I was going to let this anniversary go unacknowledged.
I must have known it was a big deal. I wrote it in my calendar. One year out. July 26th, the day I took the decision to sit down for a specific amount of time, on specific days every week, to write. No matter how I felt or what else was going on.
For one solid year I have been sitting down, for a specific amount of time, on specific days of the week to write.
I wasn’t going to mention it. But that’s just false modesty. And feeling shy about outing yourself is counterproductive when you’re in the business of writing personal essays.
You might be wondering how I did it.
I had some help. From the Tucson Writer’s Table. What we do, is write. For two hours. Together. At a table. Every Monday. After…
I am but an insect toiling away at social media a fly
ho ver ing
about the desecrated bodies
a spoiled movable feast
they’ve laid out for us
in the heat of the moment
the latest drama
they can cook up.
Caught in this kitchen
unable to stand the heat
against a window
the pane but a screen
yet the mesh suffocating
circulated air of
for an escape
asking the same masters
with productivity apps
and fitness trackers
winging it, buzzed
just enough to feel good about ourselves
flitting to another pile of shit.
In 2016 I was winding down Man Voyage IV with my best pal and Echo & Sway comrade, Jared A. Conti AKA The Oracular Beard in the upper reaches of New York’s Finger Lakes. We were chatting at length on the last stop of our three day beer & brewery pilgrimage with a knowledgeable server at Genesee’s Thirsty Pug Craft Beer Market when he wholeheartedly recommended, nay commanded us where to go next: Vermont.