August's Letters
“Sometimes it’s all just a little too much…on the heart.” -Colman Domingo
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8.2.24
Hello there,
Long time. In the last letter I spoke on ambivalence. In the last few letters, I’ve spoken on great sadness and feeling run down and distraught by the state of the world. For the past four months I haven’t moved from my grief-stricken post. And thus, I haven’t had anything new to share with you. I don’t enjoy speaking when I have nothing new to say. I am still here, for better or worse and certainly a bit worse for the wear.
I’ve been experiencing a serious feeling of strangeness when asked how I’m doing. Even with my closest friends, I find myself struggling with the inquiry. I can hold, I can listen, I can laugh, but I am awash in mourning. I’m not able to feel beyond the state of things at the moment, so my interior life mirrors my exterior realities more than usual. I’m feeling distracted, unkind to myself, irritable, impatient, isolated, unsure, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely. I’m wondering about how people manage to live such uncritical lives and feel fulfilled. The political landscape has felt even more dire, exacerbating all these horribly difficult feelings. I’ve seen otherwise intelligent people with political stances that prove, in reality, they are only bothered by the manifold tactics of oppression when they themselves are the victims. When this is not the case it’s, “Fuck those other people, that’s their problem.” Political conversations with elders have been particularly charged, leaning entirely toward lesser of two evils rhetoric and foregoing criticality altogether. Most artists I engage with, across all fields, are not doing well. Industry wide, many of us are struggling tremendously and experiencing the worst year of our careers.
July and August hold the anniversaries of very painful memories, and so sadness feels a bit more punctuated than before. I miss the boy who broke my heart with an exceptionally pointed agony. I miss sitting next to him on the couch while he fights sleep at the end of a long day. I miss the smell of his Jo Malone cologne and the deep, woolen texture of his voice. I miss his laugh and his hair and his lips and his face and his afro-pessimism and his pro-Blackness and his grandmother and his tendency to play tour guide every place we’d go. I miss him filling in the lacunae of my life, making me feel whole.
What to do with all this missing?
The other night I stood in front of the ocean in Santa Monica, a new friend at my side. The sea appeared as black as the night itself. The sound of the crashing waves and the faint white lines from the seafoam let me know something was actually there. Save these faded white lines, it felt like I was staring into a true abyss, the edge of a world we can perceive. The sea at night is one of the scariest things in the world to me, its pull, its myth, its power. The menacing mystery and danger. It was also romantic, lovers tangled up in the sand, their distant laughter letting us know that we were not alone. I thought of him there too, how doing almost anything felt better with him by my side. The slow, dark, abysmal black of grief feels never-ending and I’m sorry I don’t have a prettier, happier letter for you.
I have been writing, on assignment and for myself. I’ve shot a few things that are coming out soon and of course I’m still making personal work. I’ve been photographing my little heart out in fact, applying for things and weathering the endless rejections, and working on many projects. I’ve been reading so much and filling up my brain with new stories, new language.
And so, I’m sad. For now, as Sloane Crosley would say, “I am only this.” LA has been quiet and lovely. My adopted LA family has turned this place into a genuine home for me and my wonderful friends have been a boon. I’m heading back East to do a little Baltimore and a little New York then flying to London for three weeks.
“It’s an awful thing to think about, the way that love never dies.” -James Baldwin
8.17.24
Today makes one week that I’ve been in the UK. Over the past two weeks I’ve traveled between six states and three countries on very little rest. It has been exhilarating. The stuff of my wildest dreams. Moving slowly, taking notes, making images, listening, and laughing. This is life. This is the life that I’m after and in so many ways, the life I now fully possess.
Once I landed, and was finally able to get inside of Michael’s apartment, I put down my luggage and squeezed my London Bestie, Yomi, as tightly as I could, then jumped into his car for a weekend road trip to Bath and Cornwall.
This is my second time doing a road trip through a moment of political unrest. The first was during the George Floyd protests of 2020, a protest about something meaningful and integral. This time, a bunch of stupid, angry white people were using the murder of three little girls as an excuse to behave like violent animals and espouse their Islamophobia. Unsurprising, but saddening nonetheless.
I’ve been wanting to travel to the English countryside forever. I’ve been compiling a list of places from the many, many British sitcoms and films that I watch. Barry Lyndon inspired the trip to Bath. About Time inspired the trip to Cornwall (and Broadchurch the show, but I digress). It was special. Yomi is the perfect companion for so many things in life. He is soothing, funny, capacious, patient, present, and protective. I felt safe, minus the small roads and the huge oil tanker accident that caused the craziest delays known to man.
