This was definitely a favorite prompt of mine. Re-reading it now, it reminds me of when I watched the documentary "Roadrunner" recently, which commemorated the life and death of the late bad boy chef and food writer Anthony Bourdain. This is not exactly on point, but it's slightly relevant.
Watching the film was a pleasant and entertaining experience. It was like watching a new episode of "Parts Unknown." Only it wasn't. The film was an epitaph, a funeral wake. There was a lot of pain I felt when watching it. A few times I was becoming choked up, holding back tears.
I admired Anthony, maybe even lionized him (I have a tattoo on my arm dedicated to him). But I know for certain that even in death he would hate being placed on a pedestal. He despised hero worship. He understood that every individual is deeply flawed. You can be beautiful and have ugly, anti-social tendencies. You can be the coolest person in the room but still be plagued with social anxiety. There's a moral ambiguity to all of us. People who suffer depression like Anthony, myself included, struggle to look in the mirror and see someone worth saving. There are two separate realities in our lives: blissful happiness and nihilistic despair. They bifurcate our existence, dividing our sense of self. We're carefully balancing on a shaking tumultuous tightrope that runs down that divide.
It's been more than a year since his death. He left a permanent mark in my life as he did for countless others. When I think about his suicide, I feel plagued with melancholic sadness. But at some point--not immediately, but eventually--I stop dwelling on his death and remember his creative art and personhood. I remember some invaluable lessons he taught me: don't just walk towards the unknown. Move towards it in a sprinting dash. Run and never yield as if your life depended on it. There is a sense of real joy and pure fulfillment when we find a meaningful connections in people and various parts of the world that we are afraid to look at.
Kyle, this is really gorgeous—and holds so much truth. We contain multitudes, as Walt Whitman so wisely wrote. We are also paradoxes, sometimes odds with ourselves. It's sometimes difficult to make space for all of it, and what a relief when we do. Sending love <3
The letter to a stranger is one of my favorite prompts. Early in the pandemic I met a stranger who has stayed with me for awhile.
Dear Stranger,
The first time we passed on my morning walk, I only noticed that you were a young man in a hoodie. It was dusky because I walk very early. You were coming toward me with the hood on your hoodie up, baggie clothes, carrying your skateboard. No matter how safe I think I am walking in the dark, there is always a moment of question when a stranger approaches.
I don’t remember if we said, “Good morning”, the first or the third time our paths crossed, but once we finally did and you smiled, I knew it was okay. The old adage that a smile says 1000 words was true for our first interaction. The smile was sweet, brief and reassuring.
We passed many more times that spring and I learned to recognize you from a block away, your skateboard, your east gait, your hoodie.
One day I saw the “Red Rocks College” on your hoodie. I had been to the campus off Kipling, not far from where we crossed paths. So, I stopped and you did too. I asked, “Do you go to school at Red Rocks off Kipling?” “I go to Red Rocks but at the campus on 6th”, a few miles away. “Oh, I wondered if maybe you were walking to school.” “No, I’m going to work at Walmart”, a few blocks away. I asked what he was studying and it had something to do with music and mixing.
I had taken a few classes at Red Rocks years ago to fill in a business degree with history and art so I could pursue a Master’s in Education. It is the epitome of an urban community college, offering degrees, certificates and skills programs. I loved the energy there and the classes I took were surprisingly enjoyable and informative. I was looking for something quick, easy, cheap and I still remember things I learned in those classes.
Not too long after that conversation, you were gone. Maybe summer changed your schedule at work and school, maybe your family moved, maybe you got a car or a scooter. Like those classes at Red Rocks, I remember you and our brief “Good Mornings.”
This is a beautiful prompt, the scene and emotions are communicated so palpably in such a brief narrative. There are many ways to respond to this one; the frame and tone used suited a recent encounter I had.
To the Addict at the Gallery Benefit:
I was the object, a model wearing artisanally-crafted clothes for sale, and you were the subject, a member of the recovery group to which a share of sales would be donated. We were both human bodies on display. I hadn’t known that the event was supporting addicts; I had only showed up to lend my support, put my slender frame to use in exchange for a change of scene.
You wore a punk rock tank clinging to your not just slender - bony - frame, which you’ve decorated with whimsical tattoos. Your frizzed hair had three colors in it - a mixed signal of your age and the multitude of years you’ve packed inside it. Your feet shuffled in bright pink fuzzy sandals that I couldn’t help but wonder how you kept clean, and whether they would still be yours at the end of the day. In your neon-painted, ring-studded hand you clasped a hard seltzer, so I thought that alcohol might not be your vice. Remembered that I know nothing about what it takes to be sober from anything else.
Most people at the event had come to support, but didn’t have the money to provide the ultimate, intended support of a sale. Twinkies and water were on offer, something to fill hands as they made a dutiful tour around the room and wondered, what next? I wanted to tell you that I liked the boldness in your style. I wanted to tell you that I appreciated the thrill you brought into that room of hesitant figures. I wanted to tell you that I wished I didn’t only know how to say these things in my head, that I could also say them out loud, to you, without stumbling over noticing and not noticing this great divide between us.
This was definitely a favorite prompt of mine. Re-reading it now, it reminds me of when I watched the documentary "Roadrunner" recently, which commemorated the life and death of the late bad boy chef and food writer Anthony Bourdain. This is not exactly on point, but it's slightly relevant.
