what a dusty time

when covid19 became a thing and we went into lockdown las' march i wasn' worried. i mean, my comorbidity-having, nearly-dead-from-respiratory-complications-more-than-once-already backside was terrified (still am!) but not of lockdown; i love being home alone, had the good fortune to have recently moved and getting to lockdown living-alone-with-yard with grocery+pharmacy in walking distance, and could use the time to finish these damn plays! i felt lucky, relatively speaking.

over a year later even though i know months now, since las' year even, this is the new normal, i just not managing the way i expected. i didn' realise how much rehearsing+performing and my dance life matter to my mental health, nah; i had zero idea i couldn' substitute next-artistic-discipline and be safe. insteada happily slaving over a hot machine and churning out the rest of my collection because i love writing as much as dancing i find meself too damn depressed to write. i getting some in but nothing like i need and definitely nowhere near enough to have me in a good place to make the art i want when things shift. worse, not enough to pay bills right now when i have no shows or winery classes making money. [i learn real facking quick, online dance is not my flick.] being a freelance artist in a developing country that doh support art/ists was never a more losing proposition that right now and while i was prepared to scrunt most of my life, i wasn' prepared for this nonperforming, nondancing madness making me unable to use my talents to support meself...

i need to be writing fiction+essays to submit to make money to pay bills right now because by now emergency fund gone through, plus finishing my plays because tha's the wuk i come out to make and them scripts hadda get done. both what i need+want, perfectly aligned with all the time+space to do it. and yet i am not. i am trying but failing. stress get the better of me since las' year and i cyah find the zone. i barely reading. i just feel exhausted, all the time. i have ideas but no energy to make them actual words on a page/screen; they exist to be constantly chased through the jungle of my mind by financial stress that not-writing technically worsening by the moment. vicious-circling. i am a fucking mess, right when i literally cannot afford to be.

i just keep telling meself at least i still breathing...for now...

that is all.

walk good.