sweet and tender things

1.

I had a beautiful Black man enthusiastically read a section of Moby Dick to me the other night, on Facetime, as he skulked cartoonishly to the top of a gorgeous spiral staircase. He read through the section frenetically, as if he was trying to prove a point about Melville’s style, but it was still a bliss, seeing his focus, feeling the soft tremble of his tenor. Seeing his joy made my heart flutter. Thirty minutes later he was crouched down in the corner crying after spiraling about the state of things. He was flat now, having emptied himself of his grief. I brought him back from the edge by quoting from a piece of writing that has been inspiring me endlessly this year, Moyra Davey’s Notes on Photography & Accident. My enthusiasm about the text, which accentuates the bravery it takes to make a public mistake, held us both during that moment. Holding and being held in this way, by a new friend especially, is the stuff of dreams. A reminder that life is going on even when it feels at its cliff.

2.

The shaggy, elegant weeping willow tree that hangs lovingly over a church fence in my neighborhood has become a buoy in ever turbulent waters. I have been brought to tears by this tree’s beauty more than once. Weeping willow trees have been my favorite species since I was 13 years old, when I learned that one had been dedicated to Aaliyah after she died, tucked away inside of Central Park. I had no clue what a weeping willow tree looked like, but this knowledge made me want to move to New York even faster. Eventually, I Googled the tree and fell in love with all the pixelated thumbnails. The anatomy of the weeping willow is so easy to anthropomorphize. Its graceful branches take on the swaying quality of light, voluminous hair or cascading and folding arms. The romance of its movements imbues the tree with a balletic quality. And as a sad girl myself, its perpetual state of grief has true appeal. I fantasized for the remainder of my childhood, well into my twenties, about going to Central Park and finding Aaliyah’s tree. Sadly, I never did and I read some years later that it was gone. This tree though, the one in my Philly neighborhood, is special. In the summers when its branches are full of lush, dense, sweeping leaves, it can nearly touch the ground. I walk under it every day on my trip to the café and I pause beneath its billowing, loving tendrils and take a few deep breaths. I can hear the creaking of its ancient twisting bark, the flat sounds of the wind kissing its leaves. It is poetry. In the winter, when I pass by my tree, it is still beautiful, its bony branches scraping at the rusted fence, persevering, and withstanding all the difficulty of a lonely winter. Before I move from this neighborhood, I plan to get inside this church’s gate and hug this tree. To thank it for all that it has offered me, a tender, reliable reminder of grace.

3.

For the past three months I’ve been having long phone conversations with Sister Sonia Sanchez. A few calls every month. We’ve spoken at 1AM about Trump and this country’s commitment to fascism, and we’ve talked for hours about the urgency of IRL organizing efforts in this climate of hyper surveillance. Listening to Sister Sonia, her aging voice humming with all the soothing qualities of a singing bowl, has been an unquantifiable bounty. Two Sundays ago, while I sat in the park, Sister Sonia told me about attending Muhammad Ali’s training camp with her twins during a moment in history when people had turned their backs on him. She adored Ali and shared lovingly about his tender heart. We talked about her friend Lorraine Hansberry, her strengths as a writer and the tragedy of her death. We spoke about Tulsa and her reading a poem on an episode of Lovecraft Country, Amiri Baraka, the importance of keeping a garden, and her favorite tree in Philadelphia that she wants me to photograph her in front of--she took her tangents elsewhere before I could ask her about the species of tree. I dropped off some of my books to her house a few weeks back and we talked about those too. Sitting quietly as SONIA SANCHEZ asserted the beauty of my work, its lineage and its value was… a lot. We talked for 90 minutes, well, she talked, and I listened, laughed, cried, and took copious notes. I’ve been gifted with some beautiful elders in my lifetime but getting the opportunity to sit at the feet of this legend, one of the last of her generation of revolutionary Black artists, defies language.

4.

I spent the month of March in LA, and though it deserves its own more involved missive, it was a very warm and loving time. I arrived in Los Angeles with a heart broken into so many pieces, after losing some core friendships, leaves falling from my own aging tree. Being there was a reprieve from feeling so bad about myself. I spent time with many friends, read many books, and sipped many lattes. I got to meet Harmony Holiday at a strange, roast/not roast of the crumbling structures of the academic/literary world. I had lovely coffee dates with Michael, Erik, and Rey, serene park dates with Clark, Keyel, and Angel, and excellent meals with Joe, and my LA parents. My days there were leisurely and immersive.

4A.

