Covid-19 has long, sticky fingers and leaves none of us untouched.
Poets Conor Logan of Newbury Park, Peg Quinn of Santa Barbara, and Johanna Went of Ventura have adapted to the pandemic differently while attempting to thrive creatively within the restraints of Covid-19.
Of these three local poets, both Logan, and Went rely on external stimulation to create. “The more I’m around people, the more productive I am,” reports Logan. Went labels herself as straddling the introvert/extrovert line. “Inspiration is always necessary and I enjoy working with people who are spontaneous,” she said.
Logan was determined to populate his life from a 6-foot distance, with in-person performance, poetry, and music, creating the Covid Smile Jam, which takes place every Friday in his Newbury Park neighborhood. “[Covid-19] has forced me to take matters into my own hands,” Logan says. “The Covid Smile Jam has been my saving grace… starting as 2 guys playing on a driveway, it’s turned into something that hundreds of people tune into each week, or attend.” says Logan, who documents the gatherings on YouTube.
Speaking of poetry readings held on Zoom, he said, “I’m sick and tired of it. I’m ready to see people safely in person.” Meanwhile, for Went the risk is still too great. When informed that people no longer are required to wear masks at the grocery store, she responds, “Well, I guess I won’t be going to the grocery store anymore.”
Went made her name as a Los Angeles performance artist known for extreme costumes and behaviors, but is quieter in her personal life. “Pandemic isolation has stalled my career just at a time I was recovering from a long dry period creatively,” the writer says.
She lost loved ones during this pandemic. These losses, heaped upon the millions of deaths around the planet, have taken a toll. According to Went,” [the emotional environment of the pandemic] has tested my ability to be hopeful and has severely affected my talent for finding amusement in absurdity.”
Johanna Went expresses a similar need to Logan’s, “to feel a part of a creative community.” For her, the answer has been Zoom, where she engages with groups focused on art, poetry, creation, and meditation.
“Zoom workshops and other art related webinars,” Went explains, “have been very helpful. I will be upset if those resources no longer are available.”
This is a sentiment that Peg Quinn shares. The 71-year-old Santa Barbara poet reflects on the ways that Zoom connections have changed local poetry.
“It’s been incredibly rewarding” Quinn explains, “featured readers at poetry events and the ‘audience’ expanding to other continents!” With active members as far away as England, Cambodia, and Japan, the local scene has grown. In reference to events going live again, she says,“I hope [these new poets] can now be a part of in-person reading events, to include as many participants as possible.”
Likewise, the solitude created by the pandemic has not been a solely negative experience.
“In some ways,” Went comments, “the pandemic made me appreciate the abundance in my life and made me reflect on how I use my time.”
Logan’s priorities have likewise been adjusted. Logan explains, “I’ve focused on bonding with my children and my wife. It’s actually been quite lovely.”
Solitude has permitted Peg Quinn to embrace her spirit.”When the lock down began, I was hoping I wouldn’t be asked how I was doing,” Quinn says, “I was enjoying something I had never dreamed possible . . .endless hours of uninterrupted time to create, read, write, ride my bike, day after day!”
All three poets are dedicated mask-wearers and are continuing to wear their masks after the mandate. The requirement was lifted too soon, they agree. All three are frustrated by interacting with others in a politicized environment.
Quinn explained, “I still wear a mask, and think I will continue to do so… though I’ve been vaccinated twice.”
Went adds that she, too, will continue to wear a mask.“The mask has not been an insurmountable problem for me,” Went says, “having to argue with others about masks has been exhausting.”
For Logan the political environment of mask wearing is frustrating as well as exhausting. “It’s a shame that the issue of mask-wearing has aligned itself with ideological and political stances,” he says.”I’ll want to continue to wear it, and people will judge me for it.”
Went has felt too exhausted to be honest about her emotions around mask-wearing. “I am enraged about how we humans have responded to the pandemic and I have a deep revulsion for and disappointment in most all of humanity. It’s easier to let people believe that I am afraid or just sad…” she says.