In Bath, the highlight was an enormous hill that I was so eager to climb. This serene patch of land looked out at the city and created the loveliest welcome for us. Yomi played music that framed the experience with that perfectly cinematic bit of yearning and melancholy. We walked through town, had absolutely rancid Caribbean food (Yomi’s call), admired the seagulls at the waterway, then got ice cream and sat on a bench and talked before bed. It was the kind of platonic romance that I cherish the most in my friendships, and it was a balm.
Where Bath was all excitement, bewilderment, and bucolic views, Cornwall was where the introspection and grief settled at the bottom. When we arrived, the sun had begun to set. We were staying on a property that had a farm in the back with three horses. I rushed out to greet them, scared and excited as I brushed my hands across their manes. They were majestic, gentle creatures. I made a few exposures, and then Yomi and I took in a perfect sunset; the farm was wind-strewn in orange and purple hues, the pale blue ocean off in the distance. I was in awe.
That night, after dinner, when Yomi and I returned to the property, I got out of the car and he tapped me on the shoulder, gesturing toward the sky. It was astounding. The stars were everywhere, brighter than I’ve ever seen. They were crystal clear and brilliant. Yomi stood there for about two minutes, but I could barely catch my breath. It was painstakingly beautiful. I felt like I was the only person in the world. Then came the shooting stars, one right after the other. When I saw the first one, I gasped and rushed to make a wish, cobbling together something random. But as the other stars shot across the night’s sky, shamefully, I wished for the boy who broke my heart.
I closed my eyes and listened for the deep timber of his voice, the trundling baritone of his laugh. I had imagined him in all the places that we traveled to, not because Yomi wasn’t a perfect companion, but because he is the sound rattling around in my brain. He is what I think of when I get quiet, that open wound, that gaping maw. He’s the image etched into my mind whenever I experience the emotional extremes of sadness, romance, pleasure, or an overwhelming sense of beauty. I imagine how much he would love this. I imagine every star in the sky spelling out his name. I sit quietly, tears streaming, and every second of silence emphasizing his absence.
Grief will do this to you. It will reduce you. It will jog behind you as you move through your life, at times keeping such a distance that you allow yourself to believe that you’ve outpaced it, but as soon as you stop moving, stop running, there it is, no sweat at its brow, completely unmoved by your efforts. And so, the three of us sat there in silence, me, him, and my grief, illuminated by the stars.
The next day Yomi and I had coffee and drove to Sennen Cove, an overlook that once again moved me to silent awe. I have always dreamt of sitting in tall grass on a cliff’s edge, a specific dream I know, but I’m a city girl, and these distant, scenic places that you only find in books, films, and television have long fascinated me. Yomi and I sat in the lush Cornish heath, the tall marram grass, shepherd’s purse, and wildflowers all around. We made portraits and videos and then we hit the road back to London. The drive was hellacious, but we eventually made it and my time in my favorite city could officially commence.
Reading, Watching, & Listening…
I’ve just finished reading The Long Run by Stacey D’Erasmo, lured to the book by this fantastic appraisal in the New Yorker. I will never forget how this book made me feel, how it made me cry in public, how its, at times, simple deductions and estimations of other people’s lives began to gather and make thunderous noise. I’ll never forget how it felt like church in my hands, like the pastor, Stacey, was speaking directly to me, what I’m going through, and where I am in my career, my first period of lull, the end of an era. This book is a profound offering to those sitting in the struggle of the artist’s life, a buoy. The writing was so personal, so honest, but the craft of this book, the structure of these essays was nothing short of outstanding. It’s my favorite book of 2024 so far.
I’m currently reading Grief is For People, a book that I struggle so much to put down. A book that straddles the line between gut-busting comedy and gut-wrenching prose in a way I’ve never seen before. I won’t go too deep on this one as I’m finishing it up now, but it’s a very special love letter to a departed friend which delves deep into the confusing whirlpool of the “five stages” of grief.
I recently finished Bluets by Maggie Nelson and it was such a delicate triumph of a book. A slim read, Nelson didn’t waste a single word in this brutal, nasty, sexy, funny, heartbreaking mediation on the color blue, the blueness of life, and the blueness of yearning.
