I’ve written a good deal of spiritual content on here. In fact, from the very genesis of this blog, I’ve attempted to rebrand with a more spiritual lean a few times. Ultimately, my interests when it comes to writing spans way too many topics to focus on one particular niche. Music is another one of my biggest special interests, and writing is one way I process how I feel about the music I love and create myself. So the weekly devotionals I had committed to writing ended up languishing as I pivoted more toward music.
But I had this crazy thought. Because when you’re actually looking, you start to find messages from God in everything, including the secular songs you enjoy. That’s where the idea of Rock & Roll Devotionals came from. What if I combined my love of theology with my love of music?
This first one came to me while I was driving home from training for my new job. Full disclosure — things have not been great. I’ve been coasting off of what little money I’d made from my part-time minimum wage gig in Indiana when I was there briefly, but I was officially down to $11 as of a few mornings ago, and I still needed gas to get to training. There’s a good reason I started a GoFundMe to stay afloat at the moment. I’m in the process of rebuilding my life from scratch after all of the dreams I’d built had been shattered. In tarot, they call it a “Tower” moment. Sometimes, everything has to crumble to pieces before you can truly realize who you are and what you need.
While I was driving, I had a strange urge to revisit a song from my favorite Arizona-based emo band that isn’t Jimmy Eat World. The band’s called The Maine, and while their earliest material is pretty standard MySpace-era fare, they continued to evolve and incorporate aspects of pop, 90s alternative, and classic rock to alchemize a sound I really appreciate. That’s not to say their oldest stuff is bad, though. Enter “Whoever She Is,” a track off their 2008 full-length debut, Can’t Stop Won’t Stop.
“Whoever She Is” is a tranquil, acoustic-driven ballad about the struggles and anxieties of life, personified as the unnamed “she.” “She” isn’t necessarily a girl who broke your heart, although she very well could be. But she could be anything — rainy days, minimum wage, finding your car stolen when you’re already late to work. Throughout the song, John O’Callaghan croons about the ways his life is falling apart, and yet he has an unshakable sense of zen. He’ll be okay, and so will you, the song insists.
When I truly took in the words of the song, it took me back to my Sunday school lessons on the verse about the sparrow. If you didn’t grow up in church, you might not have heard this one. It’s not one of the more well-known “feel good” verses old church ladies quote on Facebook, but it deserves to be. In Matthew 10:29-31, Jesus says:
“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”
If you are not a bird enthusiast, you might think sparrows sound lovely, but rest assured that to much of the population of the planet, they are a low-tier garbage bird. They happen to be the most widely distributed bird in the world and are even considered pests in some parts of it. Hardly anyone’s favorite bird is the sparrow when you have much cooler options like eagles and swans and parakeets. But God still cares about them, for some reason.
And He cares about us even more.
I guess that’s what “Whoever She Is” has come to represent for me. It’s that feeling of no matter what comes my way, I’m still held by the Great Author, and He’s still busy writing my story. Maybe He’s thrown some gnarly plot twists at me, but it’s never anything I can’t handle. That’s the beauty of it all. We’re never truly abandoned in this life. There’s a greater story being written that we don’t even understand yet.
I keep going back to this poem I remember reading in my grandmother’s bathroom on a little plaque that was hanging by the toilet. As a kid, there were no phones, so whenever I had to poop, I was stuck reading whatever magazines or shampoo bottles were nearby. But now and then, I’d reread that plaque. It was the tale of a man questioning God. “You said you’d always walk beside me,” the forlorn man asked, “but where were you when your footsteps in the sand disappeared?” The Good Lord’s response is that when there was only one set of footprints, that’s when He was carrying him. That stuck with me all these years.
Lately I’ve been feeling a bit like that man. Where has God been in the midst of ny suffering? Turns out, He was with me the whole time. Perhaps it just took a simple ballad by one of my favorite emo bands to remind me of that fact.
A few days back, I got a bit of a fright when I sat out on the back patio to chat with some friends back home on the phone. I noticed a freaking enormous bug just chilling on one of the support columns. My first assumption was a massive dreaded horsefly, which I am (rightfully) terrified of. But he wasn’t moving, so I eyeballed him a bit closer to figure out what he was.
He was a cicada! Or rather, his shell. The real little dude had long since moved on and left part of himself behind.
I left it there in the moment, not thinking much of it, but something later on prompted me to revisit it. I kept thinking about the shell sitting out there on the patio all day.
Going out to retrieve the shells that night, I felt an odd kinship to Satoshi Tajiri, a certain Japanese little boy with autism whose passion for bug collecting would, in adulthood, lead to his masterwork, the Pokémon universe. Who woulda thunk my lifelong obsession with collecting little digital critters would come in handy someday? When I finally reached the patio, I noticed a second one on the other side of the column. Bonus! I snagged both and placed them in a little bowl, careful not to damage the delicate exoskeletons.
When I brought the two shells inside, my girlfriend disclosed to me that as a child, she was petrified of the enormous insects. To quell her anxiety around them, her mother made up a silly song about them: “I’m gonna get some brand new skin/And I’m gonna fly away.”
And it hit me. I’m in my cicada era. Because this is the part of my life where I need to shed my skin and begin anew.
I consider my religious views deeply rooted in the Christian tradition I grew up in, but I also dabble in witchcraft and related spiritual arts. The two are surprisingly compatible. I had this crazy realization that the Abrahamic faiths’ blanket ban on all things witchy is more or less rooted in the fact that the big dudes who’ve always run those faiths get real squirrelly about a woman taking spirituality into her own hands. Don’t you need a pope or a priest or a pastor or a husband to tell you what to believe? I’ve discovered the answer is a huge “hell no,” and that’s the difference between orthodox Christianity and my personal belief system. God didn’t stop moving after the events of the Bible. I believe He is still speaking. And when He wants to tell you something, who’s to say He can’t speak through tarot or meditation or signs from nature?
Like finding two cicada shells.
