I didn’t realise how much I needed this until I found myself mentally curled up next to your washing machine, laughing at a dryer that hums like it’s doing its taxes. A warm, biscuit-scented wander through someone else’s soulfully cluttered, candle-lit flat. You left the door open, stocked the good tea, & somehow made space for all of us, poets, spoon lickers, & strangers with cold feet.
I’ll be the one rearranging your pot plants & pretending I didn’t. Thank you for the welcome. I’m staying.
But goodness, where are we going to meet when it becomes 1,000? I vote long table, fairy lights, someone reading aloud in the corner, & scones on repeat.
Louise, please. I’ve just warmed to the idea of ten more subscribers & now I need to lie down. ONE THOUSAND? Can you even imagine? It already takes me seven hours to respond to the marvellous souls who write me notes—I may never sleep again.
Still, if it happens, we’ll need a very long table, several emergency biscuit tins, & a strict no-oat-milk-but-everyone’s-welcome policy.
You're officially on pot-plant duty. I’m too emotional.
Darling—of course you’re by the oven, keeping vigil over the scones. I knew there’d be someone making the house smell like home. I’ll need to make sure the next batch is ready. Have you whipped the cream.
And bless Alex for claiming the Lego—I knew someone would find a way to leave a booby trap for my toes! I'll be with her building in a moment!
I’m so glad you’re both here. The kettle’s on, the door’s open, & honestly, this gathering wouldn’t feel right without you. xx
I love the way you've shaped Substack as the anti-hero is the social media story, and how you focus on it as a place to dwell, not shuffling past with your eyes glazed over, furiously flicking through garbage like a starving crow. Your understanding of the true meaning and value of intimacy rings through in this essay. I'm grateful that I get to stand in the sunny spot with your other guests.
Craig, what a gorgeous reply—thank you. I read it twice, then again with a biscuit. Substack as the anti-hero might be my new favourite metaphor. It broods in the corner, refuses to wear clickbait, and yet somehow still gets invited to the good parties.
Your line about starving crows made me laugh out loud—& also flinch, which is the best kind of compliment. I'm so glad you're here, standing in the sunny spot. I suspect you'd be the one to bring the good chutney—with just enough heat to make everyone lean in for another bite.
Kim I am on my way, just as soon as I’ve finished with the sheep and the fencing! Don’t be scared, you might think a swamp monster is arriving… I will be covered from top to toe in sweat and dust, I will be hot and hungry and will need tea urgently - I will need to use your shower but won’t mind if there is no door, I won’t mind even if the water is cold - au contraire - when I am fresh enough to do so I will give you the biggest hug and then, only then we can sit, on your sofa, with our feet tucked under us and we will laugh and shed tears as we each tell our stories like a breath of fresh cool air...
Thank you, thank you for this, for you, for not caring about algorithms and numbers but about the sentences and stories and the souls of those that tell them within! xx
Susie—what a picture you paint: the heroic swamp monster, fresh from the sheep & fencing, arriving dusty, hungry, & in search of tea. I’ll have the pot ready (strong enough to revive even the weariest fence-fixer).
And yes—the walk-in shower is yours. I assure you, there is a door to the ensuite! Though I’ve grown used to leaving it open, letting the steam wander the bedroom, because two very royal Cornish Rexes once ruled this house & refused to tolerate closed doors. I suspect they feared plots against the throne.
Your words are exactly that breath of fresh, cool air you describe. Thank you for bringing yourself so fully—for your humour, your hug-in-waiting, & for seeing what I’m really trying to build here. There’s room on the sofa—feet-tucking absolutely mandatory.
Please would you keep that tea hot for me Kim, I fear I may be a little late... the fences are fixed but my sheep are practicing skulduggery, have become rather talented at such antics and will not be caught!
As for the shower, I am now such an unholy sight, I think perhaps... no, no, I am certain, a hose off outside before I tuck my feet on your sofa be preferable! xx
Susie—skulduggery sheep! I should have known you were harbouring a flock of master criminals. I’ll keep the tea hot (though honestly, at this rate I may need to upgrade to a samovar). The garden hose stands ready—though I can’t promise it won’t spray you straight through the kitchen window.
By the time you’re de-dusted, the sofa will be positively begging for your company. And fear not—the biscuits will be hidden from the ringtails but left within easy reach for heroic fence-fixers.
Thank you for building a room with your words and your metaphors. I loved this one - "you’d loiter like repentant sinners in a steam-soaked chapel." Have a good weekend.
Hans! Thank you for walking straight into the room like you'd been here before, quoting back one of my favourite sinners-in-steam lines. Honestly, if I had a guest book, I’d be embossing your name onto the cover in gold foil by now.
You’re in now. Part of the furniture, or at least someone who knows how to find the good biscuits & light a candle without asking. There’s always space on the metaphorical sofa—though you might have to fight someone for the Eames chair (I recommend bribery via cake).
Thank you for reading with care, for catching the metaphors mid-air, & for becoming part of the strange, scented, slightly overpopulated home I didn’t know I was building.
May your weekend be rich in good lighting, good sentences, & just enough sin to justify the steam.
