August 4, 2026

i already miss the retreat
the people
and filling my life with art
and theatre
in a way i haven’t since
performing arts camps in
days long gone by

there is a loss of worry about time
when one is out in the woods
with only other artists around
[i know this would likely change
if i were the one scheduling everything,
but as a participant and not an
organizer, it’s a gorgeous experience,
not checking my phone every two seconds,
not analyzing exactly how long i have before i need to
finish something
start something else
run to the train
run to the gym
run to everything else i have going on…
because we are all a short walk away from each other
it doesn’t feel nearly
as hectic
and high stakes]

the stakes are all
in the script
and the acting

[and we can forget for all of two seconds
the stakes in the rest of our
falling-apart world]

August 2, 2026

storytelling

connection

theatre art community

these words hold purpose
and so much more meaning
than a mere poem can give them
[and perhaps a mere weekend]

but damn…

damn.

August 1, 2026

the coyotes howl
and yip
and screech a bit
and there’s definitely more than three or four of them
and i’ve never experienced coyotes in a group, the
extent of my wild sighting(s) was
mangy
sick
solitary
scrounging around
barely alive
barely surviving
i thought the first one was a
sickly domesticated dog, until i described it to my dad
and he said
“coyote.
definitely.”

but these seemed wild and vital and collective
and though we howled back
[probably stupidly, as humans do]
we just wanted to hear them
again and again and again
for it was something few of us had ever experienced before
and might never again
and i hope nature is healing in ways
we might not be able to even see, because we are observing
[almost]
every
single
way
we’re fucking it up,
and having hope would be
fucking fantastic for my mental health
and for the physical health of
literally every living being on the planet
and the planet itself
so i hope for hope
which, definitionally is a hope itself
and in this moment it was sparked by the first wild howl
of a family of coyotes
i have ever
ever
ever heard

July 31, 2026

the nose feels the cold first
breathing in the chill air
where it warms in my lungs
huddled up with my other
bodily organs, tucked and blanketed
by sinew and blood and skin and
pajamas and sheets and blankets
even the near inch of hair on my head
is enough to protect the skull from feeling
the crispness of the air, and the cheeks flushed
half tucked in a pillow, hands huddled underneath,
but the nose is the most exposed
and it tells the rest of the body how it will feel in
a few minutes when we finally
face the reality of
the outside of the bed

and it tells us
be prepared
to feel as close to frozen
as one can in the summer
in a barn in
pennsylvania