Speaking of tarot, when my best friend/frequent collaborator, Luke, and I decided to be roomies, I did a reading for us using a deck I’d gifted him forever ago. I’m not superstitious, but I am a little “-stitious.” I had a feeling if we did a reading, something important would jump out at us. Well…
When Luke first got the deck, he pulled exactly one card — the Eight of Wands. It’s funny because before doing this reading, I shuffled the everloving fuck out of the deck and had both of us split it. And wouldn’t you know, the very first card was the Eight of Wands again. It feels significant, and it is. It’s the card of rapid change and new adventures. When I do my favorite reading, the first card is usually something to embrace. The second is something to release, though. The Ten of Cups was sobering. The happy family card. I’ve always wanted to be a mother, but as I’ve begun to realize, perhaps by letting go of my dream of having literal children, I can step into my role as the mother of a great new movement of some sort, even if that’s just starting a creative collective with my friends and helping them find their voices. The third card, a message from God or the universe or whatever higher power you choose to believe in, was the Five of Pentacles. Things will be difficult for a while, especially financially, but we’ll get by with a little help from our friends. The message of that card is to remember that folks are there to pick you up when you fall.
The left two cards were incredibly interesting. I like to flip the very next card in the deck is to see “what’s next” in life. The High Priestess. The only major arcana card I pulled. Divine feminine energy. She’s considered something of a “femme pope,” to the point where some decks call her the “Popess.” She’s a guru of spiritual wisdom and intuition. I don’t know what that means for us, but it feels right. My immediate thought was of Hildegard von Bingen, the medieval nun who also happened to be the first named composer in the canon of Western music. I feel a deep kinship to her, both spiritually and creatively. She is proof to me that these things are not incompatible, especially after having grown up in the evangelical church, where your sense of creativity tends to get stifled. While modern American Christianity has devolved into Skillet and Forrest Frank, Hildy was busy laying the architecture for music as we know it. And she was, like me, a deeply spiritual person with strong convictions.
Then, I usually check the bottom card as a way to see what’s behind me, what problems I no longer need to contend with. Seven of Cups. Illusion, distraction, wishful thinking. Those things are in the past. The time has come to take action. If we can dream it, we can make it happen. Being roommates, getting this podcast off the ground, making a difference in our community and in the world — that’s what we need to be doing. This tarot reading was all the confirmation I needed. Me, Luke, and all our friends here in Kalamazoo are the creative dream team I’ve longed for since I was a kid, when I just wanted to be in some kind of band or similar collective. I was never the child who played team sports, but I longed for connection and for a group to lean on. I finally found that here.
But I digress! This post is about cicadas, right? After I collected the shells, I did my due diligence reading about what they symbolized. I couldn’t believe the things I was seeing on my screen. Cicadas represented everything I needed to embrace in order to move on from all of the things that have been weighing me down. They are a beacon of change and transformation, and perhaps most appropriately, they are the patron insect of musicians and singers, as their song is the soundtrack to late summer. They reminded me that, as I’ve said before, if I can scream, I still have a voice. The cicada is a sign that I need to use that voice and be loud, even though it’s scary at times. I have important things to say to this dark world, and I will be heard. We will be heard.
I gathered a few special objects to make an apartment-warming gift for Luke and I. I found a cheap wooden picture frame and hot-glued a few dried catalpa leaves and Luke’s amethyst to it. The catalpa leaves, aside from being my favorite tree, are a symbol of uniqueness and creativity. The amethyst is for spiritual strength and wisdom. In the frame, I put a print-out of our tarot reading from the day we decided to become roommates. And as a finishing touch, I affixed the two shells I found to the frame. It felt serendipitous, finding a second shell. I wasn’t meant to go it alone. I have an ally in Luke. He and I are just two little bugs trying to transform ourselves and the world by screaming into the void.
Maybe we’ll change the world for the better someday. Maybe we’ll crash and burn. But we have to try, while we still have a voice. That’s what cicadas do best.
If you enjoyed what you read, please consider donating to my GoFundMe! I’m trying to restart my life with my kitty, Krubby, but we still need so much to get back on our feet. Even a little helps!
Once again, I was given a surprisingly relevant prompt for what I already had planned to write about. It’s funny how this thing knows me.
If your future self could send you one sentence, what do you hope it would say?
I guess the sentence I’d most want to hear from Future Jessa right now would be “It all turns out okay,” but that doesn’t narrow things down, as there are a lot of potential “its” in my situation. There’s my uncertain living situation, which I’ve written about a bit already. There’s that matter of me still not knowing what I want to do with my life as a now thirtysomething, since music therapy didn’t pan out. And of course, there’s that nagging feeling that I’m trapped in the burning house that is America, and as the walls are crumbling, who the hell knows what rights I’ll have left as a queer woman. I would love a future version of me to tell me I get some semblance of a happy ending out of all of this. I’d love a crumb of reassurance that the story I’m living through every day still has many pages of bliss left to write, and relatively little hardship. I want to know that the worst is behind me now. And when all is said and done, I want to leave behind something — or someone — to carry on my legacy.
I always thought my mark on this world would come in two forms — through the things I create, and through the people I will eventually create. I wanted to be an artist, but I also wanted to be a mother. Well, maybe not always. The idea of making a baby with most of the guys I went to school with was absolutely nauseating, even if lizard-brain still wanted to get laid. I would eventually get married and have sex (in that order, I believed, because I was a good girl), but not a damn soul was coming outta this uterus. That thing was closed for business.
Then I met and dated this guy in college who already had a daughter. I loved this dude, whom I still speak with now and then to this day, but I freaking adored this little girl. I fell into the role of stepmom-lite with a surprising amount of ease for a girl who’d previously believed she had the maternal instincts of a football. I remember going to Burger King to fetch her some nuggets and eating them together on the stairs, with her cuddled up next to me. It was the weirdest feeling, this twinge of motherly love toward a tiny person. And wouldn’t you know it, my ovaries started tingling real bad.
But I couldn’t have kids of my own. Not then. I wasn’t stable enough. We’d both end up on the streets.
Time went by, I got married twice, and still, over the course of both relationships, we could never quite achieve the amount of stability required to safely bring a child into this world. I’ve worked with children many times throughout my life, but I’ve never had the chance to raise one myself, and it breaks my heart. I’m approaching my mid-thirties, and while I know women have given birth well into their thirties and even forties, a part of me wonders if it’ll ever be my turn.
Always a caregiver, never a mom.
Maybe its just a side-effect of the barrage of pro-natalist propaganda coming to us from the government, but part of me feels like I’ve failed as a freaking biological lifeform if I can’t even reproduce. Even dumb seagulls are better at spreading their genetic material. And it’s a damn shame because I’d like to think I have some freaking good genes to pass on. Thanks, Mom.
