gratitude

‘foamy waves wash to shore “treasures” as a sacrifice to damp sand.’ — Joe Brainard, 30 one-liners

The Ninth Wave, Ivan Aivazovsky, 1850, oil on canvas

i’m reminded of the times i burst out laughing with joy, as well as the times i tittered nervously. i’m reminded of my love for life and the mundane, and i’ve come to accept that i, too, have a penchant for the commonplace, even as i despise it with a vermillion wrath — i hate to love it, and in this nuanced world we live in, i love to hate it too. ‘all this sympathy is just a knife,’ and sharp knives can carve up an exquisite dinner as well. so, without further ado, i’d like to thank all my friends equally for being so wonderful and understanding. you are so many, and you’ve all been so good to me. i ought to leave out a few names here and there, but if our worlds have crossed, know that i appreciate the caress of your voice and the smile you gave me when i needed it most.

thank you, Colin, gorgeous and caring Colin.
thank you, Lucas, i miss you and your unrecognisable accent.
thank you, Kym, i’d love to grab a cuppa and enjoy a yoga class with you.
thank you, Brian, oh sweet, kind-hearted Brian, thank you for taking me places and checking in on me so diligently.
thank you, Paulo, no matter where you are, you are always kind and warm-hearted, and you always know just what to say; thank you for checking in on me!
thank you, Miguel, i look up to you, and i’m so grateful that we met and kept in touch all this time. you are the reason i started audio recording for this substack, and i thank you!
thank you, Sebby, you are the warmest voice of all, the sweetest man to ever speak to me in french. not only do you speak to me, you see right through me, no matter how far the sea pulls us apart. you write so beautifully, and you read aloud in such a way that you’ve made me appreciate the french language like never before. thank you!

on this windy shore, i’m reminded of the lovely people i’ve met along the way, those who pulled me out of the water (‘it doesn’t have to be autobiographical,’ but it ought to be at least semi-autobiographical), those whose kind words and actions remain etched in my memory like some sort of religion. so, if i failed to mention your name, know that i haven’t forgotten you, and there’s gratitude in me — my ode to you will come!

i’m reminded of yet another reason why i love José Saramago, for i recall that he was able to craft such extraordinary novels and novellas without ever portraying a character as the villain. through his writing, one can recognise that there are both good and bad qualities in every human being, and navigating this gradation of traits was fundamental for me in realising that there is good and bad in everyone. neither Lilith, nor Cain, nor Jesus were entirely good or bad; they were all human-like and capable of the best and worst. perhaps unsurprisingly, the one character occasionally painted as a wrathful villain was God himself, and i don’t blame Saramago for revealing God’s darkest deeds. he helped me see the best and worst in everyone, as his voice blends the mundane with philosophical introspection and allegory.

it’s been three months since i last posted. there are times when one must take care of oneself, and i’d argue that should be every single day. whilst i did put myself first, i cherish my friends like a burning candle cherishes oxygen, with warmth and brightness. so today, i want to celebrate my friends — some i haven’t had the chance to properly acknowledge in these posts, whose kindness and relentless support have given me another wick to burn in joy.

as you might sense, this letter is about gratitude, but it’s also about the ocean. i’m deeply moved by Sebby’s letter and poem to me — his words are kind and modern, and i’m so honoured to know him in this third space that is poetry. i’m really looking forward to meeting him in person one day and hearing his deep, thunderous voice in all its glory! i treasure your kindness, your camaraderie, and your love, Sebby. this poem is for you.

Sebby, your voice, thick as the ocean’s depths,
booms across the morning like thunder,
salt and pepper beard hiding a thousand sunsets
i haven’t yet seen but already trust.
i picture you there, standing steady,
a lighthouse in a field of thought,
watching words bloom like wildfire.

i’ve known you for lifetimes, i think—
you, with your thunderous hum, calling out
from some far-off edge of the world,
pulling me through these quiet streets,
where bougainvillaea climbs walls like old dreams.
we haven’t met yet, not properly,
but your words have already knocked on my door,
soft as the wind through a cracked window.

it’s funny, isn’t it, how your book found me,
opening like a gate i’ve been walking towards
for years, whilst your voice curled around my own,
and for a moment, we were the same breath,
the same man standing under that same oak tree.

your poems are fields i wander through slowly,
treading lightly between the syllables you’ve sown,
each line a path i didn’t know i needed.
i imagine your fingers tracing the air
like a conductor, guiding the rise and fall
of invisible rhythms,
whispering truths only the hills can hold.

and the way you sit with silence—
not afraid to let it fill the room,
let it steep, warm and rich,
whilst i hurry through my mornings,
my words chasing yours,
always just a step behind,
hoping to catch a glimpse of what you’ve found.

one day, i’ll meet you in the flesh—
i’ll sit across from you, watch that salt and pepper beard
twitch with laughter,
as we drink in the late afternoon sun,
and i’ll finally hear your voice,
thick with stories, filling the air between us.