cabello un desastre /
corazón tan lleno //

que agradecida estoy /
en este universo collaborativo //

junto con amor /
junto contigo

Walking by, i picked this random, modest-looking reed from the ground. As i held it in front of me, i started to wonder what drugs i was on. What should have been a normal grassy blond stem was painted with pinks, blues, and purples! i was fascinated with and bewildered by the pastel hues. i had to consult with someone, but the slow realizations came: these skinny stalks are truly glorious, and i was just regular stoned. All want is a field of this grass.

A dog who shared the name of every guinea pig we had growing up—so we wouldn’t know eventually how many had died, of course—-greeted me sincerely. Someone who shares my brother’s name hollered, “Leo! Cool it!” But Leo was an insistent greeter, simply losing his head as i pulled up to the campfire. Max introduced us and we quickly discovered that we liked to snuggle each other. Leo isn’t usually like that, Max insisted. We listened to music and stared at a massive sky teeming with stars.

The fire pit was new, i learned, and so would be the frosty morning. i was right on time. Out in the field i put up my tent, stubborn, and felt dreamily cozy in my qualified sleeping bag. In the morning the sun came defiant to sparkle all over the soft clover ground cover. i felt the whole exchange replayed between my warm covers and chilled face.

Peeking out my rime-flecked window i saw now five dogs roaming amicably in the morning sun, sniffing everything they undoubtedly scented every day of their sweet, simple lives. They all looked content, going through their morning routine together. At ease completely. i felt that, too.

i went looking for the outhouse. i found turkeys instead. Baby turkeys, one of whom i would later surprise myself by scooping up in my now-capable hands to toss back into the pen from which it had escaped. One dog came to see me there as i gawked at the Mallard duck-sized almost-turkeys, actually so cute in their weirdness. He asked for pets and i earnestly obliged, taking the opportunity to read his tag aloud: “Arlo!?” We both loved to hear it, and offered his rear for more scritches. i thought of my dog niece of the same name. There’s nothing like dog affection. There’s nothing like coincidence, either.

i met a boy who thought himself a man who thought himself a poet. He met my eyes and promised special words. He shared his art i’d seen before. Everything he said was cheap—that was how he lived. He admitted, as we laughed, that a year ago i would’ve hated him. He was right, i said, i’d have “eviscerated” him. This time i met him where he was, self-proclamation and all.

Max played us Murder on the Orient Express while we worked. Graham played DJ sets featuring live bands. A truly excellent combo, in my opinion. i learned some useful things about hemp, and temper. i learned i’ve become a better observer—there’s so much less to observe these days. i’ve learned to bask in the bliss of communal silence.

i ate sweet little turnips (!) directly from the soil. Max had worked the entire garden themself; i was beside myself with envy and curiosity. They showed me all the best things. i ate three little turnips with the quickness i usually reserve for fruit.

Ground cherries grow in little bustled, crinkly outfits like the Met Gala gonna be held under their leaves tomorrow. The palest ensembles are the most ripe, with a tomato texture and grape sweetness in a raspberry size. You crouch to find them and it feels like asking politely; i like to bow to fruits before i make them mine. There’s something precious about not being able to gobble them with my usual zeal; they need to be undressed first.

Sungold tomatoes are literally that color, and they taste like it, too. They hop right off the vine into my mouth! i only pause as their juices take over my senses. Does joy have a flavor?

How few vegetables i’ve eaten have tasted this good! Pesticide and capitalism free in every way. The distance from their rooted growth to my tastebuds is so brief i could cry.

If i concentrate while i eat these treats—and, admittedly, those of farmed flesh as well—the taste will pass my ecstatic palate into my tender heart spaces. It tastes like hope and ethical living. There’s hints of freedom and community care. The growing of things feels like a quiet and succinct protest. How the beauty of our world expands when we choose to have our hands in it! Each vegetable, and animal, grows toward the future. Each farm is full of tangible dreams.

i stopped making plans when they stopped coming to fruition. i guess that was earlier this year, but who cares. i mean truly, how can plans or time matter in a world that’s burning with such fury i can taste it sometimes?

Every day i do my best, and every day i get better at that. What else, truly, is there? Among and beyond loved ones, i have dug and planted a really beautiful garden. My lack of displays of this on social media make my garden no less fruitful or true to the cause. i am devout and determined. Every day i do my best.

The pounding of What do I want went still in her breast. It didn’t matter what she chose. The world was what it was, a place with its own rules of hunger and satisfaction. Creatures lived and mated and died, they came and went, as surely as summer did. They would go their own ways, of their own accord.

Barbara Kinsgolver, _Prodigal Summer_

A lot of people ask me what my plans are. i have none, anymore. i have dreams and goals certainly, but no will worth asserting on the world. She always does only what she wanna do, anyway.

Who knows? Who knows where i’ll be when winter comes.

CW: these are uncensored reactions to animal slaughter on a small farm in Western Maine. There are uncensored photos also. Definitely do not read this if the word “slaughter” was rough: i need to get this all out. i have no reason to be doing or writing about this other than a relentless desire to fully understand all of life.

