I did a lot of photography while I was there—including made from images I shot in Vienna and ideas I worked through while living quietly in Hungary, and thinking about how we see and remember art.

I began a deep dive into Hungarian music—from medieval to modern—which I’ve never quite surfaced from.

I looked at art spanning millennia. I toured churches and palaces. So many palaces.

One of the standout exhibitions was on .

Another favorite was , a humble architectural form from Hungary’s communist past. I’m fascinated by how a simple cubic structure can carry so much history and weight.

Then again, there’s power in simplicity, like the .

The were one of the most moving things I saw.

I ate many wonderful desserts—i˛őł¦łó±ô±đ°ů and dobos were favorites. I’ve had both since at the in NYC. Not quite the same, but still great.

The ice cream? Walnut, hands down. Haven’t been able to find that in New York.

I spent an afternoon boating on . That same day, our car broke down, and some incredibly kind Hungarians helped push it down the road until it finally roared back to life.

Another day, I hiked to the top of . Riding home that night through fields of corn and sunflowers, perched in the back of the truck with the wind roaring through my hair, I felt, for a moment, like I was back on the farm in Georgia. So far away, in a place so foreign—and yet, a sudden, unexpected sense of home.

And every morning, I woke to the sound of Eurasian birds�, , —outside my window. I miss them dearly, for you don’t often wake to the sound of birds in Manhattan.

There’s no real point or through line to any of this—I just wanted to share a bit of that quiet, restorative time. A summer spent looking inward while exploring new places, sights, sounds, and tastes. It helped me grow and transition into a new phase—shaped less by answers than by a new kind of listening, where silence carried weight and change began to feel like something I could carry.

When I got home, I began putting the finishing touches on a project that had been in the works for quite a while. I’ll have more to share about that soon.

For now, it’s a new year. I finally made it to Japan for the winter, a year later than intended. And spring is already giving way to summer again. Stay tuned.

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reset_ is a popup newsletter I’m writing about things in between while traveling in Japan this winter. Join me as I explore random thoughts between jobs, middle age, and the seasons.

My name is luke kurtis and I’m an artist, writer, composer, filmmaker, designer, editor, and publisher. Or you might know me as Jordan M. Scoggins, a technologist with over two decades of experience, with most of my time working in media, publishing, and the non-profit space. Whatever name you know me by, or if you’re just a stranger on the internet, I’m a multifaceted human making my way through midlife. Thank you for joining me here.

I experienced a change in my work circumstances in December 2023, paired with a death in my family. In fact, the past few years have been a bit of a rollercoaster, and I’ve misplaced a part of myself in the midst of it all. There’s this feeling of change in the air—like I’ve hit a middle-age checkpoint where I should probably wave goodbye to some old habits, but the new and improved ones haven’t entirely manifested. So, I thought maybe it was time to embark on a little journey of self-discovery.

But this isn’t a trip down memory lane or a detailed rundown of my challenges. It’s about injecting a dose of joy into life and taking a leap into uncharted territories. Time to shake things up and see what happens outside my cozy comfort zone.

In late February 2024, I depart for Japan. I’ve spent more time in Japan than any other foreign country. So, the destination itself is not novel, but my approach to daily life, mundane rituals, and creative voice will be.

If there’s anything I know from all my years in technology, every system needs a reset every now and then. It’s time to reset myself.

This will be part of how I do that. Consider this your invitation to join me. I can’t tell you exactly what to expect because this isn’t that kind of thing. But, I would venture to guess I’ll write about some things that inspire me in Japan, compose a few poems, and share a few photos. It’s a journey of discovery and small moments, not grand gestures. It’s an experiment to see what happens.

After I return from Japan, the newsletter will be over. I will not use this newsletter to sell you anything or add you to my main mailing list. I want whatever we experience here together to exist in its own space, be its own thing, whatever that turns out to be. This is a one-and-done digital sojourn. Won’t you join me to see where it takes us? Sign up blow.

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It’s hard to believe that the oldest of these pieces are over two decades old at this point. One of the oldest is “� (2000). It’s a short poem, only 16 lines, but vividly captures my memory of the night Papa died. When I composed the audio version, I aimed to express the wordless parts of that memory to extend the text. It’s one of my favorites for how viscerally it captures something I will never forget. So does “� (2000), about the time my father had to kill Grannie’s dog. How can something so grueling be the most humane choice?

