November 2020

A note to readers: The following piece was written prior to the results of the 2020 U.S. Presidential Election. In the time between the closing of polls and the announcement of President-Elect Joe Biden's victory, these ponderings came to be.

I’m not sure if I need to sleep for 12 hours or go for a run or hug my mom or read a book or smoke a cigarette. I’m not sure if I need to write something empowering or something messy. I’m not sure if I can write at all. 

It was a late night and I found myself feeling particularly disheartened at the state of the world during these “unprecedented times.” So, in an attempt to cope, I turned on some tunes. But the tunes did not help. Surprisingly, I shed a tear, maybe even two, over Avril Lavgine’s iconic song “Sk8er Boi.” Although I will admit I cry rather easily, this was out of the ordinary; but as the overwhelming pressures and suspense of “real life” built, my mind ran away with my interpretations. I no longer heard a power anthem, but instead a jarring reflection of regret and mistake.

It wasn’t like this the last time.

How silly am I?

He felt betrayed, and there I was, with my rain jacket on. It wasn’t rainy, but I wanted to be ready for anything.

I knew, I could visualize it. Him walking away from me, the stiffness of his shoulders, his head bowed in anger and frustration. He felt betrayed, and there I was, with my rain jacket on. 

It wasn’t rainy, but I wanted to be ready for anything.

Relationships, whether platonic or romantic, are essential in life. As we spend more time with our thoughts during this pandemic, they start to consume us, making us question our mundane activities: “Why am I friends with these particular people? Did that come off too harsh or needy? How am I really doing?” When it comes to my relationship with myself and others, I’ve found myself taking a good look in the mirror these past eight months.

“There is no springtime on Venus, nor 

any other season—no seasons in hell!”

- Allan Treiman
 

Who named Venus the planet 

of love? Yes, it’s bright, blinding 

as lust’s hot passion. Year round 

the forecast reads a balmy 870 

degrees, blistering enough to melt 

metal—lead, bismuth—not us, 

though (human bodies yearn, burn 

in an untold heat). But Pluto’s spring 

is a lukewarm love like no other: frozen 

atmosphere stops falling out of sky 

Zenaida opened his eyes on a couch to a crowd of voices surrounding him. He could see no people. He saw a small round table decorated in a dinosaur party theme with what had been a large T-rex ice sculpture. It looked like it had a broken neck bent backwards and the arms were nearly completely missing. He glanced at the puddle underneath.           

“We apologize for the ice sculpture. We hadn’t anticipated how long you would be unconscious,” a voice spoke from in front of him. He wanted to speak, but his entire jaw ached.

“You intimidate them, Chloe.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I would love to start this pondering off with a rhetorical question, but there’s really no point, is there? Did that make you feel weird? Good.

Apparently I have an innate ability to make people, specifically men, feel as though their masculinity is dwindling as I stare them down, and their ankles have suddenly realized the Achilles heels had been hit. They would be next.

Except, I’m not staring, I’m smiling, and I’m asking how their day was.