months + May Swenson

Dear babes and bots, 

Once again, I am writing to you to let you know that I am sorry, I am late, I haven't written you in a while, and I'm sure you forgot about it. That's good. That's what I like to hear. 

in December and January...

I was traveling and miraculously not getting COVID. I thought for sure it would happen. When I was in college, I remember going everywhere with reckless abandon; I missed my stop because I was sleeping on the train and managed to find myself in Delaware, I drank until I couldn't walk straight and relied on friends to carry me home, I was always late, or oversleeping, or going on a date, or canceling a date, or getting stood up. Ah, to be 21 and blissfully unaware. I stopped drinking so much when I realized the alcohol turned me into a public nudist, or someone who peed between rows of police cars, and I could very likely lose my job if caught. If we were all operating in a global pandemic like I did in college, everywhere we went would have been a superspreader event. For some people, somewhere, it was. 

Also in January: trying to convince the City of Fort Collins to put my name in a hat of randomly selected people whose art/creative practice was impacted by COVID-19 (wasn't that everyone's?). I felt a bit strange about it. I decided to be as honest with the selection committee as possible, and told them about the anxiety I felt being in recreation spaces (even outside) during the start of the pandemic, and that much of my work concerns/is inspired by the environment. I felt strange about this because I had no income loss from the pandemic and this grant money would surely be better served for someone who did lose a significant amount of income. As such, I didn't submit any tax forms showing a significant depletion of revenue in 2020 compared to 2019. I know the selection committee has every right to reject my application, and they will surely weigh my application against others with a more measurable impact. I do wonder, though, if I was letting capitalism invalidate the fact that I was and continue to be impacted by the pandemic, that my work is different, and that for half of 2021, I didn't write a whole lot creatively. Sure, I wrote some. But it wasn't until I lived with my grandmama for a month that I started working on my work more seriously, and it wasn't until I spent more time outside that I even thought about writing as a possibility again. I am no fair judge of what is and isn't enough. 

Just a few weeks later, I learned that I was selected for the lottery. Then the lottery happened. My name wasn't pulled. 

Not-so-side-note: When I researched current COVID information, I saw that Johns Hopkins and the New York Times both stopped recording COVID-19 deaths, vaccine rates, and demographics almost a year ago in March of 2023. How interesting! 

in February...

I've been stressing about work. 

Last weekend, I tried to run 10 miles, stopped in the middle to cry for 20 min, ran 3 more, and then walked home. Something about not stretching I think...

I haven't painted basically at all. I'm working hard not to call this failure. 

The baby (who was born on 1/28 by the way) finally came home! February is full of joy and sleepless parents and newborn cries. 

I submitted my work to workshops and magazines. I need to keep doing that.

I figured out how to make weird things happen to images in Krita (free Photoshop). It's been challenging. 

I watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith on Amazon Prime. For reasons I don't understand, these two

are not getting 100% favorable reviews. What's wrong with you people? They're awesome! And this version of Mr. and Mrs. Smith is SO MUCH MORE interesting and complicated. They even go to couples therapy! 

I fell in love with May Swenson...who wouldn't? 

From "Strawberrying"
My hands are murder-red. Many a plump head
drops on the heap in the basket. Or, ripe
to bursting, they might be hearts, matching
the blackbird’s wing-fleck. Gripped to a reed
he shrieks his ko-ka-ree in the next field.
He’s left his peck in some juicy cheeks, when
at first blush and mostly white, they showed
streaks of sweetness to the marauder.

From "Water Picture"

The arched stone bridge 
is an eye, with underlid 
in the water. In its lens 
dip crinkled heads with hats 
that don't fall off. Dogs go by, 
barking on their backs. 
A baby, taken to feed the 
ducks, dangles upside-down, 
a pink balloon for a buoy.
From "That the Soul May Wax Plump"
Mother's work before she died was self-purification,
a regimen of near starvation, to be worthy to go 
to Our Father, Whom she confused (or, more aptly, fused)
with our father, in Heaven long since. She believed
in evacuation, an often and fierce purgation,
meant to teach the body to be hollow, that the soul
may wax plump. At the moment of her death, the wind
rushed out from all her pipes at once. Throat and rectum
sang together, a galvanic spasm, hiss of ecstasy.
Then, a flat collapse. Legs and arms flung wide,
like that female Spanish saint slung by the ankles
to a cross, her mouth stayed open in a dark O. So,
her vigorous soul whizzed free. On the undertaker's slab, she
lay youthful, cool, triumphant, with a long smile.   
I guess I'll leave you with that...
XX BLT 

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