Watching the film was a pleasant and entertaining experience. It was like watching a new episode of "Parts Unknown." Only it wasn't. The film was an epitaph, a funeral wake. There was a lot of pain I felt when watching it. A few times I was becoming choked up, holding back tears.
I admired Anthony, maybe even lionized him (I have a tattoo on my arm dedicated to him). But I know for certain that even in death he would hate being placed on a pedestal. He despised hero worship. He understood that every individual is deeply flawed. You can be beautiful and have ugly, anti-social tendencies. You can be the coolest person in the room but still be plagued with social anxiety. There's a moral ambiguity to all of us. People who suffer depression like Anthony, myself included, struggle to look in the mirror and see someone worth saving. There are two separate realities in our lives: blissful happiness and nihilistic despair. They bifurcate our existence, dividing our sense of self. We're carefully balancing on a shaking tumultuous tightrope that runs down that divide.
It's been more than a year since his death. He left a permanent mark in my life as he did for countless others. When I think about his suicide, I feel plagued with melancholic sadness. But at some point--not immediately, but eventually--I stop dwelling on his death and remember his creative art and personhood. I remember some invaluable lessons he taught me: don't just walk towards the unknown. Move towards it in a sprinting dash. Run and never yield as if your life depended on it. There is a sense of real joy and pure fulfillment when we find a meaningful connections in people and various parts of the world that we are afraid to look at.
Kyle, this is really gorgeous—and holds so much truth. We contain multitudes, as Walt Whitman so wisely wrote. We are also paradoxes, sometimes odds with ourselves. It's sometimes difficult to make space for all of it, and what a relief when we do. Sending love <3
Thank you so much, Suleika. Your words are the serotonin boost I needed for today <3
The letter to a stranger is one of my favorite prompts. Early in the pandemic I met a stranger who has stayed with me for awhile.
Dear Stranger,
The first time we passed on my morning walk, I only noticed that you were a young man in a hoodie. It was dusky because I walk very early. You were coming toward me with the hood on your hoodie up, baggie clothes, carrying your skateboard. No matter how safe I think I am walking in the dark, there is always a moment of question when a stranger approaches.
I don’t remember if we said, “Good morning”, the first or the third time our paths crossed, but once we finally did and you smiled, I knew it was okay. The old adage that a smile says 1000 words was true for our first interaction. The smile was sweet, brief and reassuring.
We passed many more times that spring and I learned to recognize you from a block away, your skateboard, your east gait, your hoodie.
One day I saw the “Red Rocks College” on your hoodie. I had been to the campus off Kipling, not far from where we crossed paths. So, I stopped and you did too. I asked, “Do you go to school at Red Rocks off Kipling?” “I go to Red Rocks but at the campus on 6th”, a few miles away. “Oh, I wondered if maybe you were walking to school.” “No, I’m going to work at Walmart”, a few blocks away. I asked what he was studying and it had something to do with music and mixing.
I had taken a few classes at Red Rocks years ago to fill in a business degree with history and art so I could pursue a Master’s in Education. It is the epitome of an urban community college, offering degrees, certificates and skills programs. I loved the energy there and the classes I took were surprisingly enjoyable and informative. I was looking for something quick, easy, cheap and I still remember things I learned in those classes.
Not too long after that conversation, you were gone. Maybe summer changed your schedule at work and school, maybe your family moved, maybe you got a car or a scooter. Like those classes at Red Rocks, I remember you and our brief “Good Mornings.”
I love the way the relationship builds - subtly, naturally, and is then released with a graceful exhale.
This is a beautiful prompt, the scene and emotions are communicated so palpably in such a brief narrative. There are many ways to respond to this one; the frame and tone used suited a recent encounter I had.
To the Addict at the Gallery Benefit:
I was the object, a model wearing artisanally-crafted clothes for sale, and you were the subject, a member of the recovery group to which a share of sales would be donated. We were both human bodies on display. I hadn’t known that the event was supporting addicts; I had only showed up to lend my support, put my slender frame to use in exchange for a change of scene.
You wore a punk rock tank clinging to your not just slender - bony - frame, which you’ve decorated with whimsical tattoos. Your frizzed hair had three colors in it - a mixed signal of your age and the multitude of years you’ve packed inside it. Your feet shuffled in bright pink fuzzy sandals that I couldn’t help but wonder how you kept clean, and whether they would still be yours at the end of the day. In your neon-painted, ring-studded hand you clasped a hard seltzer, so I thought that alcohol might not be your vice. Remembered that I know nothing about what it takes to be sober from anything else.
Most people at the event had come to support, but didn’t have the money to provide the ultimate, intended support of a sale. Twinkies and water were on offer, something to fill hands as they made a dutiful tour around the room and wondered, what next? I wanted to tell you that I liked the boldness in your style. I wanted to tell you that I appreciated the thrill you brought into that room of hesitant figures. I wanted to tell you that I wished I didn’t only know how to say these things in my head, that I could also say them out loud, to you, without stumbling over noticing and not noticing this great divide between us.
Beautiful story and tribute to Danielle, Suleika. Reminded me of the artist Robert Pope and his paintings:
https://blog.sevenponds.com/soulful-expressions/illness-and-healing-images-of-cancer-by-robert-pope