004 "Purgatory Silverstar"

In a crafted metabolic way

Salutations to the old world

Hundred oysters for a single pearl

- DJO, “Purgatory Silverstar” (2025)

Dear Reader,

Since moving to London, I’ve crossed more paths with my childhood than I did when I moved back to my hometown. Which is an odd enough realization on its own but is made even stranger considering it came to me after I’d just met with two of my former elementary educators in a city where I know very few people. Anyway, it’s come in strange forms, too. Childhood is funny like that; it seems to linger in unassuming ways. Opening the argument that regardless of how much time passes, maybe the true intention of experience is to make the most out of the child that you once were by calling back to it at every turn. In other words, holding a mirror and avoiding “adulthood” by living in a mental state of “childhood” as you let yourself grow up without forgetting all the versions of you that persist in people’s minds. Just something to think about… on to December’s reflection.

As predicted, I did not manage to write December’s wrap-up before January came around and now, we’re already mid-way through it. The months just keep slipping by. That said, December has become a blur, I’m not sure what I’ve already written on its subject, but it was quite an eventful time of year. I wasn’t bustling around trying to buy the perfect gift for anyone or juggling family affairs or hopping flights home or elsewhere, like most months, I spent much of it on my own. Except, when I really think about it, that’s a lie. I actually spent a great deal of the month with others.

December began with wandering through corner stores admiring the artwork on sardine tins that I want but know I will never eat. There were more walks through Regent’s to see swans glide and the sunset come into view, and even more sleepless nights spent chipping away at writing that I can’t decide if I love or hate. I watched multiple documentaries on 1980s NYC, dissecting the culture of junkies and art stars and the history of various beaches and bridges.

I accompanied my hosts to a craft fair their daughter was hosting and purchased a small blue ceramic house that reminds me of their house, it even has a window like the one I’m looking out of as I write this, call me sentimental, but name a better souvenir, I dare you?

In other news, in class I was told that I write about pain and mental illness really well, which admittedly, is a strange compliment to receive, but one that I consider highly.

I ate many a clementine on the go (I buy only the ones that come with leaves because even though they’re more expensive and ultimately the leaves get thrown out with the rest of the peel, I like the temporary whimsy they bring and am trying my best to lean into that). And then time quickly progressed and I took a trip southwest to Roehampton to see a friend’s choreography on show. On the note of cradling nostalgia, her piece was largely about time spent in Alabama and her consideration of the place as she’s gotten to know a place an ocean away, which though it’s not the exact location of my hometown, much of my upbringing took place in Alabama. Moving on, she and I reunited for the second time since we’ve both been here and made loose plans to see each other again after Spring Term started up.

Consumed lots of tomato-chunk-less minestrone soup (I absolutely despise chunks of tomato unless they’re sundried) because it’s cheap and easy to make, and I drank so much spiced rooibos tea that you’d be shocked to hear, I’m still not sick of it. I considered buying out the stock at my local corner store because they’re the only ones I’ve seen who carry it, that’s how much I love this tea. I walked through a graveyard where stones lean into one another, and I think if you try hard enough you could hear an angel sigh.

A few days after the Roehampton trek, I had dinner with some old family friends, the same ones if you recall that my dad and I met with back in September, before they went back to Colorado for the holidays. It was sweet this time around because when the two little ones spotted me walking toward them, they ran at me with hugs and so much excitement bundled up in their scarves and earmuffs, you’d have thought I’d known them longer than I have. We chatted and shared a sticky toffee pudding and then went up the lift at Battersea Power Station to see an extraordinary view of the city at night. It sparkled from edge to edge. I inherently know London is this massive and bustling place, but when you’re living your own life, navigating a pretty standard routine, it’s a fact that’s easy to forget. Standing up there, though, I was reminded of just how much potential lives beneath my feet.

I drank more tea, shopped for wine and then it was Christmas, lovely and warm in the company of others, which I’ve already written all about in my last bit of correspondence, see entry 003.

I cried watching the video Harry Styles posted on his YouTube of “Forever, Forever.” And not to spoil January, but I cried at the announcement of the new album. All you need to know is, my dancing shoes are strapped on, and my lips are ready to be kissed.

