I so wanted to know these people, that I kept rereading your precious story. Then I realized I do know them—my Dad’s family are all like this.
And my Dad, a minister for 35 years, forgot most things as he was living, then dying of Alzheimer’s…except who I was, and how much he enjoyed praying for each person he encountered—whether he actually knew you or not! Once again, thank you for the engaging trip down memory lane. 🥰
oh, i love “wild abandon” so much! so often, your posts feel like the antidote to all the evil heart-wrenching crap i see and read about every day. there is still wonder and kindness and humor to turn to. the gears of your mind are so fun to see on the page.
You are articulating exactly my purpose and wish for readers to feel. This incident (or the prompt for it, anyway) happened just the other day. We went on an overnight little hols, and I was eager to get this down when we got back. We went to MASS MoCa, as you can see from the ppic of R in the Turrell piece. xxL
"What if you wanted a life that connected you in the moment to anything that was happening to you." ... along with "at some point you were going to be a machine part rusting in a plot of land overgrown with crab grass." As in: Hold both thoughts.
I do like Richard's “You could have asked her to pray for a new jacket.” But then you'd lose your vagabond status.
And this seems to be your writing mantra: "It was a little bit true. ... I love the beauty of indeterminacy."
"Anything I have written worth your time is a love letter to something." I have lost count of the love letters and this one is gorgeous -- it fizzles and sparks with life, with why it's still wonderful to be alive.
I find your writing fascinating. For example that piece the other day about Paul Newman and his wife. I’m not interested in either of them but you had me engrossed from beginning to end.
Same with this. It’s like little fireworks of recognition all the time. Energising and wonderful.
Thanks! If you are interested in some of the techniques, you are welcome to come to the Zoom conversation tomorrow from 3 to 4 EST. Just email me, and I will email you the Zoom link.
I was only one of those many little squares on the Zoom so it was probably not obtrusive, but I was toppling over and falling asleep and I just wanted you to know that that was not a commentary on the proceedings (which I found very helpful and struggled to stay awake for) but on my being 80 and having just taken part in a karate wood breaking workshop.
Enjoyed the zoom today....felt a little like a bumpkin in the blizzard of sparks going off every two seconds. You remind me of a long time friend..."Anything I have written worth your time is a love letter to something."...the best hint I got when I was teaching was reading that in a study of piano child prodigies who went on to have a career as an adult. The only thing that stood out across the bunch of them was that their first teacher was good at conveying how much they loved playing. Well, I thought, I can do that...no fancy lesson plan needed. You certainly radiate that. Feel lucky to bump into you.
I get so much pleasure from this piece. I love how your narrator is in the middle of it all, thinking about life and death in the midst of everyday experience: “The whole place radiates a sense of building up and tearing down as simultaneous experiences, and again, you’re reminded of how existence works the same way, and you see a mind at the center of it, living amid this arrangement, a mind at peace with entropy and chaos. “ This mind at peace isn’t mine, or hers, but she proposes it and then I want to follow her and her mind anywhere.
What I loved here is how the piece keeps refusing to decide whether it is about plants, strangers, entropy, prayer, jackets, or writing — and somehow that refusal becomes the shape of it.
The rusting machinery matters. The missing plants matter. Stella’s prayers matter. The jacket matters. Not because they resolve into one neat meaning, but because the narrator’s attention makes them belong to the same weather system.
And then this line: “Anything I have written worth your time is a love letter to something.”
That feels less like a closing thought than a quiet ars poetica for the whole piece...
Love your descriptions and people and things, from different worlds still exist in the same world nothing judged more real or valuable or sacred than anything else.
I so wanted to know these people, that I kept rereading your precious story. Then I realized I do know them—my Dad’s family are all like this.
And my Dad, a minister for 35 years, forgot most things as he was living, then dying of Alzheimer’s…except who I was, and how much he enjoyed praying for each person he encountered—whether he actually knew you or not! Once again, thank you for the engaging trip down memory lane. 🥰
oh, i love “wild abandon” so much! so often, your posts feel like the antidote to all the evil heart-wrenching crap i see and read about every day. there is still wonder and kindness and humor to turn to. the gears of your mind are so fun to see on the page.