I love your wish at the end (good lighting, good sentences, & just enough sin to justify the steam)! I don't have time to say why right now, but I will soon :)
For now, I wish you the best weekend from steamy Minnesota (heat wave this weekend here), Kim.
Hans, I suspect you may need to ice your coffee—or whatever beverage gets you through steamy Minnesota weekends without combusting. No need to rush the explanation—I’ll imagine it arriving in its own time, well-considered & lightly perspiring. It’s delightfully 4-degrees here in my postage stamp. The sun is shining, making the chill all the better. Woollens, an oven, & the scent of something baking. One day, I’ll live perpetually in autumn & winter—with perhaps a tinge of spring. But summer? Summer can keep its sweaty palms to itself.
for nine months I have felt disconnected, or just slightly and tenuously tethered, worrying but not that the mooring lines would not hold, but somehow, some way the literary universe allowed me to stumble across a comment on a post by Kemi Nekvapil, and I fell through a looking glass into your neighborhood. I started thinking in French when I could not in English, & fantasize about jam on fig biscuits to-morrow and yesterday, even if not to-day. I found something I needed, "A cashmere-socks-in-winter kind (of need). A warm-bread-with-butter kind (of need). A you-didn’t-know-you-needed-it-until-it-arrived kind." I would never pretend to be worthy of an invite into your home, but I am content to sit outside of the lit windows, careful not to crush the lilies, and listen to the soundtrack, the murmur from inside. Curled like an inconvenient kitten, whatever you write makes me purr.
I adore your willingness to write with your chest cracked open and honestly, and I mean this without hyperbole, adore the bravery you have shown to open your self to each and every one of your guests. (And I am so going to read this again on the orange and yellow Eames chairs in my barn, before I take a nap, the kind of naps that just happen when you feel safe.
Chris, I think you may have just written the most quietly marvellous paragraph to ever mention fig biscuits & mooring lines in the same breath. You’ve no idea what it means to have someone arrive with that kind of noticing—& then settle in so softly, like you’ve always belonged here.
I dream too—of one day making a pilgrimage to the temple of their creativity. There was a moment, wasn’t there, when the fires came close & those of us who knew what truly lived in the Eames House held our breath. Not just for the structure, but for what it housed: the good chairs, the better stories, & the kind of reverence that makes design feel like a form of prayer.
Thank you for sitting with this—kitten-curled & candle-lit. You’ve found your way in, no invite needed. I do so hope you were able to nap truly safe & soundly.
I didn’t realise how much I needed this until I found myself mentally curled up next to your washing machine, laughing at a dryer that hums like it’s doing its taxes. A warm, biscuit-scented wander through someone else’s soulfully cluttered, candle-lit flat. You left the door open, stocked the good tea, & somehow made space for all of us, poets, spoon lickers, & strangers with cold feet.
I’ll be the one rearranging your pot plants & pretending I didn’t. Thank you for the welcome. I’m staying.
But goodness, where are we going to meet when it becomes 1,000? I vote long table, fairy lights, someone reading aloud in the corner, & scones on repeat.
Louise, please. I’ve just warmed to the idea of ten more subscribers & now I need to lie down. ONE THOUSAND? Can you even imagine? It already takes me seven hours to respond to the marvellous souls who write me notes—I may never sleep again.
Still, if it happens, we’ll need a very long table, several emergency biscuit tins, & a strict no-oat-milk-but-everyone’s-welcome policy.
You're officially on pot-plant duty. I’m too emotional.
You will find me next to the oven waiting for the scones to finish cooking. Alex will be with the Lego xx
Darling—of course you’re by the oven, keeping vigil over the scones. I knew there’d be someone making the house smell like home. I’ll need to make sure the next batch is ready. Have you whipped the cream.
And bless Alex for claiming the Lego—I knew someone would find a way to leave a booby trap for my toes! I'll be with her building in a moment!
I’m so glad you’re both here. The kettle’s on, the door’s open, & honestly, this gathering wouldn’t feel right without you. xx
I love the way you've shaped Substack as the anti-hero is the social media story, and how you focus on it as a place to dwell, not shuffling past with your eyes glazed over, furiously flicking through garbage like a starving crow. Your understanding of the true meaning and value of intimacy rings through in this essay. I'm grateful that I get to stand in the sunny spot with your other guests.
Craig, what a gorgeous reply—thank you. I read it twice, then again with a biscuit. Substack as the anti-hero might be my new favourite metaphor. It broods in the corner, refuses to wear clickbait, and yet somehow still gets invited to the good parties.
Your line about starving crows made me laugh out loud—& also flinch, which is the best kind of compliment. I'm so glad you're here, standing in the sunny spot. I suspect you'd be the one to bring the good chutney—with just enough heat to make everyone lean in for another bite.
Kim I am on my way, just as soon as I’ve finished with the sheep and the fencing! Don’t be scared, you might think a swamp monster is arriving… I will be covered from top to toe in sweat and dust, I will be hot and hungry and will need tea urgently - I will need to use your shower but won’t mind if there is no door, I won’t mind even if the water is cold - au contraire - when I am fresh enough to do so I will give you the biggest hug and then, only then we can sit, on your sofa, with our feet tucked under us and we will laugh and shed tears as we each tell our stories like a breath of fresh cool air...
