the weight

There’s an almost-hole in my house pants and I keep watching to see when it’s going to open up completely.

I accidentally saw a video on Twitter again. It was a drone’s view of pine boxes stacked four-deep in long rows, makeshift coffins being buried in the ground. What will the world think of us?

Maybe you’ve felt this before, but I haven’t. I haven’t felt the feeling of history happening all around me. A rough and instantly tragic history with no mercy. That’s where the weight is tonight.

What to do? Finish application for emergency grant funding. Let your mind wander toward your own personal future and wonder what is actually possible in a world you will likely have to help rebuild. A whole world with the art-life, the life-life taken out. A city with thousands and thousands of very important people, essential workers, just…missing. Gone.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. I want to scream. I don’t scream. Not today. At a certain point mid-morning, Brendan tells me to take a break and go outside, please. I mask-up, ready myself to walk to the nearby school that has free school lunches every day. On the way I listen to music loud, (Not, Big Thief) and I cry cry cry. I cry because it’s not fair. I cry because I feel helpless. I cry because I can’t see this thing in front of me. I cry because I want to scream because it’s not fair what’s happening and this is not the great equalizer — this is another brutal uncovering of truths under the rock. And we are in this together but it all feels so separate. I cry heavy tears and my mask just catches them and I don’t touch my face. I walk. I cry. I take pictures of the colors of tulips.

I am considering mobilizing. I am being called to action, but I’m scared.

How long will I be wearing house pants and when will the hole open?