JG, I feel like anything I say will be inadequate in reaction to this. There is something deep and visceral about this piece, about the way you take us through the ghosts of your memories. I’m right there with you, walking in step through those all classrooms, remembering the sound of those printers, recalling how I also used to tear off and fold those little strips of paper into enmeshed accordions that I could squash together and pull apart.
I think I understand the feeling, too. That feeling when you drop into your memories and realize there’s far more there than it seemed when you took a glance at the surface. And when you traverse it and let your mind dig deeper, you find yourself emotionally overwhelmed, shuttering at what was and who you were while at the same time exhilarating over the moments of what seemed like perfection now marred by the reality of adult hindsight.
This is experimental writing. This is real and deep. This is writing that connects with those reading it and sweeps them along with you on your journey. In this, you are not alone.
Thank you Sam—my "thank you", any "thank you" I can say, similarly feels inadequate to express the gratitude I have for your response. Your reaction tells me all I need to know about whether this piece succeeded, and it gives me the push I need to keep digging deeper, keep soldiering on in this journey.
It's amazing what in memory seems so specific and individual, and yet relates so deeply to the experiences of others—to some others, enough others, at least (those accordions!). And like you say, there's such a rich possibility of connection in that, such possibilities of breaking through the alonenesses in our experience.
I’ve been exploring that idea of collective history and the power of recording our memories and stories. How often do we think that we are the only ones who experienced something or felt a certain way? Writing these things down and sharing them, or sharing them orally in conversation with others, opens our eyes to the realization that others have indeed experienced the same.
I think those are the connections, those more intimate and personal moments, that could break down so many of the barriers we see today, especially the manufactured divisions in mainstream media and social media.
I love that. This is actually a big part of an interactive/community project I currently have in the works, around, specifically, individual emotional experiences and how those patterns show up again and again across and between individuals. I'll be working to get it out there soon—in the meantime, this Homebound Bound series has been my way of trying to push the edges of the theme as much as I can, to see what it looks like and how people respond to it.
My thought is that this work—this idea of sharing those deep, highly-specific memories—takes a lot of emotional honesty, and that it takes deep autofiction writing like this to plumb the depths of that. But I'm still really new to this series, and experimenting with it, and even just getting my writing out there, and sure I'm going to make some missteps—I'm already feeling like my latest post that I just posted might have pushed too far in some areas. I also console myself with a recent quote I read (and promptly forgot the author of) that went something along the lines of "the only way to know the limit of something is to cross it"—and then, of course, to avoid that limit moving forward.
(Sorry for the delayed response, btw, this has been a hectic past few days)
Experimenting is part of the joy, art, and craft of writing. I think it helps us feel our way into the kinds of riders we are and explore what we want to be and do with our work.
There’s something about the act of remembering, too. It’s strange how what seem to be insignificant details can come back to mind so vividly.
JG, I feel like anything I say will be inadequate in reaction to this. There is something deep and visceral about this piece, about the way you take us through the ghosts of your memories. I’m right there with you, walking in step through those all classrooms, remembering the sound of those printers, recalling how I also used to tear off and fold those little strips of paper into enmeshed accordions that I could squash together and pull apart.
I think I understand the feeling, too. That feeling when you drop into your memories and realize there’s far more there than it seemed when you took a glance at the surface. And when you traverse it and let your mind dig deeper, you find yourself emotionally overwhelmed, shuttering at what was and who you were while at the same time exhilarating over the moments of what seemed like perfection now marred by the reality of adult hindsight.
This is experimental writing. This is real and deep. This is writing that connects with those reading it and sweeps them along with you on your journey. In this, you are not alone.
Thank you Sam—my "thank you", any "thank you" I can say, similarly feels inadequate to express the gratitude I have for your response. Your reaction tells me all I need to know about whether this piece succeeded, and it gives me the push I need to keep digging deeper, keep soldiering on in this journey.
It's amazing what in memory seems so specific and individual, and yet relates so deeply to the experiences of others—to some others, enough others, at least (those accordions!). And like you say, there's such a rich possibility of connection in that, such possibilities of breaking through the alonenesses in our experience.
I’ve been exploring that idea of collective history and the power of recording our memories and stories. How often do we think that we are the only ones who experienced something or felt a certain way? Writing these things down and sharing them, or sharing them orally in conversation with others, opens our eyes to the realization that others have indeed experienced the same.
I think those are the connections, those more intimate and personal moments, that could break down so many of the barriers we see today, especially the manufactured divisions in mainstream media and social media.
I love that. This is actually a big part of an interactive/community project I currently have in the works, around, specifically, individual emotional experiences and how those patterns show up again and again across and between individuals. I'll be working to get it out there soon—in the meantime, this Homebound Bound series has been my way of trying to push the edges of the theme as much as I can, to see what it looks like and how people respond to it.
My thought is that this work—this idea of sharing those deep, highly-specific memories—takes a lot of emotional honesty, and that it takes deep autofiction writing like this to plumb the depths of that. But I'm still really new to this series, and experimenting with it, and even just getting my writing out there, and sure I'm going to make some missteps—I'm already feeling like my latest post that I just posted might have pushed too far in some areas. I also console myself with a recent quote I read (and promptly forgot the author of) that went something along the lines of "the only way to know the limit of something is to cross it"—and then, of course, to avoid that limit moving forward.
(Sorry for the delayed response, btw, this has been a hectic past few days)
Experimenting is part of the joy, art, and craft of writing. I think it helps us feel our way into the kinds of riders we are and explore what we want to be and do with our work.
There’s something about the act of remembering, too. It’s strange how what seem to be insignificant details can come back to mind so vividly.