As you know, I am left with so many questions, as your pieces often pique the curiosity (the police parcel no less), but it’s those moments before grief becomes grief, when you’re still inside logistics, errands, glare, and yet something inside you already knows everything has changed. That choreography of numbness, this really is masterful writing. What a gift you have, Kim.
A suffocating garden, a punishing November, hair held hostage, a parking ticket made of numbness, cancer with an appetite for fire. Kim. You are a master in animism. The world alive, cruel, and always in relation. I could study you for lifetimes.
Thank you, Kimberly. I hardly know how to answer this — your reading humbles me. Writing through these events, it astonishes me what the mind holds — & then, somehow, the detail recalled leaves a flavour I can never remove. This will be filed tenderly under: reasons to keep writing.
“It drilled through the crown of my head, down my neck. My hair, tied back too tight, throbbed like something held hostage.”
I feel the weight of shock through each detail’s stillness, the slowness between comprehension and collapse. Kim, how you manage to convey grief’s birth, rendered without sentimentality, fuck. I love your writing.
Most welcome, Kim. So many lines, as always catch my breath. Life through your lens of seeing, how grateful I am that you share it with us here in your salon.
All and nothing, the most confounding of emotional states that those of us who have experienced it know only too well. Beautifully and profoundly captured.
"the private garden yellowed in its own suffocation" those tiny squares of breathlessness, the wreak of desperation and hope mingled.
"Your shirt bled turmeric from the takeaway you carried like an offering & I watched it spread — a stain the colour of dying light." I know this stain, this dying light...
I am beginning to believe you write from many different lives, that your words have travelled far and for eons, that they come from distances no ordinary human could even begin to imagine.
You are a high priestess where truth cannot be said only hinted at, a master of the metaphor, though masterful feels too lame, une magicienne peut-être... je ne sais pas et je m'en fiche, je t'adore! xxx
Those moments when the fates mingle & the absurdity of life collide with news that renders you speechless. As a non-verbal child for the first two years, & a HSP, I retreat most often to my mind, Susie. The imagination takes over, & I know I am safe there. And yes, in my short time in this corporeal form, there has been many challenges to traverse for multiple lifetimes, condensed into these years of being, well, Kim. November is my most challenging of all the years months. I can still taste every element of that day, November 4th. I wish I couldn't but like all things with me, they imprint deeply & are unmovable. I love you, Susie, you know I carry you in my heart daily. I will, for all the rest of my days. xo
Darling, I can reply in only one way... my heart is heavy with the knowledge that you have known such hardships, but so, so thankful that for this 'now' of your life you are Kim and that whatever divine alchemy caused our paths to cross will be lasting. That somehow — albeit across oceans (I wish it weren't) — this kindred joy of a friendship shared in words will sweeten the taste of all the moments, unwanted and unbidden, refusing to leave you. It is a huge wish from my heart filled with forever love xox
I love the connections you see between things, how one thing mimics something else. Your writing draws me in so that I feel every word and the emotion it carries.
Kim doesn’t write about a day she writes about a wound in motion. Every gesture, every failure, every colour is steeped in memory and a grief that whispers rather than shouts. The piece doesn’t seek comfort it seeks truth. The machine that refuses, the punishing light, the café that pretends to soothe all are lived with a kind of brutal tenderness. And within it all, there’s care: the grip on an arm, the misspelt name, the turmeric stain bleeding through a shirt. Nothing is symbolic everything is felt. The separation doesn’t happen at the end, but in the middle, in that moment when bodies part by inches and the world quietly shifts. Kim doesn’t narrate the distance she lets us feel its first breath.
Grief...its gritty weight, showing up in various forms, none good that I can think of really. I loved the description of the ticket machine because it highlights the depth of despair, when you want to say, "Just work, damnit!" I read of someone recently as like living at a 30 degree tilt. Why has society put a timeline and expectations on grief, that which is so private, so complex, and is the state of being that stays and yet comes out of nowhere? Oh, my dearest of writing friends, you capture this all with such finesse. My mind was filled with the scents, the colors, the dragging of living life with the casing of grief. The tea, is simple, perhaps even a hot water with some fresh lemon seeds to honor the weight and share the emotion which is so individual and yet, with the right person, makes you feel, at least for that moment, not so alone.
Mary, thank you — I feel the warmth of that cup from here. I’ve been playing your gift of Rufus & Sara quite a bit to prepare for November’s arrival. Thank you for holding the season so gently with me, my dear friend.
Me too! The melancholy sweetness, the voices of different ranges and yet, each reaching parts inside me tht prepare me for the next line. Yes, "holding the season so gently" with you too, my dear friend.
How heavy numbness can be. How it wreaks quiet havoc on our being. How time and distance are galaxies, between arrival and departure. The hospital, asylum like in its bright bleachedness.Sunglases a crack into that new world. Tumeric spreading. Written with the precision that only such a burned in memory can elicit.
As you know, I am left with so many questions, as your pieces often pique the curiosity (the police parcel no less), but it’s those moments before grief becomes grief, when you’re still inside logistics, errands, glare, and yet something inside you already knows everything has changed. That choreography of numbness, this really is masterful writing. What a gift you have, Kim.
Choreography of numbness, Louise, yes! And thank you.
A suffocating garden, a punishing November, hair held hostage, a parking ticket made of numbness, cancer with an appetite for fire. Kim. You are a master in animism. The world alive, cruel, and always in relation. I could study you for lifetimes.
Thank you, Kimberly. I hardly know how to answer this — your reading humbles me. Writing through these events, it astonishes me what the mind holds — & then, somehow, the detail recalled leaves a flavour I can never remove. This will be filed tenderly under: reasons to keep writing.
I second this. She leaves me speechless and inspires me to dig deeper.
