It seems an insane privilege to be able to read something like that and then be able to say something, anything, to the author. I am humbled and small in the presence of such authentic beauty, such heartbreak, such power.
And, I realize, I am lucky. Your Covid was not my Covid. We left LA to stay with my wife's parents in central Washington for the worst months of isolation, which never were as bad out west as they were out east anyway. Our son had a wonderful second birthday surrounded by a dozen cousins. I had just gotten hired for a cushy remote job.
It's easy for someone like me to forget how very much suffering there was in 2020. It's important for someone like you to help me remember.
But I am even more moved by your exploration of memory itself. How it works, how it doesn't, what it does, what it's for. All our stories are relentlessly dissolved in the acid bath of time. It seems to me our only hope is that our record is kept in some way we cannot fathom on this mortal coil.
At risk of clichéd hyperbole i just have to say that this entire piece is incredible. Haunting and powerful and personal and universal in its humanity.
I feel like a ghost from the future haunting the embers of your past work. They burst into flame from the first line read. Cannot wait to savor your other works.
Thanks, E.T. This is really kind of you. I reread it this morning after this comment. It didn't get much of a response at the time, and I decided it was a miss. I'm pretty much last comment in determines how I feel about what I write. I should really only trust how I feel when I hit Publish. After that it is a rollercoaster ride for better or worse. So, anyway, this morning I decided it was good again. It brought back that whole time Since this may never get another comment, your note is a nice epitaph. 😀 (In the spirit of all of this, I'm listening to Stella Blue now.)
Back again having just reread this courtesy of Flashback Friday. Hits with the same knockout emotion. I think the only reason I was able to comment at all the first time through was because I was surprised and a little disheartened that writing like this didn’t get more of a response.
But maybe it’s the nature of writing like this - the close to home trauma it brings back up to the surface - that makes it really hard to respond to.
It’s crazy that work like this lies hidden in the cracks. I (like to think I know) Good, and this is Great. Of course it’s subjective, but I can’t and won’t live in a world where something like this isn’t considered universally moving.
I felt the same way publishing Crashing A Funeral.
One of the stunning discoveries of Substack is how much insanely good writing is here, some of it, like you say, "great." I think the publishing business has a real problem which doesn't exactly break my heart. The funny thing is that by the time I have a "platform" I won't need their platform and they'll want mine. Upside down somehow.
100% agree. Substack is a special place and the publishing industry seems to be splintering under its own weight. My writing has improved leaps and bounds just being here for two months.
Thank you for sharing this essay on another Substack I visit. I was overwhelmed and tearful reading it and remembering... so many feelings I put aside. Did I forget or put similar memories in my fire? Stella Blue was beautiful, too. Maybe this life is one big dream song?
I did as asked and played Stella Blue, at the point suggested. Had just over three minutes of the song left after I finished reading so just sat quietly, listening, and forming my own false memory of seeing those white refrigerator trucks in the parking lot. Now my brain doesn’t know what’s yours or mine, real or fiction, but I’m sending prayers up for every soul whose corporeal self ended up in there, regardless. Your writing is transporting to the point where it’s almost dangerous. Almost…
So moving and heartfelt and frightening, despairing and hopeful at the same time. From fire to fire, this piece moves lie a poem. Remarkably written and the passages joined. The pandemic and so much more. Gorgeous, Adam.
I am so touched by all your writings, Adam. This one is so powerful, and I kept thinking about it late last night. Thank you for putting into words so many of my thoughts and feelings!
Mary Lou, you are an angel. There's been some really nice feedback today on this piece. It is soooo nice to hear that I'm making a connection. It can get very quiet after posting things! I've been thinking for months about how those days are slipping away. You can come say hello in these comments any time! Would love to meet with your family when you're in town here. We're in Cobble Hill now, so a stone's throw.
Adam, this is a very moving piece. I lived through the pandemics rather safely. I was in the Netherlands. My organization sent us home at the first serious signs and I worked from home for a full year.it was relatively safe and we could go outside and have a walk, having few people around. However, I remember the isolation, the ghastly death toll and the feeling of being stuck. I think there will be further works about the pandemics.
Any attempt to share words here feels futile, they too have been whittled down and are now burning with all your discarded memories, save your last, alongside pure feeling. Thank you Adam.
I read this halfway trying to write a piece on trust. And I had arrived at forgetting. The grace of it. The song of remembering. Keeping the lines that work, that are good to bring along....
You are a writer of songs my friend. So often you are able to move me when stuck, thank you
It seems an insane privilege to be able to read something like that and then be able to say something, anything, to the author. I am humbled and small in the presence of such authentic beauty, such heartbreak, such power.