Lately, though, I’ve been re-evaluating what motherhood even means to me. Is it really so important that I be a mother in order to matter? Stevie Nicks, Joan Jett, and Debbie Harry are all famously childfree, and yet their names will still go down in history. Another classic rock queen, singer and guitarist Bonnie Raitt, once said, “I feel that my job is to mother the causes that I’m involved in.” And then it kind of hit me. I’m already the mother of something, in a way.
I studied Arabic a little in college. I’ve always been fascinated by the language, having grown up near Dearborn (which is not the scary place conservatives think it is, unless you think swanky-ass hookah bars are scary). I remember a really interesting concept where, after someone has a child, their name changes to reflect their status as a parent of that child. This name is called a kunya. In a way, its the reverse of how we in the West approach names. Theoretically, if a guy named Gray had a son, his son’s name would be Grayson, as in “Gray’s son.” (I am using a real life example, as I truly used to know a friendly uke-wielding hippie dude named Gray and his aptly named son, Grayson.) That’s basically how many of our last names evolved. But Arabic is entirely different. Let’s say, for example, I finally had my little girl and I named her Cadence. If I spoke Arabic, my new name would essentially be “Cadence’s Mother.”
But what if you never actually have children? Can you still get the lofty title of “umm.” In Arabic, that answer is a resounding yes! The word is also used metaphorically to reflect distinctive traits people may have. One may be the “mother of the cats” if they’re a cat mom, or even the “mother of the chubby face” if they’ve just got cute pinchable cheeks.
Maybe I need to look at motherhood more like that. Maybe we’re all mothering something in a strange way, even if we don’t immediately realize it.
In my last post, I mentioned the joke rap comedy group I started with my two favorite men on this planet and whoever else is unfortunate enough to be in the room with us at the time. What I didn’t mention was the massive multiplayer 12-minute monster of a megasong we were all working on. It started life as a stupid TikTok video that up until recently was my most viewed ’Tok. I was messing around with the synths and drum machines in my DAW and trying to make a Thriller/Ghostbusters-type beat from memory, with disastrous results. Then, I showed Luke and David, and they ran with it. Soon, the number of rappers on the song somehow doubled as more and more folks wanted in on the project. Before we knew it, the song had ballooned to an absolute behemoth, comprising well over 100 individual tracks as of writing. Pray for my MacBook, please.
But the subject matter of the song was what really surprised me. At first, we started making this entirely unserious song about how, because I’m the shadowy figure who makes all the beats in the background, I am the BEAT MOTHER, this benevolent but fierce goddess of sick beats, bro. It was going to be entirely unserious…until I started realizing how serious my friends were about their love for me. I started tearing up a little as a few of my collaborators recorded their parts because I started to realize just how much my friends care about and respect me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted in life. Music has always been my conduit to the outside world, ever since I was a selectively mute autistic child who could barely utter a world to her peers. I was so lonely, but I couldn’t make friends. Somehow, twenty years later, that little girl still gets overwhelmed when she truly grasps how loved she really is. I’m so lucky to have the chosen family I’ve found through music.
That’s what the whole BEAT MOTHER title came to represent, as absolutely bonkers and silly it was at first. I end the song with a much more introspective and somber tone than it opens with, having intentionally changed the ending to reflect my new realizations. In the final few lines, I say:
“I did it all, and man, I did it loud. To think I did it all to make little Jessie proud.”
Circling back to the question at the very beginning of this post, sometimes I like to imagine the opposite. Sometimes I imagine myself speaking to that scared little kid who couldn’t fit in anywhere if she tried. I’d like to tell her that it will be okay in the end, and that things will be hard, but we are stronger than anything that will come our way. We’re resilient. In a way, I feel like I’m stepping into a motherhood role with my own inner child. As Whitney sang, children are the future, and the greatest love of all is learning to love yourself. I think she was onto something with that song.
Maybe I won’t be the mother of anything more than a couple of decent songs. But I’m learning to be okay with that. Nurturing my friends’ creativities and passions and helping them make music they can be proud of is something to celebrate too.
Help me relocate with my kitty, Krubby! We’re close to our goal, which will be enough to cover a Uhaul and a nice bed for us! Even just spreading the word is appreciated!
I have a great poker face when I’m going through hardship, but I have to be honest when I say things haven’t been great. Like, worse than they’ve been since me and my ex-husband split nearly ten years ago. So bad, I had to resort to starting a GoFundMe to stay afloat. Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, I’ve been essentially homeless these past few weeks, surviving only due to the kindness of some very sweet folks. Still, this is the first time I’ve truly felt alone in this world, and it’s scary.
But I’m realizing I’m not truly alone. Like Ringo once famously sang, I get by with a little help from my friends.
The living situation with my girlfriend, Olivia, in South Bend wasn’t able to be made permanent after all (all landlords are bastards), so my dear friend Luke offered to take me in while I figure out my next moves. And while I’m disappointed I have to leave my girl and the city I was reluctantly excited to call my new home, part of me was actually a little relieved to be returning to Kalamazoo. After all, I have plenty of unfinished business here. For one, I started a rapgroup and a podcast, both under the Kalamazooligans brand.
Which is now the official name for a resident of Kalamazoo. You’re welcome.
I’m excited to revive these projects and hopefully finally get them out into this world. It’s been a long time coming. Both the podcast and the rap group evolved out of my need to collaborate with friends. The idea for the podcast came shortly after meeting a fellow writer named Luke, who came to be one of my most truest friends in the city. We wanted a vehicle with which we could spread joy and whimsy (sound familiar?). The podcast realm is overrun with bigoted fuckheads and terrible takes, so why not do our part to turn the tides in the other direction, you know? The rap group was started by myself with one of my closest male partners, David, as well as Luke and whoever else was in the room with us at time of recording. That project grew when I realized I work better with other people around me instead of in isolation, so when I wanted to work on music, I schlepped my equipment over to David’s or Luke’s. They’d inevitably get curious about how it all worked, and I’d end up creating little beats for them to rap over. From there, it snowballed into something even bigger.
I might be the brains behind the Kalamazooligans, and David is the obviously the voice. But Luke has always been the heart of the project. He’s been there since the genesis of the group, which is basically me, him, David, and, like I said, whoever is in the room with us. Now that I’ll be living in the area again and literally rooming with my main collaborator, the podcast and the musical endeavors are going to be back in full swing.
