the narrator’s fiancé is not the love of her life. My mind began to wander and I thought of unlikely pairings, traditional weddings, non-traditional wedding attire, until suddenly I found myself thinking of a great aunt whom I never met (or maybe I did once when I was a child) and her husband. I’ve always thought of their marriage as a storybook romance, but I have nothing to base that on, other than it was such an unexpected and unlikely coupling, given their backgrounds. Continue reading “A Love Story Reimagined: Part I”

Why? Why else.

Welcome to the first Monday of DST Disrupted Sleepy Time. I hate Daylight Savings Time like I hate the Designated Hitter. SO. MUCH. They’re both unnatural and neither accomplishes the purpose for which they were respectively designed. Unless you can show me a designated hitter with a 1.000 batting average, and a pitcher whose batting average is .000, the DH rule does not “fix” the problem it was designed to fix. No. You may not argue this point with me. Besides this post is about DST, the scourge of modern life. One of them, anyway.

The first Monday after we, like a bunch of lumpy-headed lemmings, turn our clocks ahead one hour is widely known as “Sleepy Monday.” In my house we experience the less widely known “Psychotic Sunday” the day before “Sleepy Monday,” and, boy, is it a hoot. Most of the day is spent by me giving voice to how badly DST is going to mess up my life for the foreseeable future, and overusing phrases like, “It’s science, bitches.”

Continue reading “Why? Why else.”

The Ultimate Illusion

What do you think the ultimate illusion is? I recently referred to control as the ultimate illusion. In the days since, I’ve changed my mind. Control isn’t so much the ultimate illusion as it is a kind of paradox. There are things over which we have some control, but I doubt we really can ever know the extent of that control. There are other things over which we only appear to have control. Finally, there are things over which we definitely do not have control. The events and encounters that fill our daily lives all fall into one of these three categories, but I submit those categorizations change all the time — whether daily, hourly, or by the second.

I’m always fascinated by hearing or reading artists, writers, and other creatives discuss their process. Everyone wants to know, “What is your process?” I’m amazed and a little curious when the process described is assumed by the audience to be always the same. I’m even more curious when the process described is presented by the artist as being always the same. Same time of day, same amount of time a day, same desk, same chair, same window. I’m amazed because that isn’t how process happens for me. To my way of thinking that isn’t process, so much as it is routine.

Continue reading “The Ultimate Illusion”