Today we wrangled ducks. Mostly i just herded. All the geese and lady ducks were shooed away to leave a flock of eligible bachelors. They all fussed a lot, but i haven’t ever seen these birds not fussing. They are loud and skittish. The farmer crouches to stare at the useful bodies all huddled. He takes his time. Focusing on one bird is like playing the shell game: the ducks clamor just a bit and you can’t tell which one you had in mind. He finds the breeding male for next year, tags him, then releases him to the flock. i told that drake he didn’t know how lucky he is. He doesn’t, because ducks are birds. In theory, this shouldn’t invalidate their worth, but only in death do they attain value for the man who raised them. So today, we wrangled four drakes from the flock.

All of the ducks and geese were clearly uncomfortable as we did this. Whether they understood anything is debatable, at best. Half to cope, i thought to myself, “Life isn’t all it’s quacked up to be anyway.” i laughed aloud, unheard among the nervous din, and thought about how maybe i wasn’t just coping, because that was a great joke.

Farmers handle animals like a belonging that refuses to. Like a child they don’t care to communicate with. When i ask him if he does communicate, the farmer here says, “I never stop thanking the duck. I thank it the whole time.” He teaches me to put the bird to sleep by forcibly tucking the head under a wing. It works, and i carry one duck to the cage on my own, out in front of me like a heavy rugby ball i’m a little afraid of. i want to hold it closer but i’m not trying to wake it up.

The process isn’t surprising. We take the caged ducks away from all of the other animals and cover them with a tarp. Knives are sharpened, water is boiled, and the farmer listens to sea shanties as he prepares. This is his thing. The birds go upside down into a metal holder not unlike a funnel. There is a bucket underneath.

i watch the first bird until the end, it’s white-feathered neck bleeding out from a nicked artery while firm hands hold steady, stilling the nerve-filled body as the blood flows down. A friend like me might notice that the level of concentration given to this task is one rarely seen from this person. He doesn’t look like an artist rendering beauty; he simply looks focused, and natural. He lets go after a time; i knew there would be twitching. It wasn’t nice, but i didn’t experience the full-on heebie-jeebies i’d expected. i didn’t flinch, or make any more jokes.

It occurs to me after a time that i am witnessing deaths, in succession. i examine myself for any signs of duress. i come up empty. There is nothing poetic or romantic about this. i am struck, in fact, by the lack of drama in general. This is an uncomplicated thing; true. There is more truth here than i seem to have experienced in quite some time. It isn’t good or evil or difficult or easy. It is actually simple, honest labor. Quiet.

After they’ve bled out, the ducks need to be scalded, not boiled, but heated slightly so that their feathers might more easily be plucked. They don’t seem easily plucked to me. This is repetitive, visceral, and a fluffy weird mess. There are downy white feathers flying everywhere with a darkly ironic whimsy.

“I never thought I’d be so appreciative of plastic sheeting,” this man is excited to tell me about all of his tools. Proud and glad of an audience. He’s usually like this, in truth, though today with a dedicated respect for his task. i ask him about that. “This is an achievement. Providing is primal.” A part of me hears this and scoffs, but the witness to this day is more measured, sees that truth. The efforts here demand the whole of a person. Even the repetitive plucking.

The farmer has draped his sheet of plastic indelicately in order to separate himself from the bloody, and now molting, dead bird on his lap. He has done everything today with his bare hands, and has already changed pants once, due to an abundance of blood. I guess the sheet is to save the new pants.

“Their first set of feathers” is what’s plucked now. It’s very boring, looks tedious, and sounds gross, like plastic velcro that isn’t densely packed enough. i entertain myself with the puppy (she did not witness the deaths this time, but she will be around it her whole life). When only down remains, the duck bodies are dipped in hot, melted wax and stripped of it. Who knew there would be something familiar for me in this day.

i am here on the ground, still bearing witness, writing as the sun wanes. The plucking goes on and on, and i am struck by the degree of labor yet again. “Do machines do this elsewhere?” “Yeah but the last feathers are always hand-plucked.” He talks about how much harder it will be to pluck the mallards—these are peking ducks. The puppy falls asleep on my foot, and the man waxing his bird draws my attention to it, “Starting to look less like an animal and more like a meal now, huh?” He’s not wrong. The skin and sinew of a familiar feast is now exposed, pale and muscled.

Pliers pluck the final pinfeathers as the sun goes down. The air gets cold and our party is relieved to return to the house, carrying meat that looks marketable. i am asked for the blow torch, which i hand over without receiving a please or thank you. Here i notice the toll taken by this kind of bodily labor on what might otherwise be a natural courtesy. Fatigue and focus, probably too that primal drive, have arrested the humanity of this project. (i suppose i could muse about humanity here, but i am only learning these things for the first time—there will be no judgment from me.) Whatever fluff could possibly be left of the feathers, but for the still-covered head, are blow-torched in seconds. The head gets a quick chop.

When the guts come out of the duck i find myself entranced by the beauty of the heart. i want to spend time drawing it, but it’s not mine. i settle for several photographs. i am overcome by the visible perfection of this small muscle. And it looks delicious, as if it might be brimming with favors toward good health. This is a bloody organ i am observing. i can’t help but notice how animal it feels to literally drool at raw meat. Primal, indeed.

Throughout the day there have been long stretches of silence, most often interrupted by some story or curiosity that has occurred to the farmer in the course of his killing. (At one point he starts belting out incorrect lyrics to a pop song i’m sorry i recognize and, comically, it’s the worst part of the day.) He tells me of air going through ducks as he cleans them, sometimes hitting “the quacker” just right. Sometimes a dead duck will quack, he explains, and it’s startling. He also tells me about hunters using those quackers to make duck calls for future hunts. Now he holds the noisemaker itself in bloodied hands. It looks like a fat, wet noodle with a tiny, slimy bellows, and seems too floppy for any further use. So, when he finds out i might repeat this particular hunting “fact,” this man does a bit of research and quickly debunks himself. i debate repeating the tale anyway—it just sounded so good. i am more than a little likely to insist on trying to force air through the next quacker.

