One of my latest whims is that I’ve convinced myself I’m not a ‘good’ writer, whatever that means. What I write feels boresome, dense, lifeless — which I’d say is the biggest sinner for any writer, to have their words exist with little to no emotion. It’s as if my writing is the page you turn without sparing a glance to get to where you want in a book, what you skim through.
It hasn’t been easy, finding a red string to connect all I wish to tell you. Usually, my writing process for Delicate takes initially two steps: brainstorming and threading, where I pick a red pen and make lines between the ideas, roads. The rest I let at the mercy of the heart, hands and mind, borrowing art I see, creating new one from it. My mind has been tied to knots. This place is the same as it ever was, there are times where I make a headache out of the traffic in my brain. There is just so much. So much I want to convey in words, I rarely feel satisfied with the outcome.
I went to my first funeral two weeks ago. Up until now my family has somewhat excused me from participating in most parting ceremonies, either because I was too young or because I didn’t know the person well enough. One of my uncles on my dad’s side passed away. When I got the call, the news didn’t really hit. I answered ‘Ok, I’ll tell Dad.’, without making real meaning of the words. It was my uncle; the one that wore an unabashed smile, whose laughter and voice was as rich as the finest of wines, who I never saw mad or angry or down, even when truthfully, we didn’t meet that many times for me to know his character well enough, at least not beyond what my family would share. He was only one year older than my parents. He was a heavy smoker and dedicated worker, two things that both killed him in the end.
At the church, one of the things the preacher repeated a lot was a a phrase mentioned by the pope during World Youth Day: ‘The love of God surprises you.’. In that moment, I could feel a heavy, persistent weight on my chest, right above the heart. It was with me the second I saw a still body laying on an open casket, and when my cousins, grown men, cried in my embrace, and my aunt told stories as if she sang a melody she’s known her entire life. I didn’t expect to cry much, but I was surprised. Was that God’s love? Shared grief? At a certain point I asked myself if she wasn’t tired, sick of saying the same things, if it didn’t make it worst, if it wasn’t like thrusting a knife again and again and again. And then I wondered if it wasn’t the exact opposite: if by repeating those tales she was letting him go, piece by piece, one word at a time. Releasing the weight she’d have to carry. I wish I had held them tighter than I needed to.
In ‘God, Gods, Powers, Lord, Universe —”, Chen Chen writes,
If you cannot, at the moment, give me much joy, I get it. I have asked & received many a great joy already. Just give me, if you can spare it, a small joy, say, the size of a ketchup packet. If that's too much to ask for, then how about a small kindness, a tiny kindness, the size of a kiss from a dust mote? No? Okay. Would it be possible for you to take away some things, then? For instance, the soreness on the right side of my neck? If you could remove maybe half a pinch of that soreness, I would leap up as though it were a great joy. I mean, it would absolutely be a great, great, joy, thank you in advance, O highest O mightiest O most. Still no? Well. What about this sense that everything has become very slippery, everything is slipping right out of my fingers & faster every day? I'm not asking you to cure my fear. Nor unslipify my fingers. Only, if you could, if you have a quarter of a split nanosecond, it would be greatly appreciated, see, I don't need joy or kindness or ketchup, I beg you, if you are a being, a higher, some Mysteries that can listen, can mercy, I just need to lose a little less quickly.
This is probably one of my favorite poems — only ‘probably’ because I have yet to dedicate myself to keep track of them all. The exaggerated politeness of the commas and the sense of endless pondering; the lack of courage, or the tiredness that is transmitted to the reader from the speaker. How he minimizes the size, amount, number of his happiness to one singular ‘a great joy’. The use of titles, and the expression ‘a quarter of a split nanosecond’. It is begging. It is a prayer.
I actually don’t know how to pray. I’ve forgotten the words. How many years has it been since I’ve practiced? Too many, I’ve lost count. You could picture the awkwardness, standing as so many echoed, as if they had practised beforehand, speaking in unison to an all loving God. The only thing I could say was ‘Amen’. Will you welcome me still? Open arms, eyes that know my stories and keep my deepest secrets, a heart that forgives each and every one of my sins? Even the bad ones?
What do people usually pray for? Redemption? Forgiveness? Peace? I spoke to him in my head, sporadically, but I don’t think I asked for anything. Only queried random things — Are you there? Are you listening? Are you really kind? — Is it wrong that I didn’t ask for something? Isn’t that what praying works for? I apologize if I sound curt, rude, I don’t mean to, my ignorance on the subject just clouds my capability to picture anything else.
My dad says my grandmother didn’t used to be religious, but now, in her 90s, she speaks of God quite often. If she wishes you farewell, she’ll say ‘Go with God’. I heard she prayed by her window when she heard about my uncle’s passing. Part of me believes praying and putting your faith in a God is an action equal to having hope. When you grow older and the tale’s ending starts to approach you, the ticking of the clock becomes louder, you begin to hope a lot more, with a lot more strength, fervency.
When I catch hope, it feels like an live beast. Like indulgence. My hope feels sinful, like a disease that spreads and leaves me with holes, empty handed. Experiences pile on top of each other and serve as a strange, makeshift sort of proof that what I touch is inflicted with sadness, with misfortune.
I think, the more you want something, the less that the concept of ‘enough’ feels satisfiable, real. My aunt retired early by my late uncle’s wish, and yet, she thought they had more time. They dated since they were in their 15s, and he passed in his 60s. It will never be enough, no, 10 or 20 or 50 or 80 years, no, it won’t. Humanity could be defined by this, by the capability to love something without measure or caution. No, it won’t be enough, I have you but I want more, and it often feels like a crime punishable with death, to wish for more food in your plate. As if you’re biting the hand of your creator, spitting on the paper that has you your fate written, which is non negotiable. You may throw a tantrum, shout, cry, kill and beg. It is somber, to love something so much, in such a way that it’ll never be enough.