But there was one small problem. The apartment I’ll be sharing with Luke was a freaking biohazard as it stood. Which, I can’t blame him for. When you live alone and need to spend every waking hour working to afford rent, it’s easy to let shit slip. I can’t fault anyone for neglecting such duties in the current economy. Still though, the place was far from the veritable (wo)man cave it deserved to be. This was to become the Kzoo HQ, and we deserved better.
The problem is I’m not naturally much of a cleaner either. My ADHD makes executive dysfunction nearly insurmountable and I can’t even get started. But something happens when you put another person in the room with me. Suddenly, I feel this weird inclination to clean and tidy things up. It’s a phenomenon called body doubling, and a lot of neurodivergent folks swear by it as a tactic for overcoming that strange paralysis that keeps us from work. And it works! In fact, remember how I said the Kalamazooligans rap project started because I couldn’t work alone? There’s another example right there.
So Olivia and I drove up to my soon-to-be apartment, cleaning supplies in hand. Together, me, her, and Luke tackled the entire place, our shared ADHD be damned. We made quick work of ridding the place of trash, sweeping and mopping the floors, and scrubbing the toilet to perfection. We made it fun. Luke and Olivia showed each other chiptune songs they like, I named the dustpan Dustin, and we sang “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” to the trash as it gradually disappeared from the domicile. Suddenly, the place began to transform before our eyes.
A lot has already been said in our culture about the power of friendship. Lauren Faust developed a whole show/thirty minute toy advertisement featuring colorful ponies about how friendship is literally magic. Look at any children’s film and the climax usually comes when the protagonist’s besties come back to rescue his dumb ass. In fact, my favorite book of emo poetry the Bible, Ecclesiastes, talks about strength in numbers as well. (Am I actually a Christian, or do I just really like the book of Ecclesiastes?) In Ecclesiastes 4:9-12, King Solomon is said to have written these words:
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.
This isn’t the only time the Bible discusses teamwork. Even in the New Testament, in Matthew 18:20, Jesus says:
For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.
The orthodox Christian reading of this scripture usually points to church gatherings and prayer groups, but I’m nothing if not unorthodox in much of my beliefs, including religious ones. I think the Good Book is trying to tell us something even bigger than just “Go to church and pray in a group.” Remember that Jesus is considered part of God, and somehow also is God, and that God is love. If those things are true, then anywhere people are gathered in the name of love are gathered in the name of Christ, even if they’re entirely unaware of it. I see more of Jesus at Pride festivals and in the wildly supportive and friendly karaoke group I frequent than I ever did at my old evangelical megachurch, where I never quite fit in (wonder why?).
The truth of the matter is that as human beings, we need each other. I swear I’m going to make it my life’s work to make people realize that we’re all in this together. And I’m not just talking about the Christians. I’m talking everyone of every faith and creed and background. It’s not a secret that nearly every major faith system in the world has a version of the Golden Rule: just be a good person and love people. We try to add all these stipulations and conditions, but it’s really that simple. The answer is love. The answer has always been love. That love may look like scrubbing your best friend’s toilet to perfection and cheering him on as he throws out old socks.
I’ll end with one final note. As I mentioned, I started a GoFundMe to help alleviate some of the financial stress of having to relocate once again. It was a last ditch effort to keep my life from spiraling out of control. I needed yet another Uhaul to get my stuff that I’d taken to South Bend back to Kalamazoo, and I needed a bed, and I still hadn’t even paid my car and credit card payments for the month. I felt absolutely hopeless, and the fundraiser was basically me screaming into the void for help. I was no longer “too proud.” I knew I wasn’t getting by on my own.
I expected crickets.
But I was absolutely blown away by the cascade of support I got from my loved ones. And while the fundraiser stands at $420 (heh) as of writing, I’ve received an even more valuable gift in reconnecting with people I’d long lost touch with. Folks I haven’t heard from in a decade or more reached out to assist in any way they could. An old flame offered me a spare room at his parents’ home if Kalamazoo fell through, and a sweet fellow from a band I adored back in college said he was willing to lend me his truck for the move. People from every corner of my life, from my old piano teacher to my high school besties, checked in to make sure I was okay. Even my uncle, whom I hadn’t seen since early childhood, told my mom he reads my writing and is rooting for me. I hadn’t felt this cared for in a long time, and it made me realize things would maybe be alright in the end. My village is there for me.
From a stale fortune cookie I found at Luke’s.
Nobody is meant to go it alone. Together, we’re unbreakable.
Please consider helping with my fresh start by clicking this link! For every donation, I’ll draw a Krubby!
Sometimes I seriously wonder why I subject myself to the internet.
If I’m honest, my fears regarding technology are nothing new. In fact, in college, my tech aversion got so bad, I’d have to ask my mom to check my email for me at times, and this was when I ran a freaking newspaper. I was never as bad as my dear late father, who died without ever having an email address. Don’t assume I’m a total troglodyte — I have fond memories of painstakingly editing my MySpace profile to reflect my perfect mix of prep and scene, with a touch of emo.
WHO IS THAT?!
These days, I still loathe the World Wide Web of Lies and Secrets, but it’s a slightly more manageable loathing. I guess I’ve come to accept that most of the planet is only accessible through it, and by shutting myself off from it, I’m limiting my opportunities. That being said, it feels like a very necessary evil. There’s a lot of dark and shit that happens online, and much like the Grinch, I would not like to touch any of it with a 39-and-a-half-foot pole. People feel tempted to drop their masks on here, and it gets ugly. Take, for example, this exchange of pleasantries on the slightly better X Twitter, Threads.
I was tempted to leave the dude’s name uncensored, since he clearly wanted attention.
I’m not upset at the guy, but like, bro, why? It was just unnecessarily mean for no reason. This was not on any of my numerous political or religious posts, mind you, which left me extra confused. I give right-wingers a lot of material to work with, being a mentally ill polyamorous pansexual, so you’d assume I’d be getting a lot more hate for that. Nope, just a stupid video of me fucking up on mandolin.
Such a controversial instrument!
I initially brushed off his dumbassery. Trolls are gonna troll, and feeding them only screws you over in the end. After a while, though, part of me wondered why I still subject myself to this. Why do I open myself up to be hated on a platform that is openly hostile to women, queer people, and — let’s be honest — anyone who wouldn’t look out of place in His Orange Highness’s golf buddy group? Was I just doing this all for “content,” whatever the hell that even means? Why do I make anything I make? Why do I even write this stupid blog? (I already answered that question, but bear with me.)
