It came to me in a dream: a poem about poetry is not poetry the words we use are never ours it cannot rhyme, 'cause times have changed the flow is out of joint, as is our world no periods, no accents, except the one we speak with we write in tongues we were not born with it came to me in a dream I no longer remember only the voice of a friend asking where I was and we write like kittens licking a blank page on a typewriter our language sandpaper

We took for granted the good weather we did not think of it the grass grew beneath our feet between the cracks of ladrillos blood red, tanned by years of sun and rain. We did not think of it as not having a real body or the body being a stick the head was rubber, and it rode. Mine was called Silver before I knew what it meant. It takes time to understand what time does to people and things.

This morning I received a message from a colleague sharing they had tested positive and were feeling very poorly. In the last couple of months, I heard from family members, friends and colleagues and students who have tested positive too, sometimes for the second time (in one instance, for the third time). “Following Government guidance” has become an excuse for organisations of all types to abdicate their duty of care for their stakeholders.

I haven’t posted anything here in a while. The pandemic, changes in the social media ecosystem and a heavy workload have kept me away from this blog. I had forgotten I had handwritten these notes in one of my notebooks and I thought I’d type them up and share them here. They are based on my personal learning as a journal editor for over a decade.

I am very happy to announce the publication of The Comics Grid’s latest special collection ‘Rapid Responses: Comics in and of the Moment’.

Para Paty, Natalia y Camilla "En hierva de primavera nos convertimos" -Aztec poem, as quoted by Alfonso Caso (1953) What is time when love and memory are eternal? Pages on the kitchen's calendar; the flickering of dates on screens. It is all about "having the courage to continue", as I remember the poet & the thinker talk about, discuss distance as bodies in spirits, over the line.

I am pleased to announce that our newest comic, ‘“Living with Covid” While Clinically Vulnerable: A Real-Life Story’ is now openly available online. This one-page comic was developed between January and March 2022 in response to the easing of mitigations around the COVID-19 pandemic. Like other recent comics I have worked on, this comic is also the result of autoethnographic, participatory narrative co-design methods.

Overlapping worlds: this is the cosmos the board is embroidered with and tells its story. All the board's a stage, the deer our little brother. In Easter, blood-red flowers grow in the desert of our penance. Starving for sky and sunshine, the poet covered himself with ashes. The Elders, wise, know the Yoemem have this power others can't explain.

There is a wind machine that keeps fire in check It works with breeze afuera el aire malo/adentro el aire bueno threaded in colour it breathes the heat and the black smell you must get on your knees (mind your fingers, cause it bleeds) do not let it catch fire you don't need them to tell you how but no, you might not know what it is search the web for definitions find leafblowers the word no longer means It works with breeze what it does, it can

Destiny is rhyme and spring nine hells three heavens our remains hard and sweet sugar. Mictlantecuhtli wore bones as their amor owlsong at night voice of cougar. Destiny is rebirth dead wood regreened nine hells three heavens the black path to Xibalbá our remains our names & thirsts.

They wear the motley coat of jesters: like fools they tell the truth. Of a feather, the birds do fight together they hold on to your finger like a terrified fiancé. El palenque in Ixmiquilpan sees them clash green and red under the belt: Men and women, make your bets, a way of life as bloodsport in a star-crossed box drawn with lime. They wear the motley coat of jesters: what luck will they reveal?