I write this from the creaky white desk of my childhood bedroom. This desk used to have an all-star cushy chair, but was replaced when I went to college with one of those straw-seated ones that leaves stripes on your ass even if you only sit on it for five minutes. (I will soon have stripes on my ass.)
I sit and stare outside.
We are in hiding from a silent, invisible monster.
The world is in hiding, together.
There is too much to say and not enough to say. (A lot of people are already saying a lot of things, all the time. We are together yet apart, apart yet together.)
These are the strangest times I have ever seen. To be fair, I haven’t seen too many strange times – I was born in the mid-nineties, long after the rise and fall of shag carpeting and the 80s synth-pop band A Flock of Seagulls – and of the times I have seen, I’ve been mostly a child before now.
But this feels different. There’s no denying I’m a part of this story. And this story is insane.
My creaky white desk sits right up against my bedroom window, so I can gaze out at the street that I grew up on to procrastinate between sentences. (I got particularly good at this in high school.) It’s still bright and warm enough outside that the stillness feels eerie instead of peaceful. Cars are parked in almost every driveway, lights are glowing outside of front doors. I wonder what’s happening inside?
I’ve been half-working on this website for a few months. (I think the results fairly reflect the process.) I was waiting until I’d published more content, figured out how to make the homepage more readable, put some more thought into my evolving personal brand, or received an inexplicable message in the sky to share it.
Fuck a message in the sky – I got the end of the world. Or that’s what it feels like, anyways. The entire world feels anxious, battered, grieving, hopeful, apart yet together. The uncertainty like lead in the air. The only thing I can think to do is write.
So here I will be, sharing my part in this story as it spreads its strange and wide wings. I’m scared for the people I love and the life I’d pictured. I’m grateful for the people I love and the life we continue to build. My family will probably eat a full five pounds of M&Ms before Wednesday. (These things are all true.)
This website turned out a bit clunkier than I’d hoped, but I’m excited to share it with you. Whoever you are, I’m wishing you strength, peace, and laughter. We’ll tell this story one day at a time.