Friends, I have been determined to win quarantine bingo. I got a new pet. I used a beard trimmer to buzz my hair (and it looks pretty good, all things considered). I ate zucchini bread from zucchinis I grew in my backyard. I edited my poetry manuscript. I cleaned the fridge and did other chores I’ve procrastinated. I wrote a protest poem. I watched all of Tiger King—to my discredit. Seriously, that show might corrupt the soul. Don’t do it.
Anyways, this leads to the question: What’s next? What is the next activity we might all agree is suitable for these times, that I too might be swept up in, for a week or afternoon?
I can’t think of anything.
This weekend I was extraordinarily lazy. But I’m doing my duty and writing this. Goblin (the aforementioned new pet) is sitting next to me. My husband is playing the new Paper Mario.
I’m feeling listless. When Alice was falling slowly down the rabbit hole, she too felt sleepy and stupid. Do cats eat bats, or do bats eat cats?
In addition to idiotic ephemeral in my brain, I’ve also been thinking of questions of community. I’ve never liked that word. It’s nebulous and has too many m’s. What does it mean to be a community? What are the conditions necessary for one?
I am falling through a rabbit hole. Do communities need us, or do we need communities?
Earlier this week, a former contributor mailed me a copy of his new book unasked for. A delightful surprise all the way from Arizona. I read it in an afternoon.
I think, then, over the past few months we’ve helped build something. A small shelter that lets art be shared. A community is a place where you can share your bread.
After falling for what seemed like ages, Alice eats a small cake. And we all know what happens next.
May we all have bread. May we all be transformed—even if we don’t know why.
