Crouched Behind The Moon

It only takes this small blue thing, the world ending. I am not sure of being a person in the world.

I needed to write, so I left the country.

Studio Luce, my friend’s writing community

on the beach in Guatemala.

My favorite kind of place to work.

Beach you can walk to.

Quiet. Make big plans.

Work/strategic plans/

Zooms/back to back/

Evening writing/swimming

Catching my breath/moving into new habits

I always think if I can move myself,

A different Kate will emerge.

Why not Guatemala? Magical country.

I go with my son and his wife.

We plan to create, work.

The town is lovely. Big waves.

The ocean comes for us.

Mangrove swamps. Blue/white herons.

Studio Luce, a writing space,

Designed to create a vibe of wellspring.

Of joy. Hammocks outside, sites of thought.

Planned to work on my book. Catch up on manuscripts.

Journal.

Swim.

Kayak through the mango groves.

Monday was the drive down.

I had zooms Tuesday; the drive back Friday.

I had Wednesday,

Thursday, for me.

Music in the town. Orion shining at night.

Fresh fish delivered. We made ceviche.

Bought fruit. That’s all we ate.

Fresh fruit and vegetables, eggs.

Ceviche. Tacos.

Swam in the sea. Kayaked.

Finished a strategic plan.

Worked on my writing.

Two nights/Four hours sleep.

Sleep deprived.

Crazed.

By Friday, my passport, gone.

Stolen? Who knew.

I wild and keen into the day.

Arrived late at the airport Friday.

I would be stranded in country.

My son and his wife took off.

Through the weekend, I nursed panic attacks.

Checked into a hotel.

Coffee. High on adrenaline.

Anxiety. I beat myself up like a Christian.

Sunday, the beating continues.

Awake in the pain of it.

I can hardly breathe.

Monday, I have appointments.

Airport Lost and Found.

US Embassy.

Who are we when we lose our stuff?

Without our stuff, our important stuff, who are we?

Who are you without proof of identity?

In jail, who are you?

In the hospital, who are you?

Home-sick, robbed of documents,

Are you still yourself?

Without my passport in a foreign country, I become the child at the Farm.

We were told that the world was ending.

There is a US embassy. But the loss feels like the end.

From small, I’m ready to think the world is ending.

In 2025, democracy crumbling, the world ending.

Without my passport, the world ending.

It only takes this small blue thing,

The world ending.

I am not sure of being a person in the world.

As I write this, it’s been three days since I’ve eaten a meal.

Meals tell us we’re going to live.

Meals tell us the world is not ending. Sun will rise.

Crouched here behind the moon as we are on this planet.

This planet we’ve destroyed.

Pangolins disappearing. We need community/dinner.

What I will carry from this: Get more sleep.

Have a passport holder. Pay attention at all times.

Get some Ativan/Kidding.

If you want to live a relaxed life, be born into wealth.

Do not travel. Do not marry. Do not have children.

Do not read the news. Do not read.

I will come back to write/play/live

I’m not going to look for another Kate.

I’m sticking with this little spazz.

I’m writing a book about her. She’s a winner.

Lost passport and all.

She’s all I’ve got.