And, I realize, I am lucky. Your Covid was not my Covid. We left LA to stay with my wife's parents in central Washington for the worst months of isolation, which never were as bad out west as they were out east anyway. Our son had a wonderful second birthday surrounded by a dozen cousins. I had just gotten hired for a cushy remote job.
It's easy for someone like me to forget how very much suffering there was in 2020. It's important for someone like you to help me remember.
But I am even more moved by your exploration of memory itself. How it works, how it doesn't, what it does, what it's for. All our stories are relentlessly dissolved in the acid bath of time. It seems to me our only hope is that our record is kept in some way we cannot fathom on this mortal coil.
Thank you, J.E. I responded in Notes for this moving acknowledgement.
And, yes, the acid bath of time. That's exactly right. To think that someday the universe won't remember dolphins fills me with sadness.
At risk of clichéd hyperbole i just have to say that this entire piece is incredible. Haunting and powerful and personal and universal in its humanity.
I feel like a ghost from the future haunting the embers of your past work. They burst into flame from the first line read. Cannot wait to savor your other works.
Thanks, E.T. This is really kind of you. I reread it this morning after this comment. It didn't get much of a response at the time, and I decided it was a miss. I'm pretty much last comment in determines how I feel about what I write. I should really only trust how I feel when I hit Publish. After that it is a rollercoaster ride for better or worse. So, anyway, this morning I decided it was good again. It brought back that whole time Since this may never get another comment, your note is a nice epitaph. 😀 (In the spirit of all of this, I'm listening to Stella Blue now.)
Back again having just reread this courtesy of Flashback Friday. Hits with the same knockout emotion. I think the only reason I was able to comment at all the first time through was because I was surprised and a little disheartened that writing like this didn’t get more of a response.
But maybe it’s the nature of writing like this - the close to home trauma it brings back up to the surface - that makes it really hard to respond to.
It’s crazy that work like this lies hidden in the cracks. I (like to think I know) Good, and this is Great. Of course it’s subjective, but I can’t and won’t live in a world where something like this isn’t considered universally moving.
I felt the same way publishing Crashing A Funeral.
One of the stunning discoveries of Substack is how much insanely good writing is here, some of it, like you say, "great." I think the publishing business has a real problem which doesn't exactly break my heart. The funny thing is that by the time I have a "platform" I won't need their platform and they'll want mine. Upside down somehow.
100% agree. Substack is a special place and the publishing industry seems to be splintering under its own weight. My writing has improved leaps and bounds just being here for two months.
Thank you for sharing this essay on another Substack I visit. I was overwhelmed and tearful reading it and remembering... so many feelings I put aside. Did I forget or put similar memories in my fire? Stella Blue was beautiful, too. Maybe this life is one big dream song?
What a lovely note. I’m so glad you found my work. 🙏
I did as asked and played Stella Blue, at the point suggested. Had just over three minutes of the song left after I finished reading so just sat quietly, listening, and forming my own false memory of seeing those white refrigerator trucks in the parking lot. Now my brain doesn’t know what’s yours or mine, real or fiction, but I’m sending prayers up for every soul whose corporeal self ended up in there, regardless. Your writing is transporting to the point where it’s almost dangerous. Almost…
So moving and heartfelt and frightening, despairing and hopeful at the same time. From fire to fire, this piece moves lie a poem. Remarkably written and the passages joined. The pandemic and so much more. Gorgeous, Adam.
Tears
🙏
I am so touched by all your writings, Adam. This one is so powerful, and I kept thinking about it late last night. Thank you for putting into words so many of my thoughts and feelings!
Love you,
Mary Lou
Mary Lou, you are an angel. There's been some really nice feedback today on this piece. It is soooo nice to hear that I'm making a connection. It can get very quiet after posting things! I've been thinking for months about how those days are slipping away. You can come say hello in these comments any time! Would love to meet with your family when you're in town here. We're in Cobble Hill now, so a stone's throw.
Adam, this is a very moving piece. I lived through the pandemics rather safely. I was in the Netherlands. My organization sent us home at the first serious signs and I worked from home for a full year.it was relatively safe and we could go outside and have a walk, having few people around. However, I remember the isolation, the ghastly death toll and the feeling of being stuck. I think there will be further works about the pandemics.
Any attempt to share words here feels futile, they too have been whittled down and are now burning with all your discarded memories, save your last, alongside pure feeling. Thank you Adam.
O M G
I read this halfway trying to write a piece on trust. And I had arrived at forgetting. The grace of it. The song of remembering. Keeping the lines that work, that are good to bring along....
You are a writer of songs my friend. So often you are able to move me when stuck, thank you
What an unexpected and gratifying acknowledgment.
I believe you are right keeping that memory, Adam.