The Quarant-Times
Volume 3

We value art of the times. Of the vulnerable, the raw, the honest. We uplift those brave ones who surrender to uncertainty through the process of creation. We are a community of makers, processing fear, grief, joy and love in times of quarantine.

I. Jordan Trammell

Those Who Dig

Chicago, IL

he/him—@slow_chapel

Jordan Trammell

II. Sam Curry

I'm Not Leaving

Brooklyn, NY

she/her—@samcurry

The last person I saw before going into quarantine was my therapist. We met on a Wednesday at 12:30 pm which is not our usual day or time. I’ve been seeing him every Monday at 11:15 am for almost a year now. Seeing him twice in a week was new to me. This was because I was suicidal on the Sunday night before. Suicidal was new for me too.

I’ve always been sad. I was kicked out of preschool for “crying too much.” Calling my sadness depression? That’s new. My mother has tried to kill herself more than once. My mother was depressed. Depressed people were suicidal, but not me. We now know that’s not true though.

My therapist is a gentle man, but not warm. He self-describes his treatment as “old school.” I could probably lay on the couch if I wanted to, but I wouldn’t want to put my shoes on the furniture. My mother always said that was a rude thing to do.

My therapist won’t speak until you speak. He makes you do the talking. He makes you do the figuring out. He knows what’s there, but it’s up to you to find it.

I found that I was worried about quarantine because my mother at her deepest depression wouldn’t leave the house. I remembered being young and watching her sleep through her days. I remembered watching her breathe, making sure she didn’t really go through with it this time. I remembered watching to make sure there was life still inside her lungs.

He knew that was why I was afraid to be home. He knew that was why I woke up early even when I didn’t need to. He knew that was why I never let myself nap, even when I was tired. He knew that was why I made myself leave the house even when I was too depressed to want to. He knew that I was afraid of becoming my mother.

He also knew that I’m not my mother. I knew that too. He reminded me that this isolation is different. It’s for something good, something that will help. I’m staying away from the world because I want to be in it, not because I don’t want to be in it anymore.

That was weeks ago. I’m not suicidal anymore. I called my mother to make sure she’s home. She’s not leaving. Neither am I.

III. Luis Estrada

Creatives Inspiring Creatives

Chicago, IL

he/him—@lbestradaart

IV. Stone Moreno

Working Hands II

Tustin, CA

he/him—@queer.creature.preacher

She kissed the stony hands of a working class man,His tools of livelihood and love-making,his body was more than pins, needles, and electric vibrations;“These hands are my legacy,

        Of my aching artistry


             Fabricating sappy poetry like maple brown              sugar for breakfast in the morning, Honey.”

V. Arianna Lucas

Creation

New York, New York

she/her—@ariannalucas

VI. Theresa Schwaar

New Social Rules

Milwaukee, WI

she/her

Today I held the hand Of a former and future co-workerOver the fence Just for a moment Irresponsible, maybe
We didn't give the air time toBuild itself in with bricks We both smiled, toothily, intentionallyWiped tears with sleeves and steppedTowards home
"Seeya!"
Walking away I was furious at it allViolently, surprisingly, caustically angryI fought it just like yesterday and tomorrowThis thing's bite is intimateIts attack baseBut no person is to blame for this heaviness
Yesterday I was elated to spend An hour sitting down porch From a friend We are still so vulnerably Sufficiently human.

VII. Ariel Baldwin

Week Three

Chicago, IL

she/her and they/them—@saintariel

VIII. Alyssa Carabez

Honey Bees

Chicago, IL

she/her—@alyssa.carabez

We are the honey bees,a ball of offense overheating and killingThe hornet. One of them, all of Us.

IX. Paul Cade

"Turns out the only thing keeping me from drawing was seeing my friends and family."

Chicago, IL

he/him—@paul.cade

Paul CadePaul CadePaul Cade

X. Kelsey McGrath

Grief is a thing with feet

Chicago, Illinois

they/them—@kelseylooks

Kelsey McGrathKelsey McGrathKelsey McGrathKelsey McGrathKelsey McGrath

XI. Chelsey March

Love and Luck

Los Angeles, CA

she/her—@itschelseymarch

I am not “lucky.”Lucky people don’t “get to” have surgery.Lucky people don’t “get to” be run over by an SUV and sustain traumatic brain injuries. Lucky people don’t “get to” move across the country in a car that overheats halfway there. Lucky people don’t “get to” have compromised immune systems where a cold can mean a ruptured eardrum. Or 2.
Let’s break this down.
I am blessed. Fortunate. Privileged.And driven.
Luck is not the thing that made it possible for my family to find a way to take care of me when my body decided to rebel against itself.Luck is not the thing that put me back on my feet and back on track.Luck is not the thing that gave me the ambition to never give up. Luck is not the thing that brought my hearing back. Again.
Luck did not get me to where I am, sheer willpower and determination did.
I am fortunate that I have been able to stay inside of my home.While someone else goes out and takes on the world.While he puts himself at risk so I stay healthy.
I am privileged to have a partner who cares for me. Who knows it is safer for him to go out into the world right now than it is for me. Who knows that getting sick holds a different meaning for him than it does for me.
I am blessed to have such love in my life. Love found a way to gather resources. Love found a way to take time to heal. Love found a way to get to where I needed to go. Love found a way to protect me.
Love and luck sound a lot alike. The difference is in how you receive them.Luck is random. Love is intentional.

XII. Dave Smith

Sunset

Bella Vista, AR

he/him—@superdasmith

Dave Smith

The mission of Quarant-Times is to be a beacon of hope for makers and readers alike. Offering a space of community and an artistic, digital forum that reminds us we’re not alone; that our world is so much more than the walls that surround us and the uncertainty of these times.

If you are able/inclined, we invite you to donate to this volume at: paypal.me/quaranttimes. All proceeds will be proportionally divided amongst the artist who submitted to be part of this volume.