top of page

Mary Is Gonna Lose It Anyway 2020

I sat in my empty studio apartment eating fried chicken alone on a mattress on the ground in the middle of a pandemic at the end of July. The gentle coo of Sonny Curtis (How will you make it on your own?) lulled me to my last tear filled sleep there as I watched Mary Richards, with such excitement and wonder, explore all of the five blocks her Minneapolis had to offer. I was no different (This world is awfully big). That night my head was filled with the loneliest dreams of the most disappointing day, week, month, summer, and year (Girl, this time you’re all alone).


Since the beginning of quarantine, people have passively given me suicide hotline numbers, asking me to reach out, which in turn actually makes you feel a lot lonelier. (But it’s time you started living) I don’t think I want to die, in fact I very much want to live, there’s just not so much of it happening right now. I’ve instead given in to attempting to manufacture my own fun (It’s time you let someone else do some giving). This fun is of course temporary, like booze, like drugs, it only lasts for so long. It’s become one part fun, one part insanity, and always very much an escape from this horrid reality. Every conversation starts in the middle with a continuous rotating cast of characters (Love is all around). We all share everything and nothing. We are the embodiment of a desire for physical touch, unchecked fear, and an unbearable secrecy (No need to waste it).


I tried to do everything I would in the normal world to make me feel real again. To gain momentum. To be the most interesting artist getting their Masters in the most interesting of times (You can have the town). This bizarro Mary Tyler Moore Show set takes up the entirety of my studio, the embodiment of my feelings . The clothes my friends wear, a distraction. My friends, a combination of live, laugh, love, and lust (Why don’t you take it). The photograph, a blurry representation of what may or may not be real. The script, a blend of everything in between. None of this is real. None of this matters anymore, yet I think I’m still here (You might just make it after all).


A professor asked why I felt like I had to do so much work, and I answered back, “Well how many feelings am I trying to run away from?”


You might just make it after all.

bottom of page