Regaining focus, on a whim towards the end of the month, I saw that two of my former educators were in London and I messaged them to see if they were free to meet up. By pure chance and luck, they were in town for one more day and had it open to just exploring some of the galleries and museums. So, I hopped on a train and met them at the National Gallery. There we shared a latte and tea and caught up; I answered their questions of how I wound up in London, how my program works, what I’m working on and what we discuss in class, how my family has been, future plans, etc. And of course, reciprocated questions of similar nature. We talked on where other people from my year have ended up. I admitted that I don’t have too many friendships still intact from my youth, I can name one person who I feel like I can genuinely call a childhood best friend whom I adore the same as I did when we were kids. Anyway, that’s a whole topic to delve into in a future piece, for now, the point is that in meeting with these educators I found myself being taught again, but it felt natural.

Skipping forward in the timeline of things, (stay with me, it all connects) I briefly met with another, sort of new friend (it’s complicated how we know each other) a week ago, and we had a chat about how weird it is to find yourself becoming friends with teachers as you age out of the systems you first meet them in. i.e., meeting once as a six-year-old and again as a 23-year-old with only your mom’s Facebook as a link to how you’ve grown up. And just to be clear, it’s not a situation of becoming friends in an icky way that crosses boundaries, but in a real way. I think now with these two people, there’s mutually gained respect and grounds for knowing to be explored because we’re able to see each other on an equal level and finally, truly learn from and with one another. Of course, I can only speak from the perspective of a student, not as a teacher, but I think there’s value to forming these sorts of relationships. Also, how many people can say that they were taught about Turner in the middle of the National Gallery by their elementary school art teacher? Or that you and your former art teacher walked by the actual painting that used to hang as a copy in his classroom? How many people can say that the educator who vouched in their favor for admittance into the arts magnet school you attended 1st-8th, validated your intentions of teaching and professional authorship? I don’t think it’s a common experience, but for me it was a welcome one.

When I met with these two teachers, we didn’t just reconnect, we rather began to forge the grounds for actual connection. We’ve shared horror stories from the circles we run in alongside book recommendations and journal articles with one another; we now send information about various writing retreats and grants to each other. I never thought I was a very memorable child, and I’m not sure how memorable I am as an adult, but it’s moment like these where a phone number is shared and exchanges about what media you’re ingesting that’s inspiring your work, that reaffirm presence. It’s the calling back to that first dance performance you did, even if you don’t speak to the people who you were in it with, anymore. It’s all the steps it took for you and those who knew some of the very first versions of you, to see the version that exists now. Suddenly this is all sounding far too much like ‘hopecore’ and phrases written on Yogi tea tags and in those aggravatingly optimistic coloring books you find at Hobby Lobby, for my taste, but I hope you understand what I mean.

I recently read Claire Keegan’s Foster, a task for one of my upcoming module discussions, and there’s a quote in it that reads, “I am in a spot where I can neither be what I always am nor turn into what I could be,” and ultimately, I think that’s what I’m trying to say. December felt a lot like a transitional phase. It was this conglomeration of occurrences that came about by chance and led me to being confronted by the ghosts of my past and thus, some realizations about the state of things.

On the last day of December, I picked my sister up at Heathrow, and we proceeded to galivant around my neighborhood with sparklers given to us by my hosts. More on what we got up to will be shared in my next letter, so I’ll leave it at that for the now.

To close out this letter, I will say that I ended 2026 with my sister by my side, and with the desire to be intentional. Think a Sing Street 2016 “drive it like you stole it” mentality. Timothee Chalamet putting in the work to be seen by and how he wants to be. All motivation, no slack, simply sucking all the life out of proverbial ecstasy. Personally, I don’t make resolutions or ins and outs lists or manifestation mood boards. They’re not my style, but that’s not to say you shouldn’t. I’m not here to say what’s right or wrong, make those lists if they fancy you or find your own center point of propulsion, regardless, I do urge you against idleness. I don’t know much, and granted I don’t do much some days, but I do think that constant idleness kills potential. So, whatever you do, don’t be boring and don’t sit in a state of waiting.

And that’s that. December was a quick month, albeit more managed to occur than I thought would when it first began. I walked out of it with a wealth of connections and stories. And now per usual here are some recommendations for your media consumption…

Reading-

White Nights and Bobok by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Ararat by Louise Gluck

Listening

Slug by Matt Champion

Changing by Kevin Jonas

Glitter & Honey by Del Water Gap

Fire of Unknown Origin by Patti Smith

It’s Gonna Be Lonely by Prince

$0 by Cameron Winter

Watching-

Until next time, take care.