Sometimes I feel like I am screaming into a void. But then I remember that if I’m screaming, it means I still have a voice. And much like how Anne Frank immortalized and humanized herself through her work, I hope the things I’m putting into the world do the same for me and my loved ones. It’s not a secret that the world is a very twisted and dangerous place right now, and the future looks bleak at times. Sometimes I feel like posting little whimsical whatnots like making up dumb songs or silly attempts at playing the mandolin aren’t consequential at all in a world that wants to crush all whimsy and creativity. I’ve realized this world is full of joy terrorists, and terrorists are called terrorists for a reason: they want you to live in terror. But in a way, spreading joy and whimsy and art and fun is a quiet act of rebellion. They want us to live in fear. They want us to be quiet. Don’t let them win.
Back in January, I had the incredible opportunity to go on an emo cruise (which I will never financially recover from). There was adventure. There was romance. There was music. There was me meeting the frontman of Dance Gavin Dance and not realizing who the fuck he was. (In my defense, I am faceblind.) I will never forget the amazing experiences I had and the friends I made along the way.
And meanwhile, back home in the Midwest, another white queer woman just like me was murdered by the government.
The entire time, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I felt so guilty, this horrible, grating sense of survivors guilt, of “it should have been me, not her,” of “what if it is me next?” I was experiencing this strange cognitive dissonance of everything being amazing immediately around me, but on fire everywhere else. And there was a part of me that just wanted to refuse the fun that was being served to me out of principle. How could I,Jessa, have fun, when people are dying? It felt wildly insensitive.
But joy has a way of finding you even in the midst of darkness. Funnily enough, the ship’s freakin’ name was Joy. And it hit me that I don’t need to take on all of the pain of the earth at once. I can lighten up and enjoy the good things I have while I still have them, because tomorrow isn’t promised. Renee didn’t know it was her last day when she dropped her child off at school that morning. Everything I have can be taken from me at any moment, so I’m going to live it up while I can. Even my favorite book of emo poetry, Ecclesiastes, has this to say:
“So I say a man should enjoy himself. For there is nothing good for a man under the sun except to eat and drink and be happy.”
Life is hard, but life is good. Two things can be true, and I’m learning every day to wrestle with that. I don’t know how much longer I will have on this little planet, but while still have a voice, I will use it to spread joy, and I will revel in that joy myself. That’s what it means to be alive. That’s what it means to be human.
I want to be a mom. Perhaps more than anything else. I’ve written about my maternal dreams on this blog before. I’ve taken great care to select names for my would-be children, and I’ve often imagined what they’d be like, these tiny versions of me and whoever I ended up procreating with. But I’ve always imagined I’d be in a much different place whenever I eventually had these kids.
And the older I get, the more I don’t think I’ll ever get there.
It’s not a secret that our government and the elites are trying to push a pro-natalist agenda. Elon, Trump, and their cronies are all about popping out as many babies as possible — or that’s what they’d like you to believe. After all, aren’t the Republicans and the conservatives the “family” party? Certainly all those godless leftists don’t give a damn about families. They’re too busy dyeing their hair blue and owning cats and doing a communism, whatever that means.
Here’s what they don’t tell you. They only want a very specific demographic to reproduce. And it’s not me. Or you.
If you weren’t born into wealth, it’s almost impossible at this point to start a family. Without insurance, the cost to just have the baby is $20,416. With insurance, it’s still well over two grand, which is more than most people’s rent, and then you factor in that most folks my age are living paycheck to paycheck. Add on the costs of actually raising the child, and it turns out parenthood is prohibitively expensive for a lot of people.
I hate that we’re being priced out of what should be a human birthright, along with several other things that should be a given. Why is it so fucking hard to find affordable housing? Why does one company keep buying and hoarding family homes? Why do the tech bros insist on building data centers that bork the entire water supply for regular folks who happen to live nearby? It’s like they’re trying to make literally everywhere uninhabitable for anyone whose bank account is less than six, maybe even seven figures. In a way, we’re being priced out of simply existing.
Not to be alarmist, but it kinda seems like they want us all to die.
I want a child more than anything, but I don’t want her to grow up in a world where she’s not allowed to own anything herself. We don’t own our homes anymore, and we’re starting to not be able to own our media and tools and art either. Everything is a subscription service these days. How long until they own us? It’s a terrifying thought, but we’re so indebted to our corporate and political overlords at this point, I feel like it’s a matter of time before they declare we don’t even belong to us anymore.
I hate this existence. I hate that we created this stupid concept of money just so people can use it as an excuse to be shitty to one another. We deserve better than renting and subscription services and having to settle for a nice dog or something because actually having a child feels out of reach. We deserve better than dying because the technocrats decided robots and filthy lucre are cooler than sharing this earth with other humans.
I know this seems like a hopeless post, but I want to end it on a positive note. While I was writing this, my roommate asked me what the point even was. Why do I even write blog posts like this? And the answer is simple — because my wordshave power. Maybe I can’t change the world, but I can use my words to inspire those who can. I want to give a voice to people like me and my loved ones. I want to tell my story and the stories of other good working class folks who just want to live and thrive in peace. Stories are what humanize us to outsiders. Stories are what make us human.
I pray that someday, I will be the mother of more than just this blog, but until then, I’ll nurture my little corner of the internet and the words I put into it. That will be my mark on this planet.
I consider myself something of an armchair “popologist.” Pop music has fascinated me since junior high, when I discovered the Swedish pop duo Roxette and realized there was a real art to crafting catchy tunes. It was an art form I became obsessed with. I studied Max Martin religiously. I went to school for music and learned the power of chord progressions. I even became a songwriter myself, and my personal litmus test of whether a song was a success was if my friends confessed to me that they got it stuck in their head at some point. I love good old hard rock as well, and honestly, rock and pop are such close cousins that rock could technically fall under the “pop” umbrella (that’s a whole other conversation). But despite being more of a rock instrumentalist, much of my songwriting is rooted in pop tradition.
I have a lot of inspirations when it comes to the craft of songwriting, including the aforementioned Max Martin, a Swedish guy (what’s in the water over there?) who codified popular music for the 21st century by penning hits for Britney, the Backstreet Boys, and pretty much every A-list artist of the past 30 years. Taylor Swift, love her or hate her, is another one of my strongest influences, dating back to when I was a fellow towhead femme armed with an acoustic guitar and big dreams. Paul McCartney is another, and so is Per Gessle of Roxette, who I mentioned earlier as well.
