After I announce I’ve quit, unwilling to capacitate a hostile foreign power, a friend asks what I’ll do next, sounding, for all the world like my dead grandmother. “Next” comes the bold experiment called “survival,” a hodge-podge of under-the-table and work-in-kind. To begrudge the still-salaried seems wrong, given decades of four-hour days, afternoons filled with drawing and versifying. What does a woman like me need? A room, a desk, some beans. Of course, what-ifs snarl at the door — ready to wreak havoc between 2 and 4. Aristotle peers at me from marbled brows. Feckless fool, he snickers. You’re in for it now.
When not making art, Devon Balwit edits forAsimov PressandAsterisk Magazine.