The joy of being in the world

I forget sometimes that I love being in the world. 

Sometimes, I think the forgetting is a product of the shelter-in-place years. Other days, it is the well worn habits of anxiety and depression. There is also the fact that I have spent four years making a home that I love, so I’m not looking for excuses to leave it in the way that I might have in the past. Whatever the reason, it can be so easy, feel so natural, to slip into the lonely, soft, sameness of being closed up in my apartment. Even when it feels bad, it feels comfortable—you know?

And sometimes retreating, staying in, is right and called for. The need for the hermit etc etc. But since early summer, I’ve been in an period where nothing feels quite as satisfying as being out. 

In September, I tabled at a local book fair. I wasn’t sure I would like a market-style event like that, with the people and the talking, and the people walking by and not talking.¹ But actually, I loved it. I loved getting to see people interact with my book, and to talk to them about it. Beyond the book, I really enjoyed the opportunity to talk to people I wouldn’t otherwise interact with. I had interesting and deep conversations with strangers on the street, which isn’t something I expected. Frankly, if you had asked me before it happened I’m not sure I would have thought that was something I was capable of. I struggle with talking to new people sometimes, because I don’t seem to have the skills that other people have at knowing what to ask or bring up.² It’s not so much that I can’t do it, but I feel self-conscious and idiotic through it all. But at the fair, I really didn’t have that feeling. I think, partly, because we were able to bypass getting to know you type interactions and jump straight to whatever we wanted to talk about. My table had a variety of queer stickers on it, so mostly we talked about queerness. Sometimes we talked about writing, or poetry, or books.³

I got another reminder of how alive I feel out in the world at Biggest Little Zine Fair (BLZF), a local event that I co-organized. Traditional zine fairs can be huge and intimidating and my friend Rarasaur wanted a way to get new people into the zine fold (😉) and bring more zines to Long Beach, and she asked me and a few other people to help her do it.⁴ We brought together work from nearly 50 different creators, many of whom had never made a zine before, and spread them out across four tables on the sidewalk outside of the bookstore. A humble setup that made for magical results. 

I had a long conversation with someone who wants to write a book but is struggling to do it; I encouraged them to make a zine so they could put their writing out into the world. We talked about their sapphic “Victorious” fanfic and how that could live in a zine. I got to see first-time zine-makers thrilled when their zine sold out (and many of them just thrilled to see their zines out in the world, being engaged with by other people). I got to see people buying my zines, no idea that they were mine at all. One of my zines—a poem called “There Will Still Be Crushes in the End Times”, handwritten inside the pages of a mini-zine—sold out. Whenever someone picked up a zine that was made by one of my friends, I wanted to say: “I love them and you will too!” That kind of thing doesn’t happen in the confines of my apartment. 

It takes a lot out of me, being in the world in these particular sorts of ways—its physically hard on my body, and my nervous system gets ratcheted so far up that I can’t sleep for many hours afterwards.⁵ But it still feels so worth it for me. Particularly now, when the world feels so chaotic and other people are a mystery. Being with people, connecting around whatever common ground emerges between us, feels like the most real and magical thing I could possibly do. 

Submissions are open for the BLZF Holiday Market. You don’t need to be located in Long Beach, you just need to be willing to mail us some zines! 

I made a Canva template for a mini-zine, which is an 8 page booklet (6 interior, plus front and back), which you can use to get started!

I wrote about being in the world from another angle in a previous essay about sharing work.

1. I feared it would be like when I worked at the Gap and on slow days they would send me to the front to announce some kind of flash sale to try to draw people inside (the curse of growing up as a theater kid and knowing how to project).

2. My mom is very gifted in this way. She can have a conversation with literally anyone—the number of times I have seen her talk to people in a line or another random setting is uncountable.

3. I told a complete stranger about my experience of gender and trying to unlearn the western brain-body dichotomy, which might have felt like a lot in many contexts but felt very chill in this one - I think maybe because there was the right mix of safety and anonymity. They asked, and I didn’t perceive many consequences for answering.

4. Chris Giaco, the proprietor of the Page Against the Machine bookstore and an all around nice person, was a big part of the conception and the ultimate production of BLZF! I know Ra would be disgruntled if I made it sound like the idea was all hers

5. Let me know if you have any wind-down tips— we’re hosting hosting another event in December and I would like to not be up all night afterward!

Body of Work is a project of uncommon practice studio, a multi-disciplinary studio dedicated to crafting a different relationship to making & doing. In a culture that prioritizes toxic productivity, it can be really f*cking difficult to prioritize sustainability, creativity, and process. uncommon practice studio supports creative people in building a new way of getting things done through workshops, tangible tools, and creative offerings (like this one!). If you’re interested in DIY tools, working together 1:1, or you’re just incredibly curious, visit uncommonpractice.studio to learn more.