The feet come off now, last, and a bird that lived this morning is finally just a piece of meat this evening. “Do you see that dense layer of fat?” The farmer uses a knife to point and it’s obvious even to me that this bird will be delicious. Every stage of this effort has been an achievement for the person who provides; milestones. Despite this, every step has also been wholly unceremonious. Part of me thinks of the song where the lady goes to the circus and wonders “is that all there is?” i didn’t expect much, but the even keel of the day has surprised me. There hasn’t been room for anything impractical, particularly not sentiment. Exhaustion will sneak up on me later, and i will wonder again at bearing witness to death. Was it difficult, in the end?

Only now, appraising meat that could look great in a butcher shop window, does this farmer allow himself to discuss the size and selling price of his ducks. He recognizes this shift in himself with interest, and says he will think about them again later as living creatures. So will i.

Sometime very recently, as in perhaps a week ago only, i started to see shapes in clouds.

i don’t know why i never could before—certainly not for lack of wondering about it. It seems a strange thing: that one is a creative and yet incapable of a common imagining. Of course, like all things before 2020, i took this issue rather too seriously. Personally, even.

And then, eight months and change in to this catastrophic roller coaster of a year, it just happened. i noticed a nighttime arrangement of glorious clouds that took up half the sky and didn’t look so different from a peaceful Audre Lorde. She had some comet pals, and a backdrop so deeply black that all her greyscale features were clear. She looked bolstered, capable and knowing above a constant Kennebec River. i thanked her.

Since then—every day!—i look up to identifiable illustrations. Anymore i don’t wonder or try. The sky shows me, and my eyes see.

It was not difficult to leave DC last August. There were people from whom i didn’t want to separate, but i was ready for a new life.

i was not ready for a second new life the following August. We’ve all been through it with this pandemic, and mine is a story of heavy isolation on a slippery slope toward a full mental breakdown, followed by the serendipitous last-minute purchase of a vehicle i could sleep in. i kept those tickets to Florida that i’d purchased in winter, and i don’t regret traveling one bit. That was how my 12th month in Maine began.

When i returned from seeing my best friend and her family—vacationing so hard!—i could no longer be home in the way i was before. A new life began without much planning, and it was startling. It felt abrupt despite being desperately necessary, and long yearned-for.

But everything has been falling into place. People appear, animals need tending, and it seems like everybody is getting ready for hemp and weed harvest. Like a toddler with cubes and spheres, i test out pieces of my new life to see what fits. And like a lucky little forest creature, i have been collecting many different pieces. Opportunities all.

Last night i got to be a part of a really lovely gathering. Today they told me to take anything i wanted from the garden.

i slept eleven nights straight in my car; tonight i will sleep in a bed. i’m so excited for this but more importantly to be in Erin’s new Vermont home. Being able to be close to loved ones like her and Candice felt nearly impossible not long ago. i am so very, very grateful.

i keep running into people who have done this before, who offer to normalize living in vehicles not built to be lived in. i am doing it, but it doesn’t feel normal. it feels vast and wild and so full of potential that i have no choice but to face miracles day after day.

i don’t mean this figuratively. With this freedom to roam (admittedly stoked by the prior several months of isolation) has arrived a feeling of space so vast that for miracles there is not only room but also welcome. This is an expanse—the entirety of my here and now—that invites beauty, stirs synchronicity, tempts fate, asks, and answers.

This untethering from societal structures happened sooner, and much more abruptly, than i planned. i had an idea of this freedom—not so much living in my car as separating from social norms and expectations—as a future goal that i was working towards. Instead, it came to me.

Some days this is a difficult truth to own and face. On those days i have gotten distracted by the job, family, “real” life of someone near me. My goal was to never have a full-time job again. In this i have experienced such early success as to wonder a bit at it.

A family of nuthatches has arrived squeaking and chittering all around me just this moment. A chickadee is singing nearby. They give me no choice but to pause, reflect on my most recent words, and commit to the truth of this life i now lead.

Thanks, you guys.

i am an empath, erstwhile pescatarian, and a person who tries to make friends with literally every animal with whom i have the opportunity to spend a minute. i don’t kill bugs if i can help it, much less anything else. When i think about taking life, i genuinely feel most comfortable picturing myself murdering troublesome white men. i’d rather let a bird live.

Buying local is proven, time and again, to be the most beneficial way—to community, animals, plants, local ecology and economy, it goes on—of enjoying food. Commercial food is the enemy here, not omnivores or vegans. Commercial vegetables are just as detrimental to the environment as meats, and much more harmful, in production, to humans.