I stayed with my dear friend Cam, who, over the past three years has made a home for me in LA. During many of my trips, I’ve rented apartments and Airbnb’s, but I’ve never felt safer than when I’m at Cam’s place. Sharing a one-bedroom apartment with literally anybody comes with a host of challenges, and though it wasn’t always bliss, I was happy to see his face every day. I took great pleasure in lounging beside him on the couch and watching White Lotus or that God forsaken nightmare, Pop the Balloon, or sitting outside on his balcony and reading silently together. I found myself in awe of his discipline, his style, his optimism, his beauty, and his focus. And I felt wanted there, appreciated. My first night returning to Philly and sleeping in my own bed was amazing. But when I woke up the next day and walked down to my living room, I sat on the couch and shed a few tears thinking about how lovely it felt in Cam’s place and how lonely it felt in mine.

4B.

Another highlight from my time in LA was getting closer to my friend Dart. Much like Cam, Dart has become one of my very best friends. Always patiently listening, never making me work for vulnerability or honesty. Dart is always the highlight of my time in LA, the way that Yomi is the highlight of my time in London. And in this moment of intense upheaval, he has been my port in the storm. Going on our walk, sitting in that dank hellhole that is Café Mak, driving all the way to Eagle Rock for a photo strip and some dumplings, having late night lattes at Highly Likely, all of these were highlights, highlighting in particular how much sweeter life is in the company of people who understand you.

5.

Returning to Philly was challenging. If I’m being honest, with all that I know about Los Angeles, its crumbling infrastructure, its homelessness crisis, the fires, and the sense of uncertainty that pierces the air like a dagger, I still want to live there. I have wanted to move there for the past four years and I’ve allowed so many things to stop me. This won’t last forever and I believe that my time in Philadelphia is drawing to a close, but still, even with all of this convoluted feeling, I have felt so loved. I’ve started to form a small, but mighty community there. A fierce and loving community of passionate artists and thinkers at many places in their varied careers. Whether I’m chatting in a cafe with Wren, imagining futures with my sister Tshay, going to jazz clubs to watch Kayla play, sitting outside of the house on my blue bench with my niece Caleb, having pancakes with Drew, or arguing passionately with Amirio about the the rubric for cultural archetypes and diva culture, I’m in a small bubble of constant inspiration. I’ve had a few dinners at the house that have made manifest my earliest dreams for the space. Salon inspired evenings with boisterous conversations about art and culture, decadent meals, beautiful fragrances, and chic outfits. It’s not all the way there just yet, but these nights and these days have been incredibly special and illuminate a concerning possibility that I’m so busy chasing an ideal of my dream that I’m ignoring how much of it I’ve already achieved.

6.

Committed as I am to moving my body more, I went to a dance party in Baltimore last weekend. This was a huge step for me. I’ve never really gone to a dance party, not since we held them in my basement when I was 12 and 13 years old and living in a row house in West Baltimore. I owe it all to Luther, the Kendrick Lamar and Sza song. Since January, anytime that I hear the song I feel compelled to move. It’s more than catchy or animating, it takes a hold of my spirit. It makes me wanna throw this ass back yes, but also, somehow, makes me want to cry? It’s beautiful and although I have beef with Kendrick, I’ve just given in to my love of this song. And the more I listened to it, the more I found myself wishing I could go out and hear it in the club, moving my body in the dark, entranced by its spell in the colored lights. Enter Version, a queer-centric dance party that happens once a month in Baltimore. My sister Megan has been telling me about this party forever but when she told me about it in December, I promised her that the next time she mentioned that it was happening, I would attend. And so it was. The party was amazing, packed wall to wall with queer folks. The music… was pretty good. It left much to be desired and leaned far too heavily into House and EDM. But it had its moments. It also made clear that we are truly the old heads in the club. When the DJ played Angie Stone, all the ladies of a certain age lost our shit. They also played Luther, well… some cartoonish, fast paced version of it. I ran from the cool outdoor area, flanked by queers as far as the eye could see, onto the shadowy dance floor where I, tears in my eyes, danced with my girls. It was remarkable. The release of something. We danced until a little after 3:30AM then I took my tired old ass home.

7.

