do you crave light like I do

The stars said I need to write. I know they see me. The world is coming back to life and the draft is still unfinished. Do I start it all over or try to land the plane in a random field somewhere, just to say it’s done?

The shitty first draft. A play that can be worked and reworked and cast and rehearsed and turned into a story playing to a room of people who might or might not care.

When I started writing it, quarantine had just started and I was lonely. Am still lonely. Writing a play about a three-way in quarantine seemed fun. Create characters when there aren’t any around you. At first it was fun. The words came easily. Scenes and ideas and dialogue, funny and dark and sexy.

Things eventually started getting murky. Nothing felt like it had a point. Theater didn’t exist. Anger and fire were everywhere. The story felt frivolous and privileged. The words stopped coming.


But we aren’t there anymore. Not in that exact moment anyway. Even if that moment is still felt. The sun is out and people have emerged. Theaters are opening and their stories are full of timely heaviness that we are all too accustomed to anyway. I crave light, maybe other people do too.

So there you have it.

the light v. the heavy

Right before I woke up,

I felt really happy.

In a silly dream

My brain made up a game

Where we were laughing


Except I’m not sure who “we” was.


I woke up

Feeling clear and light

Spring air


Smile and stretch

I barely got out of bed when the heavier feelings came back

Obligation and expectation

The job

The sadness that you can’t even figure out



The heaviness of being here.


But here’s the thing.

That playfulness is still there.

And I clamber around in the dirt

Digging desperately for something that will let me use it.

The past few days.

Yesterday I went to the Pride parade in my town with a couple of friends. It was magical. Hot, sticky, muggy, but we picked a spot in the shade and stayed for hours. I hugged strangers and caught beads and became covered in glitter and rainbows.

“That.. must have been interesting.” my mother said.

She seemed to mean well, but also seemed confused and perhaps nervous. As if she wanted to be enthusiastic, but caught herself before anyone could mistake her for supporting gayness. God forbid. My brother had been visiting them at their cottage on the lake and she just wanted to remember the positive memory before he moves to Seattle. He’s bisexual. But secretly. Lest you disrupt the still, calm lake surface.

I woke up this morning, still covered in glitter and beads, and suddenly the mood was completely different. The sharp, sudden stab of hatred, followed by the overwhelming outpour of love, pain, and grief by the rest of the country.

I burrowed into my sadness for a while. Like sheets in my bed. Then I realized I needed to go outside. For something as ordinary as buying salt and olive oil. There was still sunlight and love outside, and rainbows. People were everywhere. Walking dogs. Drinking on porches. Holding hands. Everything felt heavier. Of course it did. And it will. For a very, very long time.

When a community becomes large enough, its individual members start to seem more like cells, atoms in a larger mind or soul. Not a hive mind, but something made beautiful by each atom’s singular personality. Everything working together like so many bits of glass, refracting light in different ways. Anyway. When a mind or soul experiences trauma, a level of processing, mourning, needs to occur, if there can be any hope of truly moving on.

Something horrible has happened. But that doesn’t mean love is gone. It was everywhere this afternoon. Try to squash it and it just comes back louder. We will continue to love and grow and create and shine that light. In spite of it all. We have to, if there can be any hope of change. We just have to.




Just write it out write write write.

Sneak out of your place and soak up some of that precious sweet light- let it fill and overflow you.

Life goes on around you and that flame pit in your stomach sparks sometimes. It can be enough to get you going or to hold you back staring blank-eyed at your own reflection and limp blonde hair and wondering if this is it? Would somebody notice if I ran out into the light, ran away?

And so you try it. You bring a notebook and stare out into the impossible blue, color that is so stupidly beautiful that surely it’s filling you up with something good too.