Today, the music world has never been so oversaturated, and the market is flooded with new upcoming pop stars. The vast majority of them will never reach astronomical levels of fame in our post-monoculture world, but many of them have small but loyal fanbases and are carving out a path in this new era. Here are some of the pop artists I’ve been watching intently for a while.
1. Alessi Rose
I discovered Alessi in a 7-11 while buying snacks for a road trip. I heard a song with an infectious bassline and knew I had to Shazam that shit. The song, it turned out, was “Get Around,” an absolute banger of a track about eyeballing a promiscuous guy. I seldom do deep dives on artists because I will get hyperfocused and ignore all other music out there for some time, but Alessi seemed worth taking a chance on. And it paid off, because I instantly fell in love with Voyeur, her full-length debut. (It is hilariously classified as an EP on Spotify — I’m sorry Alessi but you can’t call an album with eleven three-minute tracks an EP!).
Alessi herself is British and had taught herself music production while bored during lockdown. She has an ear for catchy melodies, and her writing captures the Y2K girl-rock sound of artists like Hilary Duff and Ashlee Simpson, especially with songs like “That Could Be Me” and “Falling Forever.” She saved her funkiest songs for the second half of the album, like the Sabrina Carpenter-esque “First Original Thought” and the previously mentioned “Get Around,” but the entire release is a solid one. Her older material is worth looking into as well — I love the unusual chord progressions in “imsochillandcool.” Also worth mentioning is the fact that, like me, Alessi has OCD! Her recent song “Skin” is her take on mental illness, and it is a heartwrenching one. There is a lot of heart hidden behind her coquette aesthetic and catchy hooks.
Recommended tracks: “That Could Be Me,” “Skin”
2. MARIS
MARIS popped up randomly on a drive and I didn’t immediately change the song when I heard the opening notes of “MOSH⭐️PIT.” Yes, the star is part of the song title and also part of MARIS’s brand. She wants to be a “super fucking mega star,” in the words of her own song, and she believes everyone is a star in their own right as well. I went all in on supporting this girl when I found out her opening act for her tour was karaoke! If you know me, you know I’m a huge proponent of karaoke as a way to build community and express yourself. Everything I’ve seen from MARIS indicates that her and I would probably get along really well as human beings. She, like me, is violently bisexual and appreciates Freddie Mercury and Heart as much as I do.
Her collaboration with fellow queer artist Caroline Kingsbury on the very gay “Give Me a Sign” is full of yearning and layers of harmonies. Meanwhile, her ode to cannabis, “Mary + I,” has some of the strongest vocals I’ve heard in recent years, completely eschewing the “whisper singing” that many pop girls lean into these days. Another favorite, “Body Is On Fire,” is a bouncy, sexy tune you can dance to, and the euphoric “Salt Water Taffy” has been my song of the summer, with its multiple nods to the little things that make the season special.
Recommended tracks: “Give Me a Sign,” “Salt Water Taffy”
3. little luna
little luna (the lowercase is intentional) is a modern pop singer with a hippie soul. Starting out as a Disney actress and moonlighting as a yoga instructor, little luna even inserts guided meditations into her albums, which I thought was incredibly cool. I’ve been trying to get more into mindfulness myself and I played her meditation “garden” while sitting out in my girlfriend’s backyard one morning. I will tell you, that shit made me tear up. little luna has a way of making you feel cared for with only her voice, and that’s something precious, something I haven’t really found with other artists. She has a warmth to her entire persona that I very much appreciate.
little luna’s trademark style and bright orange branding is intriguing to me, drawing influence from the art of the sixties and seventies. She feels very much like a spiritual successor to the likes of Stevie Nicks and Linda Ronstadt. The song that made me fall in love with her music was “upward spiral,” a jaunty pop-rock number with a seriously catchy chorus. There’s also “wildflower woman,” somewhat of a signature song of hers, where she breezily croons “I’ll be growing where I’m going.” It’s more than just a song — it’s a statement. Also worth mentioning are her meditations, which are very relaxing and encouraging if you’re into that kind of thing. If you’ve never tried a guided mediation, hers are a wonderful introduction.
If Ann Wilson wasn’t my all-time favorite flute-wielding belter in the world, that title would go to Awkward Marina (with Lizzo now at a distant third after the…banana incident). Awkward Marina is probably the least known name on this list, and it is a damn shame. She should absolutely be in the same league as Taylor, and I’d go as far as to say her songwriting is incredibly Swiftian. This is not an accident — Marina is a Swiftie herself, covering some of her songs and creating whatever this is. But there’s another fandom she’s very involved with as well. You see, she truly found her voice in the My Little Pony fandom, and as something of a Pegasister myself, I can get behind that. She’s also a Jewish lesbian, which is pretty neat.
I really value diversity in musicianship, and Awkward Marina is a fantastic example of this in action. She’s written 80s-inspired synthpop, baroque pop, a capella, ska, recession pop — and that is one fucking EP. Speaking of, the Doodle EPs are a god-tier set of EPs. The power ballad “Lonely” features a flute solo that’s been loaded with effects to make it sound nearly electric guitar-like in timbre, and an entire choir of Marinas accompany Marina in the triumphant “Doodle,” where she revels in the joy of being a creative. Another gem, “Princess,” is a charming baroque pop track about the expectations of femininity which features both flute and harpsichord prominently. She even has a cover of “867-5309/Jenny,” the 1981 Tommy Tutone hit, featuring a smattering of retro phone sounds. Her creativity is astounding when it comes to arranging songs.
Recommended tracks: “Matter of Time,” “Lonely”
5. Candi Carpenter
I was originally going to call this list “Pop GIRLIES I Can’t Stop Listening To,” but to do so would be to disregard a vital part of their identity. They, like me, are nonbinary! That’s not where our similarities end. We’re both autistic, we grew up in the same state, we have some country roots, and we’re both very much exvangelical. We differ in that I held onto my faith, while they let go of theirs, but I have mad respect for anyone who goes on the deconstruction journey. Just getting out of that cult is praiseworthy enough, and often, irreligious people are just as nice, if not nicer, than religious ones. Needless to say, religious trauma is an enormous part of their music and aesthetic.