So here i am, on a small (all meat) farm with a bunch of animals who will be gone in a month or two. i am significantly less sad about their deaths because i get to see how they live. i am going to learn to process them, and i am going to be happy to do so. Even though i haven’t really raised them, i still feel proud that they are well-cared for and destined to be appreciated for their deliciousness.

i have recently discovered in myself a sense of ethical responsibility to learn exactly how these animals live and die. i take their eggs and watch them get broody. i feed them apples and watch them argue. i bring them food and watch them get excited. Pretty soon, i will help kill and butcher them. The farmer calls this “harvesting” when he doesn’t want to offend.

i prefer to call it slaughter. If we are to be animals, why should we pretend this is anything but animalistic? i am sure i will cry, probably a lot. But i want to know exactly where my meat comes from. Chicken and pork are my favorites! How can i continue to consume them without learning what their existence is really like like? Can i continue to consume them once i understand?

Here is where the door opens for hunters. The argument for hunting goes along these lines: we use everything we kill, and we know more about these animals, and the land they’re on, than anyone.

(i don’t know if i’ve found more weed scraps or bullet casings while cleaning this farmhouse.)

i appreciate the argument. i agree that knowing a thing inside and out creates a natural reverence, and i think that a lot of hunters have tethered their souls to the earth in ways most of us will not understand. i read and watch Steven Rinella now. (If you don’t know this dude, he’s a friend of Joe Rogan, which could be enough said, except this guy is reasonably palatable. He stays in his hunting lane and literally discusses nothing else.) It’s not at all necessary reading and viewing, but i am Fascinated.

i don’t really have an opinion on hunting and i think that is okay. i am learning a lot, and voraciously. What i can say, with some surprise, is that i’m looking forward to the slaughter. This meeting with the gods, if not enjoyed, will at least be treasured. Though this attitude has surprised some friends, i am the same curious creature you’ve always loved: any new experience, any opportunity to learn—gimme.

i returned (happy and sad) from Florida on Monday to a lovingly packed and parked car waiting at the airport full of food and (hopefully) everything i’d need for two weeks away from most humans. After rearranging for an hour in the CVS parking lot, i got my COVID test (oof) and headed for the farm.

Ezzie’s Brook Farm is owned by a rad dude, and i think we get along pretty damn well. He offered me a flat space to park/sleep and gave me farm chores in exchange for shower, laundry, and kitchen use. i have thoroughly fucking enjoyed waking up at 5:30 and letting all the birds out of their coops, changing all the waters, and feeding the piggies. i am grateful to report that the latter have been surprisingly gentle with me! i really dig the physical labor, and i genuinely look forward to learning about processing meat. i want to do so much more on the farm!

Buffalo gotta roam though, and the farmer had some great advice.

Although i enjoyed every moment until bedtime, over night it became unnerving to be out in the woods completely alone without cell/wifi, miles from town. i had rested so well in my car at the farm—i didn’t realize that it might be weird overnight elsewhere. As soon as the morning sun touched me, i was again happy to be by my stream, reluctant to leave, but i decided around midday to pack up and grab some wifi. Not sorry i did! Coming back was even sweeter, and after a long night of hanging with myself, i slept like a baby.

The sun shields i have in the windows keep the car super dark and chilly, so the second morning i stayed in blankets a while, cozy. When i peeled off the shields, the sun came in gently through the trees—the air outside the car was warmer but not hot, actually perfect. Bathing in a freezing stream is tricky when you’re not overheated, but i managed the important spots. i cooked some food, as i’ve been doing. Nothing complex—just coffee, oatmeal, noodles, eggs, and fruit. i have to admit to loving this diet and being able to graze all day.

Living out of the car is wild and amazing this way—everything is here! i just have to open the right door/bag to access the things i need. Having everything on your back has it’s perks for sure, but i sure love being able to carry a variety of food, all of my art stuff, some books, lots of tools—a whole kitchen! and so much more that isn’t completely necessary but is absolutely reassuring.

i have traveled alone before, but never like this. i have road-tripped before, but also not quite like this. i think life should be an adventure or nothing, but i was really scared for this one. i still am. i am afraid of being a female body alone (i have weapons i hope to never have to use, right where i’d need them if i did) in wild country. i almost never have a cell signal. There are many signs of bigotry and gun ownership around here. For the first time in my life, and only because of these circumstances, it’s okay with me that i’m not the same color as my mama. i think the US does a shit job of encouraging community, but i also think i should have a little more faith in strangers sometimes. i’ve spent so much of my life surrounded by cultures and communities that took care of each other, and there is so little of that to witness in the US that sometimes i just go ahead and assume there’s none. Logically, i am surely incorrect. And so it goes: it wouldn’t be an adventure if i wasn’t a little scared. And if life isn’t an adventure what even is it?

i am quite fuckin pleased to report that i am able, want, and love to do this. Little buffalo, built to roam.

The thing i love the most about airline travel is that if you cry alone at any point in the journey, no one will tell you “it’s gonna be okay” or to calm down or anything. Once in a while someone wonderful will show up with a tissue, but most people seem to assume there’s a good reason for your tears. It’s so soothing to have a space that exists where humans let humans be human without interfering, and it is unwritten! It happens naturally because everyone knows transit is stressful. i have been crying in airports regularly and passionately (and often, like many times each year) since i first missed a flight in France when i was 19! Only once ever have i been questioned about it, and that was because i wasn’t alone. i was with a man and the woman who asked me was actually assessing my safety. i bawled a bunch in public yesterday and it felt so good to be among people and unbothered. So good. i fucking love crying in airports.

get a little frantic

do a little dance

so much stuff

what’s this mess

have a little snack

yell a little gripe

organize organize organize

(repeat)

gonna make an art of apathy / see me in kindness / my generous lean / who knows / how she shares so much / can be so mean / but didn’t you feel free with me / this space did not come cheap / i give and give / i cut and run / i’ve found no happy medium

Yesterday i drove two hours, through a thunderstorm into a hazy blue sky and through another downpour. The air was electric and clean. i figured out how to balance the wind with my music. i recognized places from my previous venture that direction.

i arrived to another blue sky, all the ducks quacking and chickens fretting, pigs layin’ around. A farmer just showered. i felt comfortable after the fresh laundering of my drive.

