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Sometimes.

baca. Sometimes I lie on a roof of a lodge beneath a bruised November sky at the base of the Sangre de Cristo mountains and I check my email on my phone and my inbox holds something I really rather wish I hadn’t received. Sometimes I’m bundled in my hideous pouffy lime green coat with a faux fur lined hoodie and I’m watching snow clouds form but still the direct sun is warm and the cheap red wine that I’m gulping from a water glass is cold and there may be marijuana smoke–smoke I can’t inhale because my blood is too thin–that weighs heavy in the air, because it’s Colorado, and didn’t you hear about Colorado last year? And sometimes, lying on said roof, I check my email on my phone because I check my email on my phone when I’m unable to be still, which happens admittedly more than I’d prefer. I check my email and I have a new email and I’m lying on a roof and hiding my face in my lime green hoodie and deep breath deep breathe deep breath and I cry for thirty-two seconds as fellow roof-dwellers hop-skotch and hoola-hoop and talk physics and the stars. Sometimes I lie on a roof and remember: no worries, this is okay, get up, get up, get up. It’s a good day.

rejection. Sometimes I listen to myself. Sometimes I get up from the cold roof tiles and return inside and carry myself down the two sets of stairs and outside. I walk. I walk into the dry late autumn grass, baby cacti pricking my feet through the canvas of my Vans, the high desert wind scalding my skin red. I walk until the lodge is out of view, until I find a fallen tree and sit on the tree and cry. Sometimes I am allowed to cry. I cry and maybe I sob and it’s what I anticipated, the email, so maybe I should have listed to my mom and read The Power of Now or something. But no. That’s shit. I’m proud of what I did. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’m proud of how far I’ve gotten. I’m not proud of my unintentional rhymes. But regardless, sometimes, things work out as they should. It’s just another plot twist. It’s just another turn in the path I’ll continue to follow. Sometimes I’m too cheesy. Oh, well, so it goes.

hour after snow. Sometimes, I cry on a fallen tree on an early November late morning the day before snow in Crestone, CO and then I stop crying. It was more of a forced cry anyway–a “cry now because you should cry because, you know, it’s a moment to cry, cry now so you can pick yourself up and carry on” cry. I stop crying and I stomp around the brittle weeds and I kick a baby cacti bud and it hurts like hell and then I stomp back to the lodge and grab my laptop and my notebook and I write an email, I write two, and then I write just to write and I recognize how fucking lucky I am to be able to lie on a roof beneath such a stellar sky in such a stellar place and receive an email that makes me cry, but also makes me so wonderfully inspired in the same light.

workshop. Sometimes too, I return to Colorado Springs three days earlier than planned, because sometimes my blood doesn’t agree with my standing at 8000 feet above the sea and sometimes I do hurt (and not only because of glorious emails) and need my own room, my own bed, my own place to be, and sometimes my sinuses feel near explosion and sometimes a friend is sick too. So we return to Colorado Springs, and we return soon enough for writing workshop, still meeting weekly after second block’s end, and after the two days of raw wind and rooftop email reading and forced sobbing on fallen trees, it’s glorious to be reunited with my something-of-a-writing family. And sometimes after only two glasses of wine, after two anemic, kind of sad, kind of glorious days, I appear far more intoxicated than I really am. Maybe it’s my pose (we were told to pose silly), or maybe it’s my posing beneath Drew’s lifted whiskey bottle. Or maybe it’s simply my elation. I like these people, fellow writers, fellow readers. I think they may kind of understand me. I think I may kind of understand them. I sometimes adore these people. I hope they sometimes adore me too. Usually though, more than sometimes, I suspect they mean more to me than I to them, but I think that’s okay.

Sometimes I check my email while lying on a roof in Crestone, CO and it doesn’t change anything, except motivate me further. Sometimes life is kind of lovely. Only a week and half more of Astronomy, and then it’s writing revising writing revising writing (in various forms, old project and new-with-old-themes-new project) until April. Months to be selfish. Months to only write (and work my two jobs and attend ballet and maybe be a better friend than what I’ve been).

Sometimes I think I should lie on rooftops beneath near-snow skies and check my email more often.

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