Year Eight.

I recently realized that this blog post is its own personal holiday (of sorts).  It's a harvest festival, of sorts, where I look back on the year and try to figure out what the big themes of this year were. 


As I type this to you, my left finger tips feel sort of plastic. I play guitar every day, like three times a day. I just played for half an hour when I meant to be writing, because it's fun and I can feel how I'm creeping closer to being able to play a song. 


I have been preparing: 
Hands in the soil.
Conversations with friends. 

The birds and bees return. 
I dance and sing.
I chant when I wash my hands:
I must not fear.
I appreciate food in my cabinet. 
I go to bed early.


 I've been reading a lot about _monsters_.

As I write two adventures for Monster of the Week, I'm realizing there's a reason they suggest you start with the monster and work from there....the number of monsters, mythological threats, and otherwise spooky entities living in my head is large, but the details on them are thin.  This is how I spent tonight googling things like: 

monsters that guarantee youth
pied piper
curiosity monster

Plum tree

The plum tree in my backyard is blooming.

I'm new to recognizing
The timing on these things, but--

February 28 seems early.

Thin branches reach toward the sky,
Diagonal lines covered in clusters of buds,
opening flowers, pale signs of life,
I find myself looking at it all day.

Maybe the flowers are a sign of the climate apocalypse, but--

They are a sign of plums and honey bees, too.

Saying no.

There have been two opportunities that, at this time last year, I said: Tara, you're doing this in 2020. 

One is a local performance festival called Hear Here, where I'd be writing poetry & making a soundscape in collaboration with a choreographer I don't know yet. The other is Creative Capital, only a massive and very influential award of $50,000 for weird art. 


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