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| from ALL THE CREATURES, STIRRING |
Today feels like a magical number of some sort, even if I am in the usual December dolldrums where everything mostly, at best is sad and anxiety-producing. This year, like last year, a bit more than usual as cases rise and the general fuckery of people, even the ones who were careful in the past, increases with parties and gatherings and I have to check myself daily to ask if we are still, in fact, in a dangerous pandemic? Or is it less dangerous? Are we just tossing our hands and our cards up and taking chances? Despite the headlines, the nearing 800K death toll, numerous break through infections happening in my social media timelines and the content creators I watch, the world marches on as much as ever, though I am not sure I want to march with it.
I have a gorgeous new green velvet dress, bought on a whim, but when my boyfriend asks if I want to attend the holiday party at the acting school he works at, I hesitate. I get invited to readings and outings and I say no. I think, are you really sure you should be doing that? Watch people attend concerts and plays and sporting events. Really? We've hosted in person things in the library, but I get cagey and away when it seems like too many people are there breathing on each other, even within the capacity limits on campus. I weather the bus, but get super anxious when it seems too full. Is it me? Am I crazy? Is this just me and my anxiety inhabiting the world that felt always dangerous for whatever reason pre-covid and now seems even moreso and at every turn. I think about June, when things seemed safe and even then I hesitated. I no longer feel like I might die, but I also just hate being sick, something which I always weathered and pushed through, but now seems more dire--even of its just manifesting as a cold. And there is still so much we don't know. I personally was taken by surprise in March of 2020. I won't be again.
In other news, I've been greatly enjoying the bit of freelance work I've been dipping my toes in. Last week, I got to write about installation art, this week, a short story I had not read previously by Kate Chopin. Next up, fashion in the Great Gatsby. I don't know what next year will bring, but a little extra money around the holidays is a great help. I've been doing these other types of writing instead of poems in the morning, along with some more work on some short fiction, but I am getting itchy to get back to poems after the new year (or possibly during the brief holiday break. Tonight, I attended the release reading for Carla Sameth's WHAT IS LEFT, and her work and the guest readers left me incredibly inspired to get back to it. This week brings much assembling the last round of releases and new layouts on the very last chaps of 2021. I will also be finalizing details on next year's selections, sending out agreements, and getting started on some other little bits I have planned. I am also in-deep on my advent project, which develops a little more each day.
It gets dark so early, especially on weekends when I tend to sleep in and then have only a few hours before the night descends. I light my small tree and the faux candles and try to do cozy things like make cookies and soup. Last night, a feast of stuffed pasta shells and garlic bread and holiday romance movies. I try to be festive while also still being anxious.
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