The other day, I was reading in my favorite café in Bedstuy when Legacy Russell and her adorable son came in. I spotted her immediately, as I have always noted her beauty alongside her brilliance. I called to her, and she came over to my table so sweetly. I told her my name was Gioncarlo and she responded, “Oh Valentine. Gioncarlo Valentine. I love your work.” This moved me. We chatted about the changing of the neighborhood, raising a child in New York, and other small details. When she started to leave she told me to message her if I wanted to get coffee, which I really would love to do. Then she said, very tenderly and with a slow, focused seriousness, “Thank you for all you do for us.” I was so shocked that I froze, swallowing any reflexive response. When she left, I stood up, left my things on the table, walked outside through the other exit, sat on someone’s steps and cried into my palms for a few minutes. I’m sure the intensity of the cry was related to the incalculable weight of sadness I’ve been fighting against, but there was something in her saying this, someone so brilliant affirming the importance of what I do and recognizing why I do it. It underscored something that I discussed last week with my sister Megan, while sitting in the park the afternoon following the party. I am having an intense identity crisis and a crisis of faith. If belief in oneself is a balloon, mine has become totally deflated. While Megan was asserting that she believed in her ability to manifest any kind of life that she wanted for herself (because she has done so repeatedly) I struggled with the weight of my own self-belief. Hard times, especially compounding hard times, can stir a sense of amnesia. You forget that there were ever good times in the first place and that they almost always come back around.

8.

The rest of my time in New York was rife with special moments, sitting at the Chelsea Piers with Aisha after an afternoon of gallery hopping, watching Kyle Abraham’s dance company’s latest performance, which was, as always, an act of mastery that left me utterly speechless, a loving and lingering conversation with my friend Shan Wallace, an artist of such consequence who always inspires me, a stunning and emotional studio visit with my dear friend Zack, whose project about his Filipino lineage is one of the most compelling photo projects I’ve ever seen, dinner with Zack’s gorgeous and generous parents, surprise coffee/cowork date with Cam, and lunches with David Campany and one of my favorite editors (and humans) Noelle Flores-Theard.

9.

Words and the worlds they invoke continue to be my main fuel and my most consistent source of inspiration. I’ve kept up my practice of reading for three hours each day. I’m in no mood to write reviews but I did want to share some of my favorite writing that I’ve read this year. Usually, my reading is guided by the pleasure principle, reading to feel and to feel seen. This year, much of my reading has been guided by what I believe I need in order to persist through this time, a time of such collective despair, where every new day seems to unmask the world’s commitment to inhumanity, when our morals have eroded so far beyond apathy that we seem to be in an endless state of atrophy. My reading choices have become animated by the need to question and to trouble.

• For questioning, I’ve read Regarding the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag, The Art of Cruelty by Maggie Nelson, in defense of pretension by ayan artan, Preface to James Baldwin’s Unwritten Suicide Note by my queen, Harmony Holiday, How Art Lost Its Way by William Deresiewicz, Black Pages by Teju Cole (a fucking masterwork), and I reread The First White President by Ta-Nehisi Coates (which I urge any person reading this to read as it is more necessary than ever and offers a refreshingly critical lens through which to view this political moment).

• For replenishing my imagination and bolstering my audacity, I’ve read Positive Obsession by Octavia Butler, Workbooks by Nigel Shafran, Human Archipelago by Fazal Sheikh and Teju Cole, Return to My Native Land by Aimé Césaire, and Wrong Norma by Anne Carson (which I didn’t fully enjoy or complete but learned a great deal from).

• For soothing my shattered sense of self, I’ve read Looking for Lorraine, by Imani Perry, Notes on Photography & Accident by Moyra Davey (a piece of writing that has felt like a true revelation), You don’t know what love is by Harmony Holiday, Lost Stories by Donald Antrim, and Herve Guibert Phantom Paradise: A Photographic Love by Hans Georg Berger.

• And for some good old-fashioned writing, I’ve read Frank Sinatra Has a Cold by Gay Talese, Nobody’s Looking at You by Janet Malcolm, New York, Love Story by Roxane Gay (in Moss Magazine) and The Best American Essays 2024 edited by Wesley Moore.

These are the highlights, writing that offered me something generative, impactful, healing and world building. I’ll spare you the low lights.

Writing during this time has proved increasingly difficult. I’m too busy feeling, too busy mourning. I am in a wilderness that feels impossible to describe, grasping and redefining. I’m mostly feeling unsafe and overly sensitive to the energies of others, especially folks who lack emotional intelligences. I’m feeling mined and exposed and most of the time, I just want to be left alone, really. A powerfully confounding and often mystifying element of living in a grief state is the ability to move through life as if an object, listless and despondent, making its way along a conveyor belt. Much of this time has felt like this. But there have been lovely things, listed and unlisted, peopled and unpeopled. And perhaps that’s enough for right now.