Then there’s “� from 2003. I like this poem because it captures my spirituality in such a simple way, almost like a precursor to ideas I would express in and other more recent poems, such as �� and numerous more as yet unpublished. It also makes me remember my teacher, , who taught me the ghazal form. Shahid died in 2001. I was among his final students. My time with him was brief, but he had an impact.

If you haven’t got the idea, the immeasurable fold is full of personal memories. In many ways, it’s a diary in abstract, not unlike , which represents even earlier years (1995-1999). However, unlike like an angel, which is rooted in my adolescence, the immeasurable fold is an extended coming of age. It’s a bridge between my youth and the adult I became, or am becoming, because I’ll always be a work in progress. Even while the past few years have been a challenge, I know the best is yet to be because I’ll never stop learning. Never stop growing.

Yet, some of the poems look forward, too. �,� written in 2011, first appeared here while later it became central to , a project that grew out of that poem with the works I created in Ravenna, Italy in 2014, and found full expression in the book and prints I published in 2021.

when I wrote that my work often gestates over long periods of time, this is exactly what I meant. And this new album is no different. Years in the making, decades if you consider some of the poems were written as far back as 2000, I couldn’t be more excited to finally have this album out in the world in spite of—or maybe because of—its tortured imperfection.

What’s next? Give me a few more years, and maybe there’ll be a movie version.

But seriously, if you’ve already read the book, please as it may give you an entirely new perspective to hear these poems as they sound in my head. And if you haven’t read it, maybe listening is more to your liking anyway. I definitely think the album version brings something the book alone can’t provide.

Please what you think of this project. I’d love to hear from you.

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I like to ask ChatGPT to interpret my poems, curious about what meaning it might pull out. Sometimes I’ve even given it abstract and surreal poems, expecting it to  something totally off the wall. But, virtually every time, it comes back with an impressive interpretation.

I find this reassuring. It gives me confidence to know that if an AI can pull meaning out of a poem that aligns with my intentions as the poet, then I must have successfully imbued that meaning within the text in the first place. And I know it’s not merely copying what someone else has said because typically, I’ve shown it poems that have yet to be published but never even seen by anyone other than me.

So, I thought asking ChatGPT for its thoughts on a published poem would be interesting. I chose “sutras,� . Here’s what it had to say, unedited.

The poem, titled “sutras,� takes us on a journey through the experience of the poet in Tokyo, exploring themes of cultural differences, uncertainty, and the quest for belonging. The speaker’s encounter with a hushed temple unveils a profound moment of introspection, blurring the lines between cultural norms and personal understanding. Through a delicate balance of stylistic traits and literary devices, the poet masterfully captures the universal human experience of feeling both connected and disconnected in a foreign land.

One of the primary themes of the poem is cultural ambiguity and the challenge of navigating unfamiliar territory. The poet’s walks and wanderings in Tokyo serve as a metaphor for the broader human condition: the search for meaning and connection amidst the unknown. The temple represents a cultural sanctuary, and the speaker’s hesitation to enter reflects the uncertainty of whether they are welcome or if they are inadvertently intruding. The poet highlights the complexity of cultural norms, particularly in Japan, where unspoken cues can often be more telling than explicit signs.

Stylistically, the poem exhibits a gentle and contemplative tone, mirroring the protagonist’s reflective state of mind. The use of short lines and enjambment creates a sense of movement and fluidity, much like the speaker’s wandering through Tokyo. The minimalist language allows the reader to focus on the subtleties of the experience, reinforcing the theme of uncertainty and ambiguity.

The poet incorporates various literary devices that enrich the narrative. Imagery is skillfully used to paint a vivid picture of the temple, garden, and its surroundings. The “wooden floor soft and smooth, soothing to my feet� evokes a sense of comfort and tranquility. Additionally, the “light dancing like petals in a breeze� illustrates the serenity and beauty of the place. The juxtaposition of the red cover of the sacred text and the “soft grass in spring� under the tatami further underscores the poet’s keen observations and appreciation for details.