I want to fall in love with the absence. The space left by the absence of something, which we see as sadness or pain but could be taken as something entirely, as relief. Not all goodbyes have to break your heart to a point beyond mending, not many will do. I want to find peace, comfort, in the non indulgeable, create joy in it I want to swallow air and feel whole. I’d like to enjoy the gaps more without being so jittery and nervous. I’m lacking, and there are many spaces. Why would I expect myself to hold the whole world with only my two hands? If I want it too badly, won’t I bite my own hand in the process?
Richard Siken says, “My heart is an open wound; that is how the love gets out. that is how the love gets in.”, and Ariana Reines says “There is no sacrifice. You have got to want to live. You have got to force yourself to want to.”. A phrase I see from a series I never watched says, ‘The only thing more desperate than begging to die is wanting to live.”
An important, necessary piece you come face to face when you look at life in the eyes is that a lot of instances will repeat themselves. It’s all a cycle after all. There are patterns everywhere: I keep an app to track my moods, and I notice how I usually begin happy and end sad. Each day has 24 hours, and you can only become a master at something once you accept you must suck at it at first. The patterns in those you love, how your mom will never learn that the plastics are in the yellow bin, and your dad will never properly apologize after a fight. The patters that harm you, those of an addict, those where you wish to hurt yourself in the process to regain a sense of control. That quick pessimism you name ‘being realistic’. That urge to do what you know won’t help you. Touch the wound, lick it, set it on fire.
There is a concept in urban planning called ‘Desire Paths’: unplanned trails created by human or animal traffic. With time, they erode the ground, forging ways often running contrary to initial paths designed or planned. They’re usually the shortest, or the most easily route between one point and another, and they’re seen as the failure to connect with human behaviour.
“An individual can really write their own story. It’s something really powerful if you do have that agency to move,” Furman argues. Desire paths allow us to “not follow the script,” something that can be interpreted as a form of resistance. This is because in a heavily constructed city, there are “rules as to how public and public-private spaces are used”, Furman believes.” — Excerpt from the Bored Panda website.
Is it strange, if I tell you that desire paths give me hope? Even with a road traced right in front of you, you can chose to walk away, walk closer, carve your path. Would it make sense if I told you that with this death I don’t feel the urge to rush life, but rather to slow it? That I want to hold hope closer, not further. Practice a prayer, maybe two.
I think about how a lot of things in life die with no call, no warning, no celebration. How you can never know certain moments will be the last ones until they end. I realise there’s power in witnessing. A celebration of life, a plan made with a friend. We’re finite. We’d like to think most moments are also final, which they are, even when they are part of a bigger cycle altogether, and there is an inherent sadness to that. Then there are moments where you can’t see the horizon line, and even when you do, you know the ocean goes beyond it, there’s more beyond.
A beloved poem I found once on Tiktok went like this:
make me a big cup of tea with lots of honey because i like to indulge and you like to make me happy. in our home the kettle is always on. a hot beverage is our most important companion. what if this is paradise and we don't have to wait for anything else? you make the best cups of tea and i don't want to take any chances
I guess, as a wrap up, I’d like to tell you to chase your desires. If that needs a prayer, do what you must. Dare to hope, to believe, because tomorrow isn’t promised, and sometimes daring is the first step towards something bigger. Love what, who you want, and do it with the knowledge that it can hurt and it won’t make it any less meaningful. You’ll always feel like you lose a lot more than you gain. Try not to hate your slippery hands too much.
Thank you for reading Delicate this week. I hope your prayers are heard.
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DELICACIES OF THE WEEK
Miss Laufey has released a new album and I am absolutely in love with it.
The interlude brought me to tears, and tracks like ‘Dreamer’, ‘Second Best’ (THE BRIDGE!!!!!!), ‘Haunted’, ‘While You Were Sleeping’ and ‘Serendipity’ happen to be some of my new favorites.
Personally in her first album she explored sounds and emotions more openly, this one fixates a lot more on romantic love and the sensation of falling, but it doesn’t make me like it any less. I wonder if she’ll also release a live version of this one. Bewitched is part of my ‘Albums of 2023’ list. I wonder what albums happen to be your favorites this year.
Also, although many of you might not listen to foreign music, Kim Sejeong has released her newest album, which happens to be her very first full one, ‘Door’. Beyond the incredible sense of pride I feel about her multiple writing credits, there’s an ever present genuineness to each song. She sings with her heart on her sleeve, her voice carries each emotion like the ocean carries its waves to the shore. Gently but with a strength you can’t ignore. Perfect for fans of IU.
My favourites were ‘If We Do’, ‘Sea of Hope’, ‘Indigo Promise’, ‘Over the Rainbow’, ‘In the Rain’ and ‘Voyage’.
Speaking of IU, watch Sejeong’s episode of ‘Palette’ if you’d like. These are two artists I love dearly, it was a very healing watch.
Also I don’t think I spoke about it, but Hozier’s latest album was also magnificent!!!
‘De Selby’ (Both parts), ‘Son of Nyx’, ‘I, Carrion (Icarian)’, ‘Abstract (Psychopomp)’ and ‘First Light’ have to be a couple of my favorites.
SONGS OF THE WEEK: if we do by kim sejeong , bewitched by laufey and seabed eden (live at milton court) by ichiko aoba => delicate’s spotify playlist!
i love your writing. you inspire me to pick up a pen again after years