Someone asked me once who I admired and I racked my brain trying to think of someone.
But I’ve come to realize it’s YOU, my friend. I admire you more than anyone I can think of. I admire your wisdom , I admire your bravery. I admire your sobriety. I admire your storytelling magic, your beauty , your intellect and your humor.
Your introduction of this piece at this point in time instills in me a desire to revisit the melancholia in my own past; all the thoughts and events my mind connects with that feeling. Not to _examine_ it as I might once have wanted to do, imposing a new lens on it that could generate answers or explanations, but simply to sit in it exactly as it was, to the best of my recall. Such a piece of writing reinforces, to me at least, the relevance of marking the past with words.
I've asked myself why I've never sustained any habits through my whole life except biting my fingernails and keeping journals—both with absolutely zero regularity—and the answer is that not to do so would impose too much of a soft-edged dream quality on my recollections.
I live in a tiny corner of paradise in Canada (at the end of the world) and I’m officially inviting you to come here. We have cozy suite by the ocean—a perfect writers retreat, or just a plain old retreat retreat. Please come whenever you want/need. I would be so pleased to host you so you can rest. Recover. Recharge. Whatever you need. You would be so welcome. xo
P.S. I don’t have a tiny Zeke, but I have a huge lovable Ryder who would also welcome you when/if you arrive.
You make me want to be a better writer. That is all. Captivating.
Someone asked me once who I admired and I racked my brain trying to think of someone.
But I’ve come to realize it’s YOU, my friend. I admire you more than anyone I can think of. I admire your wisdom , I admire your bravery. I admire your sobriety. I admire your storytelling magic, your beauty , your intellect and your humor.
Thank you for being you.
Love , from your friend in California
The line “.. it was only in the context of you I existed..”
so powerful, so complete in everything it conveys.
thank you.
And would it be harsh of me to say that I’m glad you’re not there any more? I hope not. Because I mean it.
Enjoy the quiet of the woods.
“A temporary resident, a breeze passing through” this is beautifully written, and it resonates.
Excellent description.
Really cannot express how much I loved this essay and your reading of it.
Your introduction of this piece at this point in time instills in me a desire to revisit the melancholia in my own past; all the thoughts and events my mind connects with that feeling. Not to _examine_ it as I might once have wanted to do, imposing a new lens on it that could generate answers or explanations, but simply to sit in it exactly as it was, to the best of my recall. Such a piece of writing reinforces, to me at least, the relevance of marking the past with words.
I've asked myself why I've never sustained any habits through my whole life except biting my fingernails and keeping journals—both with absolutely zero regularity—and the answer is that not to do so would impose too much of a soft-edged dream quality on my recollections.
Thank you for sharing.
This passage took me physically, mentally and emotionally in the soul of all the characters. Conjuring understanding, compassion and shame.
Your spoken words add depth and intimacy that truly sooths the spirit.
Funny thing is, when I read your writings I now hear your voice and for some weird reason, it brings me home.
Wonderful. 👏
Cheswayo Mphanza
Frame Six
These days I wake in the used light of someone’s spent life.
I am often a stranger to myself;
I have no place of origin, no home.
I keep remembering everything in two time zones at once.
Who knows, maybe I myself am called something other than myself.
Not so much a name, but the result of a name.
It’s a strange sensation to yell out: This is me!
In every place I’ve watched caravans of sorrow—
I run like all the other men, chasing my shadow down alleys.
Sometimes in the spaces, there is fear—
my mind deepens into them.
From calm to fear my mind moves, then moves—
in light part nightmare and part vision fleeing.
The voice rises on a storm of grackles, then returns—half elegy, half serenade.
Your hair looks fucking great!
I live in a tiny corner of paradise in Canada (at the end of the world) and I’m officially inviting you to come here. We have cozy suite by the ocean—a perfect writers retreat, or just a plain old retreat retreat. Please come whenever you want/need. I would be so pleased to host you so you can rest. Recover. Recharge. Whatever you need. You would be so welcome. xo
P.S. I don’t have a tiny Zeke, but I have a huge lovable Ryder who would also welcome you when/if you arrive.
Such stunning prose!