“It drilled through the crown of my head, down my neck. My hair, tied back too tight, throbbed like something held hostage.”
I feel the weight of shock through each detail’s stillness, the slowness between comprehension and collapse. Kim, how you manage to convey grief’s birth, rendered without sentimentality, fuck. I love your writing.
Grief’s birth — thank you, Cleo.
Most welcome, Kim. So many lines, as always catch my breath. Life through your lens of seeing, how grateful I am that you share it with us here in your salon.
i feel every moment and what is not said.
Thank you, Chris.
„I kept trying, as if shock could be solved by precision.“
I could have quoted any line. 🖤
You're so kind, dearest wildflower. Thank you. 🖤
🖤🖤🖤
All and nothing, the most confounding of emotional states that those of us who have experienced it know only too well. Beautifully and profoundly captured.
Thank you, Craig.
Good grief Kim, your writing!
"the private garden yellowed in its own suffocation" those tiny squares of breathlessness, the wreak of desperation and hope mingled.
"Your shirt bled turmeric from the takeaway you carried like an offering & I watched it spread — a stain the colour of dying light." I know this stain, this dying light...
I am beginning to believe you write from many different lives, that your words have travelled far and for eons, that they come from distances no ordinary human could even begin to imagine.
You are a high priestess where truth cannot be said only hinted at, a master of the metaphor, though masterful feels too lame, une magicienne peut-être... je ne sais pas et je m'en fiche, je t'adore! xxx
Those moments when the fates mingle & the absurdity of life collide with news that renders you speechless. As a non-verbal child for the first two years, & a HSP, I retreat most often to my mind, Susie. The imagination takes over, & I know I am safe there. And yes, in my short time in this corporeal form, there has been many challenges to traverse for multiple lifetimes, condensed into these years of being, well, Kim. November is my most challenging of all the years months. I can still taste every element of that day, November 4th. I wish I couldn't but like all things with me, they imprint deeply & are unmovable. I love you, Susie, you know I carry you in my heart daily. I will, for all the rest of my days. xo
Darling, I can reply in only one way... my heart is heavy with the knowledge that you have known such hardships, but so, so thankful that for this 'now' of your life you are Kim and that whatever divine alchemy caused our paths to cross will be lasting. That somehow — albeit across oceans (I wish it weren't) — this kindred joy of a friendship shared in words will sweeten the taste of all the moments, unwanted and unbidden, refusing to leave you. It is a huge wish from my heart filled with forever love xox
I love the connections you see between things, how one thing mimics something else. Your writing draws me in so that I feel every word and the emotion it carries.
Thank you, Karin. The world is full of echoes — I’m glad you heard them too.
Oh for a tardis to go back in time and appear beside you in the days before this, ray gun in hand and cups of tea to wash away the isolation
Thank you, my dear Fiona.
“his hands fat with sympathy”
as always
I love it
dream evocations
apparitions for my front room eyes
Thank you, Michael. I love that — apparitions for your front-room eyes.
You’re most welcome.
I’m so very glad that you do 🙂
This is masterful, Kim ❤️
Nazish, thank you — such kind words, & felt deeply.
Kim doesn’t write about a day she writes about a wound in motion. Every gesture, every failure, every colour is steeped in memory and a grief that whispers rather than shouts. The piece doesn’t seek comfort it seeks truth. The machine that refuses, the punishing light, the café that pretends to soothe all are lived with a kind of brutal tenderness. And within it all, there’s care: the grip on an arm, the misspelt name, the turmeric stain bleeding through a shirt. Nothing is symbolic everything is felt. The separation doesn’t happen at the end, but in the middle, in that moment when bodies part by inches and the world quietly shifts. Kim doesn’t narrate the distance she lets us feel its first breath.
Adrião, I’m truly moved by the tenderness & precision of your reading. Thank you.
Your beautiful piece speaks of unbearable loss. It touched my heart, Kim. 🤍🤍
Thank you, Rea. Your words touch me also. I have a love/hate relationship with November.
Grief...its gritty weight, showing up in various forms, none good that I can think of really. I loved the description of the ticket machine because it highlights the depth of despair, when you want to say, "Just work, damnit!" I read of someone recently as like living at a 30 degree tilt. Why has society put a timeline and expectations on grief, that which is so private, so complex, and is the state of being that stays and yet comes out of nowhere? Oh, my dearest of writing friends, you capture this all with such finesse. My mind was filled with the scents, the colors, the dragging of living life with the casing of grief. The tea, is simple, perhaps even a hot water with some fresh lemon seeds to honor the weight and share the emotion which is so individual and yet, with the right person, makes you feel, at least for that moment, not so alone.
Mary, thank you — I feel the warmth of that cup from here. I’ve been playing your gift of Rufus & Sara quite a bit to prepare for November’s arrival. Thank you for holding the season so gently with me, my dear friend.
Me too! The melancholy sweetness, the voices of different ranges and yet, each reaching parts inside me tht prepare me for the next line. Yes, "holding the season so gently" with you too, my dear friend.
How heavy numbness can be. How it wreaks quiet havoc on our being. How time and distance are galaxies, between arrival and departure. The hospital, asylum like in its bright bleachedness.Sunglases a crack into that new world. Tumeric spreading. Written with the precision that only such a burned in memory can elicit.
Heartbreaking.
Quiet havoc, Paul — thank you. November always burns a little differently.
I can’t believe he turned ahead of you toward the car! Fool doesn’t know what a treasure you are.
Life rarely follows the choreography we’d script for it. Thank you for reading with such heart, my chivalrous one.
Hey Kim, someone gave me a book today - Life is Messy- by Matthew Kelly. I just started it but it looks to point in the same direction of you comment.
Oh, I don't know of his book, but thank you so much for the recommendation. I'm curious to read it now.