T he end of one blog and--in a time when blogs are irrelevant unless filmed--another one begins, like a weed on the curb. Yesterday and without fanfare, I left another writing group. Is this fanfare? I should have horns, then. Anyway. It's nearing the end of April and I'm writing a version of an American Sentence each morning on the porch for Poetry Month (April) and spinning off several shorter stories, which could be zines and might be short stories...little pupae fictions that are twitching but not fully hatched. That's a little how this year feels. I was fortunate enough to spend 2020 mostly at home but it's beginning to tell. The disconnect begins to feel inhuman. Writing poetry--outfacing poetry--is easier. There's a yard and there are birds in the yard and roses...but writing about feeling useless and purposeless and better off never leaving the house isn't. And it's worse than hard, it's pointless compared to the rest of the crap going on in our