The encounter with the monk emphasizes the theme of cultural miscommunication. The mutual nod and bow demonstrate an attempt at connection, but the uncertainty remains. The speaker’s act of taking the sacred text, albeit inadvertently, serves as a metaphor for the struggle of comprehending and respecting cultural boundaries in a foreign land. The act of theft is unintentional, born out of misunderstanding rather than malice, showing the vulnerability of humans in navigating cultural nuances.

The overall meaning of the poem centers on the human condition of feeling lost, both physically and metaphorically, in unfamiliar territory. The journey of the speaker in Tokyo mirrors the journey of humanity, searching for a sense of belonging and purpose in a world that may seem unfamiliar and even unwelcoming at times. The poem serves as a poignant reminder of the importance of empathy and understanding in bridging cultural gaps and finding common ground amidst diverse experiences.

In conclusion, “sutras� is a beautifully crafted poem that delves into the complexities of cultural differences and the human quest for belonging. Through its themes, stylistic traits, and literary devices, the poem offers a profound reflection on the challenges and opportunities presented by our encounters with foreign cultures. It encourages readers to appreciate the subtleties of cultural interactions, fostering a deeper sense of empathy and connection in a world where understanding and acceptance are paramount.

Apart from some minor details that seem slightly off, it did a great job. It captured the text’s overall idea, including describing certain stylistic traits that support what I was trying to communicate.

Using ChatGPT this way gives me confidence in my writing. It helps me fight that voice inside that second-guesses everything. Of course, it’s important to remember there’s still a human touch, a delicate nuance that AI doesn’t bring to the table. At least not yet.

I have noticed that ChatGPT and similar tools tend to flatter you, deserved or not. While it stated “sutras� is a beautifully crafted poem, it will likely say that about any poem you throw at it. This tendency towards positivity might seem harmless, but as a creative tool, it could also be a crutch. It’s essential to seek diverse perspectives and constructive criticism. Sometimes the best work results from honest if difficult-to-hear truths.

But still, AI has quickly become a valuable tool for me. As long as I’m mindful of its pitfalls, I’m excited to discover even more ways it can support my work.

What do you think about ChatGPT’s interpretation of my poem? Does it align with your reading? Did it miss anything? And in what ways do you use AI tools?

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the way people don’t talk about the pandemic anymore often makes me feel abandoned. it’s as if there’s a collective amnesia. i guess it’s human nature to want to forget a traumatic thing. good for you if you got covid, got better, and have now moved on. i still worry about it. i haven’t been sick at all for the past few years, neither the common cold nor the flu much less covid. meanwhile, i’ve had family members die from it. how do you forget that when there are people out there immunocompromised, elderly, or otherwise at high risk? should they stay isolated forever while you go on about your life? it seems selfish. but go ahead and have your sunday brunch. after all, you deserve it.

my creative work has always been a means of survival. a coping mechanism. a way to see beyond the unavoidable stress of life through the lens of my experience, turn it into something other people can connect with.

often my work unfolds over very long periods of time. sometimes years, or even decades. so i thought it might be good to do something without overthinking it for a change.

i made this piece of music on a recent getaway to the Hudson Valley. it’s a simple improvised work. abstract. sad. mournful. unpolished. raw. but that’s how i feel these days. especially the latter.

the accompanying video art gives the work a little more form. something visual and grounding but no less evocative. it says what i want to say right now.

that’s about the extent of it. just a middle-aged composer-artist-writer person having a hard time at life, mourning things i’ve lost, wondering what comes next.

for now, this is it. play it on repeat.

.

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Five years later, both the lives of these artists and the world at large have evolved. But the spirit of their collaboration remains the same. The pair came together to record their poetry just before the pandemic. kurtis later composed the accompanying music. And here we are—five years since the original book—with a spoken word EP celebrating the artists, who they were then, who they are now, and who they are becoming. After all, a life well lived and art well made is in continual transformation.

Please enjoy the (and , too if you never picked it up).

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SK: Let’s start with the essay that concludes your book because reading it brought everything together for me. You express a longstanding distrust of cameras, yet you thrive in the medium of photography. How does your reappropriation of the medium help shift viewers� perspectives?