So much has been lost since the pandemic began. When asked which things were most missed, a long list of specific events and activities was compiled, but a comment by Quinn seemed to sum up the loss.
“Assuming huge gatherings of people was a positive!” she said, “ I miss that.”
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Covid Smile Jam Youtube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYtApZjjkFVfxMi7mhu6rHg
Conor Logan
Here’s a short one that I finished when I’d walk alone at the beginning of the pandemic:
To my left the clouds gather.
Brown foothills filtered blue-
Gray, like pond fog. Hawks tell
The tale of building winds. There
Is no sound.
Peg Quinn
published by www.gunpowderpress.com
Johanna Went
Anger Management in the time of Covid
In my isolation
I scroll home décor websites
hosted by domestic divas
for helpful hints to improve
the design and organization of my hovel.
My crumpled sheets
and stained towels are
tightly balled up and
crammed into my linen closet
Hoarded food
with expired use by dates is
stacked erratically in my pantry
arranged according to
the highest number of
unpronounceable ingredients,
and that
which is easiest to chew
Yesterday (INSERT JUMP-CUT?)
I dusted and categorized
my shrunken head collection.
My library of erotic
Japanese comic books
featuring animated images of
nimble Tokyo housewives
locked in lesbian love poses
is stacked ceiling high
on my nightstand
next to my police revolver,
and my seizure helmet.
I put off the sorting and placement
of the 4,847 balloons
that cover every inch
of my bedroom floor
to tackle in the morning.
Done in by the drudgery
and fifth of cheap gin
I crawl under the covers and
wait for rigor mortis to set in.
Today again at 3 am
I woke up in a shivering fit of fury,
obsessed about the one thing
most out of control in my life,
my wild and uncontainable anger.
I jumped from my bed
choking with rage,
so infuriated
I could hardly catch my breath
Fearful of fainting
I grabbed a small white balloon
off the floor
and started blowing.
When I huffed and puffed,
my anger receded
as the balloon swelled
to explosive proportions
like a vaporous snake
trapped and
twisting
itself into tight fist
of heavy air.
It became a thing.
A thing with the sheen
And transparency of a
ghostly apparition
A thing that
should be unseen
I tied the neck
of the balloon
leaving room for expansion
I kneaded the
doughy mass
I rolled it I beat it
I pounded and hammered it hard
With a rolling pin
Flattened it
Then with a razor sharp
butcher knife
I fileted the hateful thing
into paper thin portions.
Next I loaded it into
my food dehydrator
Cooked it to a crisp
Tossed it shriveled and dry
Into the Cuisinart
pulsed it to a fine
iridescent grey powder.
Methodically I sifted
the ashy residue
into my empty gin bottle
Sealed the top with hot wax
The furious dust inside
vibrated ominously.
With 666 rolls of duct tape I wrapped
the bottle that contained
the thing that came from my grief
the ugly defiant thing
doubled, tripled and quadrupled
with each layer of tape
the thing that is my hate
morphed
into a human shape
my exact size and weight
I placed the thing
in the largest body bag
that I had in the garage,
I bound the bag
with yellow crime scene tape
handcuffed
the whole kit and caboodle
To my ankle,
dragged it to my room
shoved it under my bed.
As a reminder I wrote
a pink note to myself
placed the note on my
medicine cabinet mirror
and what do you know?
the insane woman
who lives in my mad reflection
appeared
glaring at me
like she always does
with her crazy eyes
she watches me
she talks to me
in my own voice,
moving my lips
she mimics me
she mocks me
she reads my mind
she knows about the thing
the throbbing thing
so thoughly wrapped
yet barely contained
the thing that
quivers my body
and shakes my head
the wakeful thing that
will not be bound in sleep
underneath
my tragic blue bed
where in darkness I glean lunacy
from sour dreams
and awake to face the mad reflection of
the one who looks like me
She will not be
restrained it seems
In fragile glass
Ruthlessly she
watches me
disappear into a mirror
I would shatter if
I thought I had
Seven more good years
To enjoy the bad luck
5/8/20