creative writing on environmental justice
Dear editor,
I am submitting the personal ad below as a letter to the editor in order to save money for any possible coronavirus-related financial hardship I may encounter. Thank you in advance for waiving, in the spirit of the times, the normal fee for classifieds.
CNM seeks CNW
Coronavirus-negative man seeks coronavirus-negative woman for . . .
as we retreat to our homes (those lucky to have them),
stock up on what we think we’ll need—toilet paper,
hand sanitizer, flour, beans—begin to understand
what it means to hunker down. In public, try out
social distancing: smile, nod, nervous, wonder
is this six feet? when what we want is to embrace
every service person we meet: the efficient,
masked . . .
I didn’t know I could stop and trace the roads
of my palm the way my baby does, and tell
myself that moving fast isn’t everything, that other folks had
walked this path, that Earth isn’t mine alone, that am
not as great as I assumed, that it doesn’t pay
to eat with both hands like crabs, that I’m vulnerable.
I didn’t know I could live without sports and pop
myths, . . .
Where shall we put the bodies, sir,
fifty thousand more today
and that is just at dawn
the cemetery’s gates are chained,
undertaker’s curtains drawn
curtains drawn good man? this will just not do
dig another trench, deep and wide;
but do not upset the people,
dig it out of sight
dig it out of sight dear sir?
the woods beyond the city are full,
there are . . .
I worked on my manuscript, yesterday, for the first time in weeks. I feel creatively, existentially frail; it is hard to think through in the same way I have always assumed that fish find the ocean hard to think through. Immersed in the conditions of your own existence, it’s hard to find perspective. The challenge is to learn to see better.
My country, ostensibly . . .
Looking at a fluid-filled conical flask,
the reactants colourless,
you’d think nothing of note was happening.
It’s been the same of life in lockdown:
we go nowhere, see no one, touch nothing.
And yet, my son has taken up jogging and cooking,
my daughter, YouTube yoga, art.
My lecturer husband has been finding new ways
to connect with his students. . . .
These days, I am unable to hold on to my days. They are like runaway horses. And the reins are no longer in my control. Strange now, when my life is even more cloistered. I withdrew from the rambunctious world outside when my children grew old enough to be independent. So I could write.
These days I rarely leave my 18th floor apartment. Not even to walk on the lawns and . . .
Collaborators:
Wind, sunshine, water,
clouds, fruit, rocks
Text:
my son asks if I have an idea
of what happens when we die
I tell him I don’t know but yes
I’ve ideas, words, approximations
of concepts outsized by my
grasp—eternal, ephemeral,
what is essential work
in these days when luck
unluck has . . .
Michael: How do you think the world will change?
D.A. Xiaolin Spires: I was listening to The World Ahead podcast on “Viral acceleration: Tech in the time of coronavirus” and I remember they said something to the likes of (and I’m paraphrasing here): in economic upswings, technology is created and in recessions, technology is adopted. I haven’t delved into the . . .
Going into the gradual UK lockdown, two weeks ago, we expected to feel scared, worried for our relatives scattered across the world, and, after a few days of forced inactivity, bored out of our wits. We knew that there was not a lot we could do about the first two, but thankfully our core members had the luck and privilege to be well stocked of craft supplies, books . . .