There was still more storm. Gorgeous lightning. The power went out and my phone didn’t have service. Thunder rumbled but the rain didn’t last. The lightning came to perform. We alternated awed gasps and questions of whether the other had seen that one.

The air reminded me of jungle, smelled like the North. i breathed deeply of only my first new experience that evening. My dinner came from a restaurant right to my hands. The sky i ate under was halved: the west blue and clear, meeting east in golden grey. Interlacing these, itself halved in dim gold and sweet blue, growing nestled among wildly lit clouds, a rainbow formed as i chewed.

Ducks and geese all love the rain. i watched their farmer tend his birds as they tooted little honks and chirped small quacks. The pigs hopped around squonking. They could hear him mixing the feed. He wore a headlamp in waning light.

i carried an oil lantern, called myself an explorer. The night stayed punctuated by electricity. Ever stronger, it crackled quietly through each of us, sneaking out in whines. Surging, bursting forth into compliments.

When the sky was all the way dark it really wasn’t. There was a screech and i hoped it was an owl. The moon had the night off but there was still so much bright. A night obscured by stars that beamed and played all over each other, all around us. i saw one fall.

There are a million places to start. Lots of white people started with books by white folks. That’s comfortable. Here’s some other ideas that aren’t so uncomfortable…

Being anti-racist is about accepting another culture into your understanding. It’s about knowing enough of another culture to respect and honor it despite it not being your own.

James Baldwin is the ultimate. He’s the best author i’ve read, period. He writes of persecution and pain, but he writes more of beauty, humility, respect, and being alive. Blackness is a part of a whole, as it should be.

White people historically do not make a conscious decision to consume black art without punishing ourselves. Remember Roots? What is it that makes us look at the black experience in America and, instead of taking any actual responsibility, casually flog ourselves about it before moving right along? Why do we only make an active decision to share in black lives as a tool to illustrate historic wrongs?

Being a fan of blackness is not the same as actively deciding to support and learn about blackness.

We expect to feel guilty when we read black authors. We expect to read sad things. Zora Neale Hurston frees us from this so quickly in her best-known work, _Their Eyes Were Watching God_. Toni Morrison, Angela Davis, Audre Lorde all write to feel their power, not pain. This is legible to anyone who reads them, and stunning.

You know what’s fuckin’ great? 90s hip hop. Have you listened to NWA? Tupac? Admittedly one of these two is significantly more poetic than the other (and there are so many more greats out there!) but both are born of a culture cast aside and trampled. The story of rap and hip hop is beautiful in the way of the story of ebonics.

Remember ebonics? Like with hip hop, i picture flowers that grow in concrete. Ebonics is a triumph of humanity, a glorious revolutionary collaboration underpinning an entire culture. Do acquaint yourself with AAVE and it’s genesis. If you wanna know of human fortitude, you can find it in ebonics.* (And when the rabbit hole takes you down, code-switching is also deeply fascinating.)

Black culture has influenced everything in America. It’s right there for the grasping, consuming, understanding. You do not even have to ask a POC person to guide you. Indeed, i beg of you never to do that.

Anthropologists have long debated how well one can understand a culture that is not their own. i personally subscribe to the “relativism” school, wherein we admit to never truly understanding. Instead, respectful curiosity sates the desire, helps us witness and appreciate a group of people we may not ever understand.

i have been “invited to the barbecue”, and i have often not at all understood what was going on, who made a joke, etc. i am frequently left out, despite being included. Sometimes it isn’t fun, but then i realize: witnessing is a privilege. When traveling, i fully understand this concept. i just have to remind myself sometimes at home, too.

Witnessing is a privilege. Every POC voice broadens the view into an ignored world. Feel guilty if you must indulge your ego, but then get up and explore! There’s so much to learn, celebrate, and share.

i encourage you to pursue black joy. Black love. Black food.

i do not encourage you to pursue media like Black as Fuck, or Blackish and its whole family of trash. These shows are geared almost solely to make white folks comfortable. They do not at all reflect black culture.

Chase black content made for black people. Chase black creators of all kinds. Get excited about these things among white friends. Challenge yourself to buy online from POC businesses only. Finagle with changing your impact.

_Washington Black_ is an award-winning YA novel written by a black woman, Esi Edugyan. It’s a book about a slave, but it’s not about being black. Read until you understand the distinction.

Culture is subtle. It needs you to seek it. There is no way to appreciate a people without knowing something of their culture. Perhaps, even after years of seeking, one still might not understand so much. Anti-racism though, comes more easily with each experience shared.

Each shared experience feeds into the moment where our complicity shifts into active anti-racism. Each chance to witness and support POC is another step toward the world we always wanted, and expected. Each voice amplified is a chance at equality.

Do not simply imagine a world without police. Utopia is cute but there is work to be done.

Do not do only academic work. Theory is important, but it’s culture that truly teaches.

Do appreciate.

Do enjoy.

Don’t forget to dance.