AW: The selfie that essay starts with is a good place to begin. I took it when I was still finding myself and getting comfortable being out. Selfies, as part of the genre of portrait photography, and paintings before that, are . A “good� selfie shows you looking and acting in ways that are typical for cis members of your gender. For women, it means meeting standards of beauty set by the movie and fashion industries. Becoming aware of these expectations, I was confronted with questions. Should I try to summon the smile that my friend in the essay chastised me about? Did performing all those expectations feel authentic? In that moment, it didn’t. And I liked that selfie because I was appropriating the genre to express my truth.

SK: You also use photography throughout The Girl Who Wasn’t and Is by pairing photos with poems. What are some of your favorite examples?

AW:  I really like the pairings for “Seminality� and “November’s Child.� The first is about the burden of gender placed on all of us from the get-go. The OB peeked between my legs when I was born in 1964, assigned me male, and an entire future of expectations was activated. “November’s Child� shows a trans child of three or four, the age I first became self-aware, knowing there’s something wrong with that assignment. The accompanying photos show a crocus and dead autumn leaves on the pavement. In the latter image, you have a couple of freshly fallen leaves along with the imprints left by leaves that fell earlier in the season, which captures the ripening and dying that happens in autumn as a sort of time-lapse. Together, these two photos communicate this common experience of trans folks: the premature loss of innocence, like going from the April to the November of our lives in just a few years.

SK: I was struck by how you juxtapose the darkness of some of the poems with the brightness of the accompanying images.

AW: Yes, I used that to illustrate how violence plays out in our lives. The photo paired with the poem “For Muhlaysia,� for example, highlights how violence against trans folks too often happens out in the open. was assaulted in a parking lot in the middle of the day and beaten within an inch of her life. By contrast, the photo accompanying “Medusa� points to a type of violence invisible to cis people. I took it on a point of land near where I grew up in Maine. It was a very bright sunshiny day; I walked down to the water’s edge during low tide and found this small gorge with the waves surging violently into it. I paired that photo with the poem because it suggested the rape of Medusa by Poseidon, a metaphor for the onset of puberty. Puberty isn’t easy for most people, but for trans folks it can be really hard and was especially difficult before there were puberty blockers. What to cis people was a challenging but normal process of maturation could feel to us like a violation of who we knew ourselves to be, a rape that wounded us forever. 

SK: At times, you identify your own body with nature, as in “The marvel of gently rolling plains of fat / The miracle of breasts.� Can you share more about coming to terms with yourself and identifying with nature?

AW: That relationship dates to my childhood. I explore its origins in “The Girl with Eyes of the Sea.� Like the girl in the poem, I couldn’t see myself, the trans girl I knew I was, in my community, in books, or on TV. I had no role models. I didn’t even have a word for what I was until I was a teenager, and it quickly became clear that if I openly asserted who I was, it would go very badly. I didn’t have to make that assertion in the natural world because nature didn’t judge me. I could go out into it and just be. I also found myself in that world in a way. My relationship with the Maine coast of my childhood was similar to how the poet

SK: Is there a particular part of nature you feel most connected to?

AW: Probably the ocean.I remember a fantasy I had as a kid swimming off our beach. At mid-tide, I would sometimes go out and swim through the seaweed and dive down from time to time. I learned early on to open my eyes underwater. Everything’s blurry and bright, kind of magical, and I would imagine myself as a seal in my jeweled home. I also have a sympathetic identification with seabound spirits like nereids.  Thus the drawing I paired with “The Girl with Eyes of the Sea”—she “saw her face only / In the shimmering moon on the slumbering bay.� Ultimately, perhaps, the possibility for change, for a kind of fluidity, is why I love the water. The way the light is always sliding, it’s sort of chameleonic or amorphous, unlike the solidity of land and the position you’ve been assigned there. Things seem more dynamic in the water; evolution and difference seem possible. I don’t have to be what they’re telling me I am on land. 

SK: Many of your poems deal with the physical and sexual violence perpetrated on trans women by cis straight men who express a deep insecurity coupled with thrill and desire. Can you speak more to this paradox?