Thank you, thank you for this, for you, for not caring about algorithms and numbers but about the sentences and stories and the souls of those that tell them within! xx
Susie—what a picture you paint: the heroic swamp monster, fresh from the sheep & fencing, arriving dusty, hungry, & in search of tea. I’ll have the pot ready (strong enough to revive even the weariest fence-fixer).
And yes—the walk-in shower is yours. I assure you, there is a door to the ensuite! Though I’ve grown used to leaving it open, letting the steam wander the bedroom, because two very royal Cornish Rexes once ruled this house & refused to tolerate closed doors. I suspect they feared plots against the throne.
Your words are exactly that breath of fresh, cool air you describe. Thank you for bringing yourself so fully—for your humour, your hug-in-waiting, & for seeing what I’m really trying to build here. There’s room on the sofa—feet-tucking absolutely mandatory.
Please would you keep that tea hot for me Kim, I fear I may be a little late... the fences are fixed but my sheep are practicing skulduggery, have become rather talented at such antics and will not be caught!
As for the shower, I am now such an unholy sight, I think perhaps... no, no, I am certain, a hose off outside before I tuck my feet on your sofa be preferable! xx
Susie—skulduggery sheep! I should have known you were harbouring a flock of master criminals. I’ll keep the tea hot (though honestly, at this rate I may need to upgrade to a samovar). The garden hose stands ready—though I can’t promise it won’t spray you straight through the kitchen window.
By the time you’re de-dusted, the sofa will be positively begging for your company. And fear not—the biscuits will be hidden from the ringtails but left within easy reach for heroic fence-fixers.
Feet-tucking mandatory, as always.
Thank you for building a room with your words and your metaphors. I loved this one - "you’d loiter like repentant sinners in a steam-soaked chapel." Have a good weekend.
Hans! Thank you for walking straight into the room like you'd been here before, quoting back one of my favourite sinners-in-steam lines. Honestly, if I had a guest book, I’d be embossing your name onto the cover in gold foil by now.
You’re in now. Part of the furniture, or at least someone who knows how to find the good biscuits & light a candle without asking. There’s always space on the metaphorical sofa—though you might have to fight someone for the Eames chair (I recommend bribery via cake).
Thank you for reading with care, for catching the metaphors mid-air, & for becoming part of the strange, scented, slightly overpopulated home I didn’t know I was building.
May your weekend be rich in good lighting, good sentences, & just enough sin to justify the steam.
I love your wish at the end (good lighting, good sentences, & just enough sin to justify the steam)! I don't have time to say why right now, but I will soon :)
For now, I wish you the best weekend from steamy Minnesota (heat wave this weekend here), Kim.
Hans, I suspect you may need to ice your coffee—or whatever beverage gets you through steamy Minnesota weekends without combusting. No need to rush the explanation—I’ll imagine it arriving in its own time, well-considered & lightly perspiring. It’s delightfully 4-degrees here in my postage stamp. The sun is shining, making the chill all the better. Woollens, an oven, & the scent of something baking. One day, I’ll live perpetually in autumn & winter—with perhaps a tinge of spring. But summer? Summer can keep its sweaty palms to itself.
for nine months I have felt disconnected, or just slightly and tenuously tethered, worrying but not that the mooring lines would not hold, but somehow, some way the literary universe allowed me to stumble across a comment on a post by Kemi Nekvapil, and I fell through a looking glass into your neighborhood. I started thinking in French when I could not in English, & fantasize about jam on fig biscuits to-morrow and yesterday, even if not to-day. I found something I needed, "A cashmere-socks-in-winter kind (of need). A warm-bread-with-butter kind (of need). A you-didn’t-know-you-needed-it-until-it-arrived kind." I would never pretend to be worthy of an invite into your home, but I am content to sit outside of the lit windows, careful not to crush the lilies, and listen to the soundtrack, the murmur from inside. Curled like an inconvenient kitten, whatever you write makes me purr.
I adore your willingness to write with your chest cracked open and honestly, and I mean this without hyperbole, adore the bravery you have shown to open your self to each and every one of your guests. (And I am so going to read this again on the orange and yellow Eames chairs in my barn, before I take a nap, the kind of naps that just happen when you feel safe.
Chris, I think you may have just written the most quietly marvellous paragraph to ever mention fig biscuits & mooring lines in the same breath. You’ve no idea what it means to have someone arrive with that kind of noticing—& then settle in so softly, like you’ve always belonged here.
I dream too—of one day making a pilgrimage to the temple of their creativity. There was a moment, wasn’t there, when the fires came close & those of us who knew what truly lived in the Eames House held our breath. Not just for the structure, but for what it housed: the good chairs, the better stories, & the kind of reverence that makes design feel like a form of prayer.
Thank you for sitting with this—kitten-curled & candle-lit. You’ve found your way in, no invite needed. I do so hope you were able to nap truly safe & soundly.