* Quick history lesson courtesy of some woke whites.

This is a difficult time. It’s a time for recognizing our own shortcomings. A time of disappointment.

How can things have gotten this bad? They always were?

Some people knew this revolution would be inevitable. Their parents knew, for generations back. Those people are in this revolution for the long haul.

Suddenly black bodies and lives are starting to matter. We have a lot to learn to make this right.

White pals, for real, i feel your pain. i’m sorry for how brutal and raw and new this all feels. i’m sure there’s so much more complexity for you right now than you feel there is space allowed.

Your work starts at home. Start with you. Do some reading, and when you’re ready, discussing among fellow white people. This revolution is only for you in this way. This is our only opportunity to be effective allies. Our work starts way behind the front lines, all the way at home.

In no way here am i suggesting lack of participation otherwise. To be clear: the work you do at home should be done in conjunction with any other participation you can muster. You should be doing everything you can (always tend to your own needs first!) by following POC voices and leadership.

But the work at home is a fucking lot. It’s an emotional fuckwith, a gotdamn rollercoaster. An actual, real life nightmare. You have to be angry. At society, politics, money, everyone you know, yourself. Everything sucks, for real. But we are late af to this party. POC have been knowing this whole thing was garbage for generations. We gotta catch up.

This is our work. We don’t ask POC to help us. In truth, everything we need is available. There is all sorts of black-made media to be consumed. So many voices we might learn to understand. These are quiet ways to join the revolution at home. Discuss among friends. Gain that momentum.

i truly encourage shamelessly binging as much black music as possible and doing your best to enjoy the hell outta it. Listen a little harder to your favorite rappers.

This is going to be difficult for a long time, but you are doing this for the next generation. You’re doing it for actual American freedom. For fuck’s sake, freedom for all is worth the discomfort of some.

i am here for this. i am down to discuss and meet you where you are. i’m in it to say, “i have no idea. Maybe we should find out.” Come find me for talks about what it truly might mean to be of color in America. We can talk about what it means to be white too, if that’s needed. Let’s get this conversation going.

We can help. We have a part to play in this revolution. But it is not our revolution, and we must learn about that before we can change the world.

Out there now realizing /

This is their moment /

Kids of color standing up to own this /

Give room, listen, keep silent your admissions /

Relearn, grow again, go again /

Mutual aid, generational trauma /

Goliath in a Klan hood; David with a camera /

The world arrives to pay attention /

Give meaning to a generation /

The heart beats against the drum, erratic /

Screens tell stories automatic /

i heard it would not be televised /

But the revolution has arrived

i been doin this thing where i get up at 5AM. it’s not the kind of getting up i used to do with an alarm, nor is it the kind after i’ve finally gotten the chance to sleep til i’m done sleeping. Both of those awakes are from an old world. In this new world i get up at 5AM cuz my body said it didn’t want to sleep anymore.

i make breakfast for me and the cat and brew my perfect cup, tidying around the kitchen as i go along. i will drink my coffee while i have a smoke in the sunshine w the birds, which is lovely af and my favorite. It’s too early for them to be bathing but by the time i get out there they’ve been singing for several hours. The noise is only them, and the sun has been pretty consistent and gracious in joining me often.

Going inside, i will turn on my latest favorite “chill” playlist. Awake now but groggy cuz it’s still early and now i’m stoned, i lie down. The cat usually joins me, which is also perfect. Then i settle in to take deep breaths until i find myself in that weird space between awake and dreaming when your thoughts are kind of like listening to Danish for the first time as a native English speaker. Clarity feels close but is, in reality, quite far away. But clarity isn’t why i’m doing this. Instead of forcing my thoughts to disappear, i let my brain off leash in a controlled environment: chill tunes drift around while my imagination, jealousies, paranoia, obsessions, dreams, optimisms, criticisms, and all their accompaniments just run amuck. These fuckers need space to roam, so this is what i give them.

i chill there hard for what feels like hours, all of my brilliance and idiocy spinning and twirling to the beats of foreign composers toeing the line of “coffee shop chic” so that i can never be completely bored, or entranced. The mess of my brain is a house party starting slowly like maybe it won’t work out then, as guests arrive, building to epic shades of disaster before pulling back cuz it’s almost dawn and we’re getting sleepy now anyway. Instead of regret and squinted eyes though, the end of this rager feels like clouds parting. The clear sky in wait, all the partygoers plum tuckered out.

This is a thing i do now, and it’s my favorite way to start a morning. My brain is full of nonsense that needs to breathe. From 5 to 8AM, i “meditate” my own way. For the rest of the day? My brain cooperates.

https://vimeo.com/417748253

If you don’t fuck with cats then we are never gonna get sexual. (You can be allergic and still appreciate cats.) Cats get a bad rap just cuz they do them all day every day with no concern for anyone. We should all actually be more like cats. They know what they want and they’ll let you know if you’re fucking it up. If you aren’t the kind of caring and patient that can handle the feedback, we are not gonna jive in bed. We can be friends, for sure! But if you can’t pet a pussy you can’t pet a pussy. i don’t make the rules.

How early in the day is too early to try calling friends? What times are off limits?

A major takeaway here is that we should all give up on taking responsibility for things we can’t control. We could maybe even get more comfortable with admitting we don’t know things.