AW: A line I encountered in my scholarly work on colonialism speaks directly to this dynamic: “Disgust always bears the imprint of desire.� There’s a sexual element in a lot of male-perpetrated violence that stems from the fear of being diminished, of having their manhood sucked out of them if they surrender to their desire for the feminine. And I think trans women activate this fear with particular intensity. We are women, and some trans women are beautiful in conventional cis terms. To the transphobic brain, though, it’s “Well, I’m sorry, you were born with male plumbing, so you’re not women.� And the thought that we’ve had bottom surgery makes us guilty of the sin of rejecting that God-given plumbing—makes us the castrated, feminized monsters that transphobic cis straight men fear the feminine other will make them. So, if a man like that encounters an attractive trans woman, this desire-rage dynamic can kick in, especially if the man didn’t initially clock her: “Oh my god, that’s a man, oh my god, I’m gay, oh my god, kill kill kill!� There is actually , though .

SK: There is also a deeply sad self-doubt that haunts some of the women you write so poignantly of, as in the final lines of “Remembrance�: “the fear / That as the motherfuckers came at you / You might for a second have felt / I deserve this.� How does this reflect the erasure of trans folks throughout their lives?

AW: When I pitched the book, luke kurtis said that line was like a gut punch. The feelings of monstrosity born from dysphoria and internalized transphobia, which often become acute during the violence of puberty, and the suicidality, cutting, and other self-destructive behaviors those feelings prompt—this is how our self-erasure plays out. It’s a real question how you survive all that? I was pretty good at compartmentalizing and repressing—a lot aren’t, and don’t survive.

SK: It must be truly devastating.

AW: Absolutely. I think of internalized transphobia as a form of psychological colonialism. We are basically invaded by these voices telling us, no, you’re not who you think you are. We also face , but this psychological violence, this colonization of our identity, is typically as harmful, and for a lot of us, is more so. In “On Seeing England for the First Time,� Jamaica Kincaid as a colonial subject raised in the British empire: because everything but the sea, sky, and air had a British stamp on it, she was reduced to “a hole filled with nothing.� I think that’s a great analogy for what we go through. When I was growing up, everybody modeled the gender that they told you you were. Everyone was policing you. You were swiftly and often severely corrected if you stepped out of line. If as a trans kid you saw yourself at all, say on television, it was as a joke. Things are a lot better now, but we’re still fighting in a lot of places for our existence to be recognized. Some states over the last year have The Texas GOP is now . That’s what erasure looks like.

SK: You combat erasure with the bursting tongue, the originator of ideas shared, and wounds lovingly licked. Philomela’s tongue is even severed by her attackers, �cuz this is all u are.� The tongue must truly be powerful, the tool of any “truth stammering girl.�

AW: The importance of voice for trans folks is complex. We are forced to reckon with our voice, as with our body, in ways that cis people take for granted. If others perceive your voice as incongruent in cisnormative terms, if you don’t sound the way they think a woman or man should sound, your risk of being harassed–or worse–increases. That’s why simply being heard, being visible, is a political act. When we’re still fighting to be recognized as fully human, speaking or just walking down the street can be about claiming our place. It’s about saying and showing who we are: this is what it’s like to be us. That’s how understanding begins.

SK: And what about for yourself?

AW: For me, voice was part of the larger quest for congruence. I remember the day I became aware of how tense my arms were when I was out. I was doing qi gong at the counseling center, and the young trans guy who was leading it said something about relaxing my arms, and I realized in that moment how much I’d been reining myself in, clenching myself even. It was almost like I’d erected a wall at my shoulders to prevent myself from entering my own body. Once I broke through that, the fluidity came, and suddenly I’m in my arms, I feel they’re part of me, and the same with my legs, my walk—and my tongue, my voice, as well. That’s the first image in the poem “Love Song (Congruence)�: “the sweet / Snow-melt bubbling from this tongue.� After the freezing, the everything-clenched, it’s like the thaw, the spring, and I inhabit my body for the first time, and in embracing myself, I also find my voice. I feel free to speak my truth.

SK: The spring thaw—it’s almost like the fluidity of the sea.

is a poet, essayist, and scholar originally from Maine but now calls the Pittsburgh area home. She volunteers for the Transgender Law Center’s Prison Mail program and is a proud member of her community’s Indivisible group. She’s a passionate amateur photographer and musicologist and loves going for long walks and swimming in the ocean.

is an experimental feminist poet and author of (Gothic Funk Press, 2021).

Text copyright © Sarah-Jean Krahn and Anastasia Walker

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The drawings, poems, and photos I made essentially describe my experience that week. I’m literally talking about hanging out by the beach for a few days, trying to recover from a stressful time. On the surface, it’s not so profound. But it’s the mundanity that makes it relatable. I used that simplicity to tap into the subconscious.

