This is a lovely post Ellie and I do hope more people are paying for the privilege of reading your thoughts. Its worth it. The strategies you mention are all about connection and sacrifice, to make sacred. I know you have also been taught by my dear friend Valentin and I hope to meet him in a couple of weeks in London and catch up. He is off to Toulouse next week. I love the picture with the dog, how much we need the non-human world now!
Jesus Christ, with the exception that I'm not you, you not me, you've written the fucking screenplay of my life, Ellie. From genius to dickwad in 30 seconds. I know this. Trying to become what is expected; my life performative more often than lived. Trying to write in a whirlwind of oh-so-self-conscious doubt. Haunted by the ghosts of past failures. Smart but so dumb. Always striving to tell my ugly, ugly alcoholic, violent father the news, that I didn't become his prophesy for me: a waste of space, or, as he termed it, a garbage man. Dear Dad, oh to be a happy, confident, smiling garbage man these days. A man that channels the big magic (thank you Elizabeth); a man at peace with others, with the state of things, with living in the present. A man writing daily the novel he so wants to but can't seem to. Thank you for such startling honesty. Thanks for sharing, caring, listening. Thanks for this outlet. Allen.
This is a lovely post Ellie and I do hope more people are paying for the privilege of reading your thoughts. Its worth it. The strategies you mention are all about connection and sacrifice, to make sacred. I know you have also been taught by my dear friend Valentin and I hope to meet him in a couple of weeks in London and catch up. He is off to Toulouse next week. I love the picture with the dog, how much we need the non-human world now!
#TheBrazierofTruth @ substack and instagram
Jesus Christ, with the exception that I'm not you, you not me, you've written the fucking screenplay of my life, Ellie. From genius to dickwad in 30 seconds. I know this. Trying to become what is expected; my life performative more often than lived. Trying to write in a whirlwind of oh-so-self-conscious doubt. Haunted by the ghosts of past failures. Smart but so dumb. Always striving to tell my ugly, ugly alcoholic, violent father the news, that I didn't become his prophesy for me: a waste of space, or, as he termed it, a garbage man. Dear Dad, oh to be a happy, confident, smiling garbage man these days. A man that channels the big magic (thank you Elizabeth); a man at peace with others, with the state of things, with living in the present. A man writing daily the novel he so wants to but can't seem to. Thank you for such startling honesty. Thanks for sharing, caring, listening. Thanks for this outlet. Allen.