A worry of mine is that if i’ve wronged a loved one they might not tell me, instead trying to get over it on their own. The actual fear is that they might carry some hurt or lingering anger toward me without giving me a chance to apologize or try to assuage their injury. i want that chance, and i like to give my friends that opportunity also. i don’t think everyone appreciates this.

Which leads me to wondering why we only “define the relationship” when it’s romantic. Even then, we leave out a lot. We each look at relationships differently. People assume their expectations and understanding are shared because they’ve used the word “friend” or “partner”. i would like to move forward from this point writing definitions of these relationships as i go along. Every human is different and so too is each relationship. i think an appreciative and focused conversation between people who care about each other would work wonders to prevent confusions and unnecessary injury.

i knew i would have to change a lot of things when i chose to pursue my most honest self. Instead of going full throttle, i tried to modify, rearrange, keep. i gave up finally, on a lot. i grieved all of it. What i hadn’t prepared for was the continuation of goodbyes.

It’s strange to feel as though you are loved only for being familiar, rather than valued as a creature who might grow and evolve.

i must be guilty of this also, but it’s difficult to find the right perspective when one is looking at oneself.

Someone on whom i’d given up long ago came back around having changed dramatically. The work they’ve done is impressive and beautiful, inspirational actually. It wasn’t that they were so horrible, just that things hadn’t worked back then. Now we are friends and i am quite glad of it.

Extroversion is a curse. What good is being charismatic when there’s no one around to impress? i am wilting, in a way. Still beautiful, but drooped. A bloom under appreciated.

Today i will write rituals for the Flower Moon, who arrives tonight. Prayers for the courage to blossom again, to see this isolation through. i will also work on designing curricula for online courses. My excitement about these things comes from deep. i want to honor and elevate those feels in this time of dopamine dry-out. Thank fuck for creative projects. Thanks Universe for being so vast—making me insignificant and important au même temps.

A bit wilted, still so bright.

There was a lost life on our doorstep in the morning. A beauty, robin, gone. My path blocked by a little body, at once desperately important and insignificant.

Every trouble seems the same these days.

i picked it gently from the pavement with a scrap of old cloth. i could feel soft down, tiny bones, ribs that recently held a beating heart, wings that had flown. How fragile, how worthy, this small thing felt.

i cried for it, for all of us. So important, so insignificant.

i needed to do something to honor this life, however small. A death on my doorstep felt generous. An invitation. This departed robin was a sign of nothing but that change is necessary, insistent, unstoppable. That we must—always and for the sake of everything we hold dear—accept the invitation. We must grieve.

At the suggestion of a clever friend (“build it a little boat and send it out to sea. on fire.”), i gave the bird a burial fit for royalty. A pyre carefully built, a place thoughtfully chosen. The pyre was proud, the body beautiful. i wonder if ever a robin has been so exalted in death, so beloved after living.

One death. 239,000 deaths. One honorable funeral. One crying human. Grief is not linear, nor timely. Only necessary.

For nothing is important or insignificant without our choosing.

——-———

And then this happened!

The grackles are gorgeous here. Magisterial in their rich blue hoods, shouting from their treetop covens.

i correctly identified a duck before Viv could the other day—a common eider on choppy blue depths. i am gaining confidence!

Today or tomorrow i will be putting a blueberry bush in the ground. And perhaps also this potato that has been growing on the kitchen windowsill for a while. i’ve been watering it. i tried to grow the herbs you sent in September, but they didn’t make it. i would like to ask that you send more, but i don’t know how.

i heard you made Fae’s favorite dessert as we were collectively, remotely wishing her off. Viv and i sang “Spirit in the Sky” on repeat. What a team we all made—a perfect sendoff for Fae. i made some lemon chubbies (they are quite too plump to be cookies) and peanut butter muffins yesterday. It felt really good to bake again.

A group of finches is called a “charm”. i hope yours is thriving in this beautiful, strange spring.

i just realized that the whole world is in liminal space right now.

This is a lonely time and too few people have adapted to being on video chats, which means extroverts are lonely.

i do not love being an extrovert. i am also an empath. this combo makes for real difficulty, and often.

So now i recognize my need. To be around people, even if they aren’t my people. i miss the world. i miss overhearing inane conversation. i miss the random chatter of other humans. In an effort to help myself from.. myself, i reach out.

i would like to hold gatherings. Dance parties, crafting, etc. i’m not sure why i haven’t been invited to more happy hours. i am not drinking now precisely because of isolation, but i would like to hang out.

i understand why people are rejecting invitations. i get it and it’s okay. But it’s hard not to notice that every single one of them has at least one peer at home, if not a lover.

Check on your extrovert friends.

This is the season of learning. We are forced to recognize that arrogance and humility can exist next to love and spite along with fear and happiness, and so on. There is nothing but this learning, a strange but relentless discomfort bringing forth a bunch of shit you never wanted to know. Do you contradict yourself? You do. You will fight these understandings, but ultimately they can serve you. We can grow now. We can rely on each other. We can get up in the morning and check in on our friends and try to make something good happen. We can nap all day and try again tomorrow. We can dance, even if no one is watching.

i watched Someone Great at my weekly Netflix Party romcom night. (Yeah, let that sink in and let’s move on.) i thought this movie would make me miss my ex. Instead, Someone Great made me super depressed about not going out to bars and parties and yes, i also miss doing drugs and drinking. i miss strangers and bathroom friends and live music and sticky dance floors and fast bartenders. These are opportunities that simply do not exist right now. i miss them. We all do.

