SBM Poetically Powered Newsletter, Hey can I not respond to this void reaching out right now? Thanks.
SBM Poetically Powered Newsletter, Hey can I not respond to this void reaching out right now? Thanks.
“So, I sent you a text message about covering me. Is this your phone number?” I stop and formulate a response. Look at this person’s phone even though I know that I did not receive a text about covering them. I did receive a random text that said who is this? I deleted it since I did not know the stated number, and it goes to my spam file of disappearing acts of “hello/hey” with no other words attached.
I knew this person would ask me this question. I reiterate my schedule (a fuck ton of jobs, by the way) and apologize for not seeing a text that never got sent.
I think of how quickly I respond to messages and how I’d rather not. I don’t have the capacity for it, to be honest. But, I do have the ability of language to say fuck no, I cannot, and yes, I can, not a problem to help. I’ve allowed messages to die that I can’t constitute what I say after what I already said. “how are you?” is responded to as good for those who don’t have the capacity for the truth, fine, or we just doing the thing with the thing and keep going.
My health has been a pain in the ass. I was getting better and then plummeted to worse again. My body has not had time to “recover,” I apologize because I don’t know what it needs to get healthy again. Probably stop moving, working, etc., but that’s not possible since I was put in financial bullshit that I couldn’t predict. Lucky for me, I’ve always thrived working and enjoyed it, no matter what career I’m in or what job I’m doing. When I have a slow period at work, I do something for this, my writing, promoting my books, my Patreon, and now the slam I’ll be doing in person in Houston. I asked a friend if I should do it, and she said yes. I signed up that day to be one of, I believe, fifteen other slam participants. It’ll be a book fair and slam, so I get to bring my books and sell them afterward, which is my best way to move my books is at slams or poetry events. I’ve been lax about doing it in person because I’m working about every day of the week and too exhausted once I get back to go out, plus it’s already late by the time it’s finished up.
I write to mention this text message because one erupted on my screen as I was finally posting an IG poem of my piece, “You’ll know when it happens.” I saw it, and my stomach clenched. My mind went immediately to (I got one damn day off this week, one. Is it today? Do they want me today? They said it was the evening… maybe I can do it. Should I? Can I?) and it turned out to be a day I already have written off as for work. It worked out. I get to do mundane shit that has been pushed up daily until today, so the crisis has escalated. I’m listening to Spotify’s progressive Midwest Tuesday morning tracks. I need to shift washing machine clothes to the drier, meal prep, make dinner (I haven’t been eating again, yay), and several things. A self-care act for myself is making myself either coffee or tea. It’s a kindness I can do to start my morning with something I enjoy.
I wrote a bit with my IG post about how being queer and alive feels like a fear I can’t live inside fully. I think of how I want to be in more queer spaces but don’t want to be hunted like I was as a child. Of the experience, I had where the entire class attacked me. How I suffocated under their weights, how they took turns, how I kept thinking I would die out here. No one is going to hear me. I can’t breathe. What if I pass out? What if I don’t wake up?
I never really thought this was traumatic. I filed it away as, well, that sucked. It hit me a year or so ago the details of it. The lack of air and being purposefully suffocated. How they targeted me because I was gay. How when I look back, I was the only gay kid in my entire town. What this meant with bullying and how I was hurt and attacked for it. I learned to be quiet, not play at recess, and stay away from the people who hurt me by pretending I was what they were when I wasn’t.
I share this not because I was brave. I share this not because I’m courageous. I share this because I survived.
For what’s coming up for me, I’ll send you to: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-big-poetry-slam-and-bookfair-tickets-466612750297?aff=SarahMentalBF for buying tickets for the Big Poetry Slam and Book Fair with Write About Now Poetry, December 20th, at 7:30 at Rudyard’s. I don’t know how good I’ll be at slamming, but I want to premier at least one or two new poems on my heart.
Listening to: My Only Swerving, El Ten Eleven
Reading: Hopefully, This Crown Ain’t Worth Much. So fucking good. One of the best I’ve read in a while.
I am getting ready for: the poetry slam. I have to unearth my slam cards and show the folks on here my memorization process.
I’m signing off and if you read this, thank you. I feel especially. Lately, I’ve been writing, but does it matter? And your reading makes me realize maybe it does, and I know yours does.