One of the best books that I’ve read over the past few years was Lilly Dancyger’s First Love. I just cannot get over it. The essays in this book, steeped deeply in themes of loss, friendship, transition, and grief, were a master class in powerful, memorable writing. The essay about “Sad Girls” and how these online aesthetics can be a cry for help for those dealing with suicidality was phenomenal. Much like The Long Run, I went through every possible emotion while reading First Love and I wouldn’t shut up about it. I’m excited to read it again.
I loved reading Peter Hujar’s Day, a brief but insightful book about a day in the life of Peter Hujar, recorded and transcribed by Linda Rosenkrantz. What felt most interesting to me about the book, as it was a quite literal transcript without much/any literary personality, was how relatable Hujar’s life was to my own. How much he slept, how much he did in a day, his movement between a life in poverty while doing extraordinary things. It was such an affirming document but underscored how un-valued an artist’s life is, especially during his lifetime.
I slowly, patiently devoured The Sorrow of Others by Ada Zhang, a painfully delicate collection of short stories about very normal people with vary complex internal and external worlds. The stories, focusing exclusively on Asian and Asian American lives, were simple yet eloquent. There is so much to love about Ada Zhang’s writing style. The sentences are pristine and vibrant, if not a little sterile. At the same time, the writing is dripping with love, wet with humanity. I found myself punctured by the simplicity of each story’s climax. I also loved the feeling of timelessness and placelessness.
I was roused out of my seat by this piece of excellent criticism by Yaya Azariah Clarke, who takes a look at the work of photographer Gabriel Moses. How exciting and refreshing it was to read something so honest and critical–a writer whose criticism is so patient, ego-less, and eviscerating. I also really appreciated the post she shared on Instagram about photographer Nico Froehlich who is a Zionist and another non-Black person whose body of work consists almost entirely of Black people. It's gross, he’s gross, and we need more people being critical of people who do not mean us well. But I digress. Clarke is a brilliant, brave, and exciting writer and makes me want to step my shit up to her level.
Sometimes, when my feelings overwhelm me into silence and I struggle to find the words, I revisit Hilton Als. There are so many eras of Als’ work but I’m partial to his earlier New Yorker entries. I revisited his unbelievable profile of Richard Pryor which took every second of this gifted comedian’s life into account to craft this scathing, enlivening love letter to a true luminary. The writing here is a celestial body of sprawling connections, whisper soft inflections, and startling criticality. It’s a joy to read it each time I revisit it. I also read, for the first time, his eulogy to Amiri Baraka. The writing here is Als’ at his best, personal, erudite, floral, and occasionally, necessarily sardonic.
This poem made me shout. I was incredibly moved by this very vulnerable piece on the body, hunger, and eating disorders. I was seriously affirmed by this writing which articulates my feelings about the complexity of friendships in this moment, precisely and with research and graphs to boot.
I’ve watched so much television and film over the past few months, it’s insane. In June I felt possessed by classic, queer, camp films, most of which featured Robin Williams who I’ve been writing a bit about. I revisited Mrs. Doubtfire which made my friend Dart and I cry repeatedly. I watched Priscilla, Queen of the Desert with my mom and Birdcage with her too. I watched To Wong Foo with my high school bestie Daisha. Four essential films for me. Truly.
I loved this new season of The Bear. It didn’t hit like Season Two but it was excellent television. I loved the episode that Ayo directed (my queen) about Tina first getting hired at The Bear and the episode with Natalie (finally) having the baby. Electric acting. And of course, a few appearances from my favorite actress Olivia Colman. The biggest critique that I have of the show is that it’s stuck in the past. Like, we understand how the characters got here. Can we please move forward? Can they please have new relationships, new drama? Can these flashbacks finally end?
This season of Interview With A Vampire was exquisite television. The writing and performances broke my brain. The final two episodes!!!!? This may be my favorite show on television right now. Dying for Season 3.
The Boys is good television but only because it’s a stupid, gory nightmare. I hate it and love it and I cannot believe I watch it at all. Cannot wait for the next season. The flying zombie sheeps???? BFFR!
I loved Presumed Innocent, excellent performances but it dragged on maybe three episodes too long. I also loved the show See on Apple TV. Amazing. It made me really appreciate Jason Mamoa as an actor, a very strange sensation. Supacell was funny, cheesy television. A cast of very fine ass actors and a kind of goofy story.
Sing Sing was a very special film. A very heart-forward and dignified film. The performances were excellent. The story was so hard to swallow. Colman Domingo who I think overacts a bit, is perfection in this film. He gives his best performance since Beale Street, better even. A perfect 10 of a film, no notes.