After I got back home and realized I had created all this stuff, I wondered what I might do with it. I put together the video art and designed an experience meant to be seen in person, projected in a dark room with surround sound. I even set up a small screen prototype. The work created exactly the immersive and meditative environment I was going for. But given the pandemic, trying to plan an in-person exhibition didn’t feel right. So I began to consider what I could do digitally.

I’ve always been more comfortable in cyberspace, so it’s sort of odd I never did a digital exhibition before. But the pandemic has changed the ways we connect. Besides, I’ve always been somewhat reclusive and find it challenging to communicate with people in person, making digital spaces more effective. So, I hope other people are more open to this way of connecting than they might have been in the past.

It would be easy to think of an online exhibition as an inferior substitute for something else. But I don’t feel that way about this at all. In fact, I’m excited that I can beam this work into your home, no matter where you are in the world.

Please join me and from your corner of cyberspace. I hope you will approach it with intention and feel the same sense of calm that I felt while making it.

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We’re excited to tell you about the newest title in our of poetry books.  is the debut collection by Anastasia Walker. Anastasia is a phenomenal poet with almost obsessive attention to detail that informs every word, syllable, and punctuation mark to the point that her poems are bolted together with architectural precision. Her photographs of the natural world and other surroundings, by contrast, are loose and free, the perfect pairing.

Often deeply personal, Anastasia’s poems explore not only her identity as a transgender woman but also her relationships with her family, the experiences of friends and allies, as well as her community’s ongoing quest for justice and dignity.

And even though the collection anchors itself to precise moments of trauma, such as the Stonewall riots and the murder of George Floyd, the abstraction afforded by poetry infuses a sense of timelessness. But not timeless in the sense that life is always a struggle to live in the shadow of injustice. Timeless because there is always community despite our struggles.

You can hear Anastasia read from the collection at these upcoming events. All events are free and open to the public, but some require advance registration.

Poetry reading/Q&A
Wednesday, February 16, 7 pm
PFLAG Jersey Shore

Poetry reading/Q&A
Sunday, March 13, 3:30 pm
PFLAG Pittsburgh
Email chapter president Dave West ([email protected])
and ask to be added to the chapter’s Zoom list

Poetry reading with Reymond Drew
Thursday, May 12, 7 PM

5825 Forbes Ave, Pittsburgh, PA 15217

Poetry reading
Hemingway’s Summer Poetry Series reading
Tuesday, July 26, 7 PM

4754 Liberty Ave, Pittsburgh, PA 15224
This event will also be live-streamed (details forthcoming)

The Girl Who Wasn’t and Is is or your .

The other day I watched . I definitely feel that. Where does the time go?

As time moves on, I like to mark the milestones along the way.

It’s the second November of the pandemic. That’s kind of a milestone. How many more Novembers before the old ways begin to fade? I already feel that to some extent and mostly feel comfortable with a new way of living, working, and being. Next November, certain things about the before times will seem even more distant. But there is also a sadness.

I searched my music collection for songs with November in the title just to see what kind of thoughts and feelings others have conjured up for this penultimate month.

I played Rod McKuen’s �.� From his Home To The Sea album, a spoken-word record of McKuen’s poetry set to music by Anita Kerr, it’s a lonesome poem (as are most McKuen poems) backed by a melancholy instrumental. The poem’s imagery is about the rain more than it is about the sea. Of course, there’s perhaps the most famous November song by Guns N Roses: �.� A far cry from McKuen, but both pieces suggest that love is never far from sadness.

This is the kind of dance I often find myself in when searching my music collection!

There’s a poem titled “� from Anastasia Walker’s forthcoming debut collection, , where she speaks of “the shivering sun / of an autumn twilight.� It’s a chilling image that feels imbued with the inevitability of sadness. There’s no rain here, though I can’t help but think the ground is wet, having soaked up the storm before the poem began, ready to give birth to something new. After all, twilight is a time of transformation.

I can’t escape the thought of rain and its allure as a potent symbol. Like sadness, like love�, part of the natural cycle. Like autumn. Like twilight. Year after year, even as the months between seem to get shorter, let us remember November’s past, knowing it will come around again all too soon.

Anastasia Walker’s book .