So i decided to dance. i am not a great dancer but i like to do it. i like a floor with a few people that isn’t too crowded. i like a DJ who pays attention to their audience. i decided to dance at home and be my own DJ.

A cute plan, but it doesn’t scratch the itch.

i decided to invite my friends to dance. Showing up at a video chat where a few people are dancing and listening to music with questionable sound quality is not the same as showing up at a dive bar, but it might even be better in some respects. i invited my friends and i play music that people would have to shout over to hear each other.

Tonight one of the people with whom i’ve most enjoyed dancing in my life showed up and we listened to several songs i’d prepared specifically thinking of her. We were beaming and so stoked to be looking at each other while we shook our booties! Another friend popped in for a sec and waved his arms around. These two pals actually knew each other so they yelled hellos and he hung out for like half a song before he took off. We danced just we two for a bit, then came the high energy, latin-flavored “Danza Kuduro”. My mom took that opportunity to show up and share a dance with us before blowing kisses as she left the floor.

Dancing just feels good, especially with other people, friends and strangers alike. People coming and going as they please, freely as if they were in the actual world, unfettered by the still-uncomfortable social norms of virtual meetups. i hope this can help people who are feeling camera shy. i hope people bring someone else from their house to dance along. i hope to see babies and millennials and old folks and everyone in between. i hope i get to see strangers, too. i hope to see them on my screen but also i just hope this catches on. There must be others in the world already doing it!

A half hour of playful movement, good beats and bright smiles. i will do it every night for as long as i can, at 7PM EST. Get at me to baila conmigo, or have so much fun creating your own party.

Everyone is saying the same thing when you get them on the phone: “I’m okay! I have food and shelter and toilet paper and some money for now.” Maybe they will be lucky enough to still have a job, not know anyone who’s sick, genuinely enjoy the person/people they’re stuck with (i have all three thus far, miraculously, gratefully).

Then they will hesitate. They will reiterate that they are okay not defensively, but clearly trying to convince themselves. They will laugh and say, “but that’s everyone right?” as if that makes it suck less. Often then they will admit it, “I’m a little bit not okay, I guess”.

Honestly if anyone was genuinely feeling okay right now my first question would be about their sanity in general. i’ll have what they’re having, if y’know what i mean.

If you are not okay, congratulations! You’re a regular degular human on an epic historic journey with all the several billion rest of us.

It is reasonable and sane to not be okay. Sure, there are silver linings and beautiful moments. There always are. But we just got our world flipped upside down and we don’t have any idea what the future looks like, collectively or as individuals.

How about some science? Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs includes two—out of five—human needs that are deeply threatened if not fully removed by the effects of COVID19. These are: a sense of social belonging and acceptance, and esteem gained by achievement. Isolation is wearing at the former of these pretty brutally, while the latter was totally ripped from those who’ve lost their jobs. You shouldn’t feel okay about these losses. They are real.

If you feel like you are trying to maintain sanity most hours of the day, you are probably doing it right. Your empathy, sympathy, fear response, adrenal glands… everything is in working order.

It is okay to not be okay. There are multiple billions of other humans just out of reach and feeling exactly the same way. These are the days to (virtually) lean on your loved ones. They need you as much as you need them. Think of it like Bubba and Forrest—a mutual lean. Because nobody should have to sleep with their head in the mud. Call your loved ones and let them know: i’m not okay—you’re not okay. But we might be okay, together.

Extroverts should maybe listen to live albums on headphones with their eyes closed during isolation. i miss crowds.

This is an opportunity to get better at so many things, in particular: listening. The internet has lag time, phone calls are weird. We have to wait more patiently to hear whether someone’s thought has finished. No discernible body language means we have to get better at paying attention and giving people time to say their piece. (Also: emojis.) My students are already adapting so well to each other over video chat. i know a lot of millennials with aversions to phone talks, i think precisely because it has this curve. Now we learn.

There is wayyy too much time to examine my shit and i need a therapist. (i had finally met my new PCP and put therapy calls in just before this happened.) Thank fuck for the Fetlife community, who in particular understand my need for physical pain at this time, and my smattering of amazing friendships strung around the world, all of whom have something in common besides being loves of mine: courage.

i’m fundamentally jealous of people who have touchable playmates at home. i have been hugged exactly once in three weeks. This has nothing to do with getting laid, just touch. How do humans live like this? i am hella not interested, honestly.

We need a groundhog emoji for these weirdly dull, tense days.

i personally see so little potential in my life without encountering new places and people on a regular basis. i don’t actually have any clue about how to be happy otherwise. i search now for something clear to look forward to. i know half the world’s population, at least, is doing the same. This is not as reassuring as i’d like it to be.

i hope so hard that there’s an anarchist writing about our future by now. Economic depression is on the table and therefore so is a leveling out of the playing field. There is a long darkness before the light in this situation, months at least. It took too long for us to take the whole thing seriously, and then to realize that we have to adjust for the long term. This week it feels like that’s finally sinking in. Are we ready for the fact that this is going to get much worse? Only after that can we start hoping for better. Maybe. Where is the anarchist who’s writing from ahead of the game? What happens when capitalism collapses?

i’ve never wanted a dog more.

here is when, triumphant, i strike through. each item a small achievement, planned to be smushed into the margins of a busy day, instead now wholeheartedly accomplished. excited, i make my way to the bottom of the list. here i am! finally.

. . .

well, fuck.