The song that introduced me to Candi’s world doesn’t really contain any spiritual references at all. “Nervous System” is just a silly but heartfelt song about their struggles with anxiety and mental health issues. It’s very tongue-in-cheek, as are many of Candi’s songs. “Cult” also deals with the heavy topic of the dark side of American Christianity in a lighthearted manner. It references Left Behind-style end times theology and that creepy post-Columbine martyrdom obsession that inspired “Cassie” by Flyleaf (great band, though not-great theologically). There’s also the punky, sapphic “Strawberry Starburst.” The song that really got me, though, was “Everybody Goes to Hell,” in which Candi explains that “everybody goes to hell in somebody else’s religion.” We all want to be right, but in the end, toxic theology does much more harm than good, so maybe it’s worth abandoning those closed-minded beliefs. They end the song with a heartfelt apology to their parents and anyone they tried to convert while in the thick of it.
Recommended tracks: “Nervous System,” “Everybody Goes to Hell”
6. Tessa Violet
I saved Tessa Violet for last because of all of the artists I’ve been bingeing recently, her music has been the most influential for me emotionally and mentally. Originally starting off as a vlogger when YouTube was less shitty, she’s a “bad bitch” with a heart of gold. My girlfriend initially introduced me to her music years ago, but I just now started deep-diving into her discography. I’ve loved the song “Games” for years now, but I had no idea the kinds of music this woman was truly capable of making. I loaded up her most recent release, a six-song EP titled Something to Lose, and was not expecting to be emotionally devastated. Her strength as a songwriter is similar to Awkward Marina’s in that she can nail practically any style and emotion in her songs. The chasm between tracks like “BAD BITCH” and “I Love Being Wrong” is enormous, but somehow, they’re both intrinsically Tessa.
Her confident baddie persona shines through on “YES MOM,” “Play With Fire,” and the already mentioned “BAD BITCH,” but when she drops the armor, you get songs like the sweet “Kitchen Song,” describing domestic bliss with a loved one, or “My Body’s My Buddy,” a simple love song to the vessel that’s carried her through life. “I Love Being Wrong” hits a similar nerve for me as Candi’s “Everybody Goes to Hell,” although Tessa’s song is a bit more somber in nature and lacking the religious references. But it celebrates the fact that we don’t have all the answers as human beings, and it takes comfort in that. The final song I’ll mention is the one that makes me sob uncontrollably, and it’s not at all a sad-sounding song musically. It’s called “Knowing,” and the last few stanzas make me ugly cry every time.
Give yourself the grace to start again If it hurts you, put it down If it don’t serve you, look around You’re doing great, my babe I swear you’re gonna make it You never can know what could come It’s not done until it’s done You’re doing great, my babe I swear you’re gonna make it
I can do hard things Parallel parking Like it all, it just takes practicing (Knowing this is not enough is enough) I can walk a new path I can get myself back I can learn to be a better friend And give myself the grace to try again
And that’s the true mark of a real artist — someone who can make you feel something with whatever they create. Those lines gave me a sense of hope when I needed it most, and for that, I’m thankful.
Song recommendations: “Knowing,” “I Love Being Wrong”
Which of these artists have you heard of before? Do you have any song recommendations? Feel free to share them in the comments!
When I moved to Fort Wayne, IN, AKA the City Where Dreams Go to Die, I began attending karaoke nights at the legendary gay bar After Dark with my wife, and I remember being captivated by the queens I saw at the shows we caught there. Their self-expression and whimsy gave me so much hope at a time when I wanted to drive my car into the motherfucking river after every awful day at my music therapy internship.
I wanted to be them, I thought to myself. I wished I could be. I knew logically that cis women could be drag queens, but something always kept me from trying my hand at it. I did do a brief stint as a king, since I’m technically genderfluid (surprise!), but it never really occurred to me that I could be queen. Something always stopped me.
Spoiler alert, it was fear the entire time. The thing that had kept me from doing damn near anything whimsical and self-expressive my whole life. I should have been a rock star. I should have been an author. I should have been SO MANY FUCKING THINGS.
But then, something recently happened. I lost everything, almost including my wife. But something bizarre happened after my big girl job let me go. I felt a chain was lifted. And it hit me.
I need to take a risk for once in my life. It’s time for me to take the crown for myself, one way or another.
There’s no stupid degree or entrance fee into the world of drag. All you gotta do is be queer or queer-adjacent (check!), be absolutely fabulous and extravagant at everything (check!), have a fun stage name (check!), lip synch to sassy songs and be funny and dance around like a silly goose (check!!), and dress like Gaga (monster since high school haha). Honestly, the only thing stopping me from being a queen is…just calling myself a queen.
I’ve always separated myself into Jess and Jessa Joyce when it comes to my music shit. Jess is what friends call me, but like how Stefani Germanotta became Lady Gaga when she slapped on a meat dress and stepped into the spotlight, Jessa Joyce became my “rock star”-sona, so to speak.
But after a sobering talk with a good friend who’s close to the music industry, pursuing steady work in music is a lost cause at this point in time. I love music. I love making people happy. I love bringing whimsy into this dumb dark fucked-up world. But it was clear I needed to pivot.
I drove my wife to Indiana to stay with a good friend for a month while we figure out our housing situation (mold poisoning is a bitch), and I went back to the gay bar that was the genesis of both my experiences with drag and karaoke, another field that’s close to my heart as a KJ by trade. And something about being back in that place again made me realize, the only thing stopping me is me. Like, I can do this stuff too!
So before I was called up to sing the song I put in (Bon Jovi, natch), I ran to the bathroom (where I do my best thinking, and also because ya girl got the poopoo parasite and also Hot Girls Have IBS ™), and typed up this manifesto. This…drag-ifesto, if you will. It’s funny, back when I was with my old band, Wake Up Jamie, I wrote a song called “Queen.” My wife had bullied me into writing something fierce, so I wrote this bad bitch anthem where the entire chorus is just “I wanna be Queen!” It’s poetic in a way, I guess
So, there you have it. The woman who was “supposed” to be Jess J. Salisbury, MT-BC, is long gone. Meet Jessa Joyce, Queen of Whimsy.
The fierce-ass pic I took in the mirror after having the revelation that spurred this drag-ifesto.
So this morning, I left the B&B my wife and I are staying in at the moment to grab some snacks. I was prepping for my karaoke gig as well as a very delayed Pride festival, so I put on my favorite pleather bustier and a flowy slit-leg skirt I got from a hippie store in St. Louis, and I started walking to the gas station on the corner. En route, I encountered a man on the sidewalk. As I passed him, the wind blew, and this man was definitely staring at my ass, because he remarked, entirely unwarranted:
“Nice purple panties!”
