Mes amis, it’s been a hot minute. I haven’t written here since the end of April, when I declared my need to leave the hive for honey—time to go collect pollen and bring it home for processing. I forgot I said that.
Spring came for me. I spent Beltane in a hot tub with an ex-lover, listening to Jane’s Addiction and Pearl Jam while we ate fruit under a waxing flower moon. He and I dated for a few months one decade ago when I moved home from Kentucky to recover from an accidental slide into pill addiction—I was drinking and screwing my way through dextroamphetamine withdrawal, thinking in the moment I was all right but retrospectively out of my mind and reckless—and reconnected in February, right before quarantine started. We met each other again and opened our quarantine pods to one another for a couple months, until summer; we moved on, like last time, when our core dissimilarities emerged.
From there I met a musician. A virtuoso who studied at a conservatory in Ecuador and plucks sonatas from electric keys and plays in rock bands. He plays right-handed guitars upside down with the high E on top taking the brunt of his heavy strum, so he strings them with heavy gauges—his genius isn’t just in the sounds he makes but in his understanding of an instrument and how to play it. I’m dancing with someone else now, because the musician and I brewed poison.
I haven’t recorded a podcast or written anything except a paid piece of brand journalism for a college in months. I have book ideas swirling in my head, and a good friend has asked me to write a song with him—a Godsend, because his blend of workaholicism and project-passion brings out the best in me. I’m reaching out to editors and sources for things I let dissipate after winter. I think I’m coming back.
I haven’t JUST been chasing love during my sabbatical, and I need to remind myself of that before I self-loathe too hard: I’ve been working. Clock in, clock out, hourly-pay-weekly-schedule working at a medical cannabis dispensary as a Patient Care Specialist. I spend my shifts running bags of weed out to the parking lot, ringing at a register, talking with patients about what they want their medicine to do for them, and continually bleaching surfaces as part of the effort to keep everyone as safe as possible during the apocalypse. One thing I’ve learned so far: stoners absolutely CAN run things. I’ve stepped aboard a tightly run state-ship crewed by federal pirates.
Today is lunch with a new acquaintance and semi-colleague (she’s the new co-host for a podcast whose production and creative staff I’ve come to love and lean on). After that, Ex-Boyfriend is stopping by. All outdoor, all with masks when needed. Then cleaning. This place is a mess, and I have energy.