What are we doing?

What are we doing? What are we doing? Oh, my god, what are we doing?

Getting our minds blown. Getting our understanding torn asunder. Getting our suppositions demolished. Getting our constitutions rearranged. Doing dishes.

When it rains we don’t walk. When we don’t walk, fears pool in our joints, collect in our mouths. We spit them out as frustrations. Early afternoon sky clears and we finally walk, flush out the system. Walking is precious. Faces of weary friends, viewed at safe distance, are precious. Dogs screaming at each other are precious. Electric green new grasses are precious. It may be rabbit scat or it may be deer scat and we debate it but regardless it’s precious. Tomorrow we will walk earlier to avoid the poison.

Some days playing music feels like getting a root canal with no drugs, brutally scraping us out, but we know the pain’s not gonna leave on its own. Awareness of abundance. Relief of old frustrations showing themselves out, slipping away humiliated.

On March 25, 12 days into quarantine, I said to Chafe, “If we both live through the next month the spring’s gonna be glorious.” Red winged black birds and chorus frogs.

A dear friend and respected creator of thoughts and things gave us this calendar just before the new year. When we received it I thought a lot about calendars with days with no room to write things on, never thinking about not having things to write on the days.

Nothing on the calendar but art.

Nothing on the calendar but creating the future.

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