I didn’t know what to say. Perhaps I should have yelled “They’re actually pink and fuck you for looking in the first place,” but I was damn near paralyzed. So I muttered “No comment” and picked up the pace until I reached the gas station. I didn’t even look at the man. I don’t know what he looks like. All I know is suddenly I felt like I needed a fucking bath.
Crass and I met a kind woman who was living in a residential apartment in the 19th century mansion we’re staying in for a few nights. She was a mother, and when we first encountered her, she had her pink-onsied little one with her. Her name, too, was Christine, funnily enough, as that’s my wife’s government name, and she and her baby had also made national headlines, like Crass. She’d lost her home in a fire and the baby was rescued when a cop caught her out of a window. Needless to say, this woman had been through it, and I ran into her when I was coming back to the place.
She was going for a walk. I had to warn her. There was a creep nearby.
Christine shook her head. She, like me, had been a victim of rape. Massive trigger warning on that link, by the way, and probably for this entire post. We stood in the doorway and commiserated for a solid five minutes about the horrors of being a woman in our society. Because, as I told her, I hardly know a single woman who doesn’t have a similar story.
We have a fucking rape epidemic. Nearly one in five women in our country have experienced it, and that’s just the numbers we know about. That’s not even counting less intense forms of sexual harassment, which has a staggering 81 percent of women reporting having experienced it (as well as nearly half of the men surveyed — more on that in a second). How is it that so many women have gone through this? It makes me nervous to think about. If there’s that many victims, where the hell are all the abusers?
And that’s the sad, scary part. They walk among us. You might even know one. Do you know how often this shit goes unreported? Many cases never reach authorities. My rapist is still a free man as far as I know, with a daughter no less. It kills me to think about.
This world is not safe for women. Christine and I talked at length about how dangerous it is just to trust a random man. Sure, there are no shortage of great, stand-up dudes who actually care about women, like my late father and my boyfriend and my best guy friend. But if you have a bowl of M&Ms and one of them is laced with cyanide, would you still chance the M&Ms? That’s how it feels to be around men — any men! — in our current zeitgeist. Men are getting even more aggressive and misogynistic thanks to the influence of the “manosphere.” It sucks because it colors every man with the same broad paintbrush, even the objectively good ones. And surprise, men are also hurt by the patriarchy and our societal insistence that men are supposed to be mighty and emotionless and women are weak little babymakers. Men get raped too, and they seldom get taken seriously because they’re expected to be strong enough to fight back.
I hate that this is the reality we live in. I wish I had a happy resolution to this post, but until we find a way to topple our tower of patriarchal norms, we’re not going to be out of the woods, and while we’re there, we’re still picking the bear. We need to start doing the work of teaching proper consent and holding people accountable when violations happen. We need to teach boys to respect the girls in their lives instead of constantly reinforcing the notion that they’re somehow superior. I hope we get to a place where we can experience true gender equality and the forces that teach that rape is acceptable are finally silenced. I don’t want to be terrified around random dudes on the street. I don’t want any woman to feel that way.
Sadly, there’s nothing I can do on my own except write this blog post bringing attention to the issue. But I pray a change happens soon. We can’t keep living in fear. This is not okay.
I wrote this piece in one sitting a few weeks ago, but I only shared it with a few close friends. It’s a bit darker than anything I’ve written before, at least in tone, but I wanted to write about something I’m incredibly passionate about: writing itself! This piece could almost be considered a sister piece to the one I published yesterday on the divine power of creativity, in that it touches on several of the same topics.
I write this intro paragraph from Tucson’s botanical gardens, where a prominently displayed butterfly-dotted monolith memorializes the many, many children who were brutally murdered in the Holocaust. A quote from Anne Frank’s diary decorates the towering monument. She was only a young girl, but she knew the power of the written word. And her words have transcended space and time to humanize folks like her to the world at large. Storytelling is more than a way to pass the time. It’s how we connect to each other and share our struggles. Anne herself may not have survived, but her words are forever immortalized as a symbol of hope.
That’s why I write. And that’s why I felt the need to share these words with you.
It is said that history is written by the victors. But the funny reality of it all is that, when you think about it, history is simply written by the writers. After all, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to record it, did it truly fall? Did the tree ever matter in the first place? Was the tree even real? Without the word “tree,” you probably wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Without words, there are no stories. And without stories, we lose our humanity.
You see, humanity is stories. Billions of them, all happening simultaneously. Every person is a story in their own right. We all have a beginning and an end, and our lives consist of the moments in between the covers of the book. Like all good plots, there will be unexpected twists and surprises. Sometimes, you don’t get the things you want. Sometimes, no amount of meticulous planning will prepare you for whatever the Great Author has penned in your pages. As an aside, that’s kind of why I’ve taken to thinking of God, whoever He (or She, or They) may be, as the “Author.” Because at the end of the day, we are all characters with a role to fill in the greater story of humanity.
So, then, if all of these things are true, what is my role in this story?
That is the question I’ve been agonizing over for years.
But I know this much — I am a writer. I was born a writer. And because of this, I have the power to define my own reality. I can put into words the things other people cannot. Some people rely on technology for these purposes, but the real story of humanity can’t be told via machine. The story is flesh and blood. The Gospel of John talks about how in the beginning of everything, there was the Word, and the Word was not only with God, but the Word was God. And the Word became flesh, and that, there, is the key. In order to disseminate His message to the world, even the Great Author had to experience humanness.
Stories are at the very heart of what it means to be human.
I’ve spent many years on this planet learning what it means to be human, and I suppose I’ll never know all of the answers. What good is it to a human to know all of the answers, anyways? Does it change the path of the earth around the sun? Will it avert the inevitability of tomorrow and the day after? More knowledge does little to quell the constant screaming feeling that we are powerless little ants in a terrarium on fire.
But we press on. And in every moment, we find those reasons to continue. Those reasons aren’t the same for every person, but they all point back to the very act of creation. We create houses to live in. We create meals for our loved ones. We create inventions to make life easier. We create children. We create relationships. We create meaning. We all want to play a little part in the sacred act of creation. We all want to write our own stories.
And me? I’m just a writer. But in a world that is moved by words, a writer is a powerful thing to be.
JESSA JOYCE 