Louise Bourgeois in her NY studio in the '40s

early morning in my egg.
photo by Francis.

as the weather’s gotten colder.
covid continues to rage.
I continue to navigate adjusting to life back in the city.
earning money.
tending to my fluctuating mental health.
I’ve also been trying to make my space into a sanctuary.
a place I can go to drop in, write, sing, connect to god in her greatness.

I’m lucky to have a little studio room (very little, around 5” x 6”). 
with a window and a door. 
it might have been a pantry or closet.
back when this Victorian house was built.
over a hundred years ago.
before it was divided into apartments.

in my current studio-closet.
I can fit a bookshelf and a small school desk.
although I often write or read from a blanket pile on the floor.
in my room, candles burning and heater blasting, feel like I’m in an egg, incubating. 

like I’m inside Nam June Paik’s short film, Electronic Fables. 
dipping beneath consciousness.
blue watery wisps of faces and warbling bodies coming toward me. 

or like Lazi, the college student in Notes of a Crocodile.
spending weeks in her room.
eating noodles.
writing letters.
filling journals with her brilliance.
staying up all night to read. 
ignoring the doorbell, phone disconnected.

Francis checks on me.
I am okay.