Coronavirus Days--Week 50

Some days it does feel like a half century. 50. Every number is a magic number that says halfway to somewhere. Close to the end. So many. 

Week 50 is close to the end of one year. 

Week 50 felt like the photo. And it wasn't the first time that a week could be accompanied by this picture. I walked and didn't notice anything new. No funny conversations to overhear. No interesting observations to put down for future writing fodder. Nothing that got creative juices oozing.

It took me most of the week to figure out how to fill up, and in truth, I'm not filled up. Inspiration stays low.

Because each week promises predictable days, like those from the week before. But sometimes, there's an unexpected break when it snows midweek, and I wake to an unpredictable 14 inch blanket of quiet, and I have nowhere to go. I am happy for that space. 

I only missed one day of walking because of the snow. A quick storm. 

Some days, like today, I think in fragments. Short bursts. 

Some things cannot be transported from live to stream/zoom/adapting in the pandemic world. 

The Golden Globes feel awkward. Too forced. Less entertaining but doing their best.

This week, I'm attending my first virtual conference-- AWP's annual conference, usually an overwhelming 12,000+ writers jockeying for something, readings and craft sessions that leave me wanting to write. In 2019, prepandemic, I hung out in Portland with a bestie, attending the conference, eating great food, walking lots, and then heading back to Denver on a two day solo overnight train journey, processing all the writing sessions. Two years ago seems so much longer in the past. Prepandemic feels so long in the past.

Close to postpandemic--some days feel so far into the future and some days feel like the possibility of spring as the calendar turns to March. 


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