You are articulating exactly my purpose and wish for readers to feel. This incident (or the prompt for it, anyway) happened just the other day. We went on an overnight little hols, and I was eager to get this down when we got back. We went to MASS MoCa, as you can see from the ppic of R in the Turrell piece. xxL
also a great shot in the blue!
"What if you wanted a life that connected you in the moment to anything that was happening to you." ... along with "at some point you were going to be a machine part rusting in a plot of land overgrown with crab grass." As in: Hold both thoughts.
I do like Richard's “You could have asked her to pray for a new jacket.” But then you'd lose your vagabond status.
And this seems to be your writing mantra: "It was a little bit true. ... I love the beauty of indeterminacy."
Nailed it. xxL
"Anything I have written worth your time is a love letter to something." I have lost count of the love letters and this one is gorgeous -- it fizzles and sparks with life, with why it's still wonderful to be alive.
You fizz the same way!
I find your writing fascinating. For example that piece the other day about Paul Newman and his wife. I’m not interested in either of them but you had me engrossed from beginning to end.
Same with this. It’s like little fireworks of recognition all the time. Energising and wonderful.
Thanks!
Thanks! If you are interested in some of the techniques, you are welcome to come to the Zoom conversation tomorrow from 3 to 4 EST. Just email me, and I will email you the Zoom link.
How do I email you? I struggle with this app tbh.
Lauriestone@substack.com
The world isn't filled with good people, but they're there if you look for them.
You are one of them.
Loved the story, not so sure about the man in blue. It looks like you should keep the jacket, despite my concerns, at least as fiction.
The fictional jacket is not going to be retired any time soon. xxL
I was only one of those many little squares on the Zoom so it was probably not obtrusive, but I was toppling over and falling asleep and I just wanted you to know that that was not a commentary on the proceedings (which I found very helpful and struggled to stay awake for) but on my being 80 and having just taken part in a karate wood breaking workshop.
I didn't see you, and no worries. I'm glad you were there.
(Psst—Richard is adorable)
So adorable.
This too "She leaned forward a little from the weight of her joy"....familiar, but I've never seen it in words.
I never thought of it before. Boom, it was just there as a response to her posture.
Enjoyed the zoom today....felt a little like a bumpkin in the blizzard of sparks going off every two seconds. You remind me of a long time friend..."Anything I have written worth your time is a love letter to something."...the best hint I got when I was teaching was reading that in a study of piano child prodigies who went on to have a career as an adult. The only thing that stood out across the bunch of them was that their first teacher was good at conveying how much they loved playing. Well, I thought, I can do that...no fancy lesson plan needed. You certainly radiate that. Feel lucky to bump into you.
I'm so glad you were there.
Thanks Laurie…Will pony up $25 soon,a day or two
I get so much pleasure from this piece. I love how your narrator is in the middle of it all, thinking about life and death in the midst of everyday experience: “The whole place radiates a sense of building up and tearing down as simultaneous experiences, and again, you’re reminded of how existence works the same way, and you see a mind at the center of it, living amid this arrangement, a mind at peace with entropy and chaos. “ This mind at peace isn’t mine, or hers, but she proposes it and then I want to follow her and her mind anywhere.
Thanks!
What I loved here is how the piece keeps refusing to decide whether it is about plants, strangers, entropy, prayer, jackets, or writing — and somehow that refusal becomes the shape of it.
The rusting machinery matters. The missing plants matter. Stella’s prayers matter. The jacket matters. Not because they resolve into one neat meaning, but because the narrator’s attention makes them belong to the same weather system.
And then this line: “Anything I have written worth your time is a love letter to something.”
That feels less like a closing thought than a quiet ars poetica for the whole piece...
I appreciate your reading!
I love this so much. So often, reading your writing, I feel so tender and weepy and delighted, it’s lovely.
Thanks! What a great name . . . kind of evokes you.
Love your descriptions and people and things, from different worlds still exist in the same world nothing judged more real or valuable or sacred than anything else.
Beautiful story...made me joyful. Thanks!
Thanks for being a paid subscriber and helping the stack to continue. xxL
Wonderful story. You put me in the country of generosity and sun and flowers and if it’s in an old car graveyard too, that’s just another piece of it.
Thanks, love, very glad to hear I offered you some cheer. Been thinking about you. xxL