His letters pull me from the sea like a line from a fishing pole: there’s a wrenching, a pulling back, a removal from the comfortable, from home, from…
But the writer is also him, a him he did know, later; when you were 17, heading into the world, leaving for college, he had this writer inside of him…

January 2023

But it also eats away at a more core belief around who I am, and how this project negates or reaffirms my identity: if I truly were a writer, then I…
What matters is, I tucked them away; aware of their power but not of what they were. Honored, confused, horrified, excited.
#71. And in writing about this grief – grief for him, and grief for myself as an artist – I renovated my relationship to art.

September 2022

And at every juncture, each time I saw a doctor or a specialist or a nurse or a phlebotomist, they’d ask “And the pain?”

July 2022

“It is forgetfulness that is the fundamental problem, not memory.” — Patrick Modiano

June 2022

In a way, while the sale was open, while the cello remained unsold, part of my father remained alive. Far from view, over the crest of the horizon, but…

May 2022

“Hey boychik,” the refined voice on the other side of the world says. “How’s school? How’s soccer? How’s the cello?”
Perhaps there was comfort in the constriction, a perverse safety in the pressure. Perhaps the door served as a weighted blanket – protection from…

April 2022

That was the drug, I think. That liminality, that escape, that floating, etherial disconnection — or re-connection. I wonder: how many lives did he live…
Tears, too, like any precipitation, find their way out of one sea and into another. It all gets washed away.