Bergman Island was an absolutely gorgeous film, one of the best that I’ve seen this year. La Chimera, one of the worst films that I’ve seen in my life, topped only by a film I saw right after, Afire, a film with an ending so vile that had I seen it in theaters, I would have smacked the nearest person to me in a fit of pique. The first hour and 15 minutes are a gorgeous and complex character study that does a horrible job establishing any character’s motivations. Even the intricacies of their relationships. You look up and this person is fucking that person. Turn around, this one is holding hands with that one. But nothing about his film fails harder than the ending. A rainstorm of sopping failures. Just awful, nearly ruined the entire film, no, does ruin the entire film. Watch for the beauty, stay for the masochistic attachment to disappointment and shock.
I Saw The TV Glow was… a nice try. Senseless nostalgia porn that was sweet? Beautiful? Confusing for sure. The poor man’s Donnie Darko. I am deeply appreciative to the film’s nod to Buffy The Vampire Slayer, my second favorite show of all time. They even had Tara in the movie!! Still couldn’t save it though.
Lastly, I finally got around to watching Phantom Thread. Another failed ending. Gorgeous for about 80% of the film, excellent music, sublime acting, stunning cinematography, dialogue that’s to die for, but the ending. My God. This level of stupidity. I just cannot. And this movie is among the favorites of many of my brilliant filmmaker friends who I’d like to slap the hell out of for making me watch it. I’m looking at you Z. Slap soon come.
Kiese Laymon and Deesha Philyaw have started a new podcast called Reckon True Stories and it’s working hard to replace Talk Easy as my favorite podcast. It’s funny as hell. It can be a bit awkward sometimes, but it’s probing, brilliant, and they have the most amazing guests, many of my favorite writers working today. Roxane Gay’s episode was funny as shit and the Imani Perry episode was wonderful. I loved the Alexander Chee and Hanif Abdurraqib episodes just as much.
I’ve also been loving The Baldwin 100 podcast. The episode with Dr. Jessica B. Harris felt like an education in poise. What a beautiful, beautiful voice from a literal genius. My favorite episode so far was this one featuring Dr. Eddie S. Glaude Jr. I love listening to historians and the depth of this man’s knowledge about, not just Baldwin, but the intricacies of the world Baldwin was responding to was fascinating. I loved the second half of the episode when they discuss Baldwin and Richard Wright, how Wright not only paved the way for Baldwin, he paid it, supporting him and providing him with space to write. Then Baldwin, falling victim to tokenism the way that so many Black writers have, felt compelled to “slay the father” by publishing Many Thousands Gone. This section was the most powerful and left me wanting so much more. Overall, this podcast is special. Thoughtful guests and a lovely way to celebrate the greatest of all time.
I’ve been listening to my usual podcasts, Talk Easy, Death, Sex, and Money, and The New Yorker Radio Hour. Talk Easy, quite frankly, has been falling off and it’s a bit devastating. It’s focusing far too much on celebrity, far too much on the movie business, far too much on saccharine interviews with the same structures and arcs. I’m bored by most of the episodes now. I’ve been loving On Being’s new season and I really appreciated the episode featuring the great adrienne maree brown.
Musically, I’ve been being voluntarily eviscerated by Ravyn Lenae. Each single leading up to her gorgeous new album, Bird’s Eye, had me in a fucking trance. I also LOVED Vince Staples new album, aptly named, Dark Times. He’s so fucking fine and I love his accent so much… oh yes…and the music was wonderful too. Justin, Freeman, and Étouffée are my favorite songs. Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars released one of my favorite songs of the year, Die With A Smile, out of nowhere. It’s so beautiful. I’ve been obsessed with it for days.
I don’t listen to a lot of music, but I did make this playlist of jams for my road trip with the great Joe Pug a few weeks back. I love it. I’m still learning the art of the playlist but I’m appreciating the practice. I’m working on one now that’s inspired by my road trip with Yomi.
Okay, this was a lot, bless you if you’ve made it this far. I’m wishing you a beautiful end to a very difficult summer. Praying for a more fruitful, forgiving, and pleasant fall.
Thanks for reading.
I love Vince Staples so much! And you’re right, my man is so fine lol! Have you seen his show, The Vince Staples Show, on Netflix? It perfectly captures his dry, sometimes poignant, but always on point sense of humor.
I love Vince Staples so much! And you’re right, my man is so fine lol! Have you seen his show, The Vince Staples Show, on Netflix? It perfectly captures his dry, sometimes poignant, but always on point sense of humor.