reviving snail mail
writing letters again thanks to Kafka + join my pen pal circle!
Dear you,
I am reading Franz Kafka’s ‘Letters to Milena’ and so now of course I need to write my own letter. There was something deeply comforting about seeing the neuroticism of a renowned artist on display, his neurodivergent brain swirls feeling so similar to my own. Giving me the green light that said, you can do it too, my love, it isn’t weird (or maybe it is but that’s why you like it).
Now I’m sitting in my bedroom at 8:50pm with my red lights on and my screen on darkroom mode as I research druidry. It all started when I was drawn to my druid plant oracle deck last spring. But of course it began much sooner than that. I think it was when growing up I was drawn to the shady back corner of our LA backyard that is devoid of light––it was (and still is) the only place that could grow moss in our 72 and sunny climate. I felt fairies dance around the base of the calla lillies there as a kid and it was my little secret. Then I fell in love with mushrooms and psychedelics became my personality for a while, as did toadstools. It’s fun, putting on different identity hats. I’m convinced that as we get older we can just connect the thread and see our vibe playing out and say, ah, yes of course. We become predictable in an enchanting way. Like how I’m moving to Seattle soon (aka The Kingdom of Moss) and all the evidence, all the preferences over the years, all the times my friend called me a “woodland creature” so clearly points to that delightful predictability. I’m just making the backyard moss corner my home now.
But I digress, Kafka. Love letters. Was it unrequited love? I’m not sure. I’m only a few pages in. It definitely feels obsessive on his side. We unfortunately don’t get to see her side as those letters were destroyed. However, from what I can see, he seems to be an older man enamored with a younger woman, slurping up her lively energy. I wonder if she received any juice back or if she felt sucked dry. Like when an older man tries to vicariously live through your youth and gives you nothing back. (Spare me, please.) However, the sheer volume of letters between the two says otherwise…
In addition to Kafka, I am also reading two books on grief and it is no surprise because my heart is breaking for this world right now. It is the only thing that feels right and I didn’t realize the common theme until both books lay side by side before me, as if saying this is the medicine you need right now.
I sat in the sun and connected to Brian, the boy I was dating that I lost at the start of the pandemic. I refer to him as a boy because he was so young. But that’s just how long his life was. Never fair but true. Spring is his season for me because this is when he passed. We were only in each others lives for a month or so and I barely knew him technically but I still think of him so much. Spring and grief dance so closely together. I’m somehow closer with him now than I was in real life. It’s funny how death can do that.
I met an intuitive woman at the coffee shop last Sunday and she told me to beware that Brian wasn’t taking up too much space in my psyche as I call in my life partner. That sickened me a little bit (but part of me thought, she makes a good point). It’s only platonic between us now though, I promise. We never had the chance to make love while he was alive anyways, but when he passed I had numerous sex dreams of him, ones that felt so real, so full of love and sweetness and kisses on each others temples and along each others shoulders and forearms. I felt so guilty about it at first. Why in God’s name was I waking up to an orgasm from a dead man. My friend who knew him said he was “dicking me down from the spirit world,” and in doing so reminded me that laughing while grieving feels angelic, otherworldly, foreign but really just momentarily forgotten and still deeply familiar. I mentioned it to my mom recently saying how weird it was, and she said maybe it’s because you never got to in real life, so you got to share a few special moments together in your dreams.
I have been enjoying going on walks and seeing things that remind me of the people I have lost in my life, like Brian, like my Aunt Kim, Uncle Rob, Grandpa Harold, Grandma Cookie, Grandpa Bob, my ancestors that I have seen photos of but do not know what their voice sounded like nor what they smelled like nor how they walked. Seeing all their names written out gives me hearty, powerful shivers when I feel each one in my body. They are so incredibly not gone. They are just in another form.
But back to my walks: I see something that reminds me of them and I call them over and say hey! Brian! Can you hear me? Yes, I’m over here. Come here, check out that knot on that bare eucalyptus tree, doesn’t it look like a perfect ball sack? Because I know he would appreciate that. I let him come into my physical body for a moment and feel his soft chuckle rise through me. I let him see through my earthly eyes again as we walk together and I feel his awe, his wonder as he looks at the ocean view once again. (He loved the ocean). They are with us whenever we decide to call on them.
By the way, big update (for me): I didn’t write a Substack last week after having a 3 month+ long streak of weekly posts. It wasn’t easy. I listened to my body who so desperately needed a break, but I nearly died at first from the shame. The “see I knew you couldn’t maintain it,” “see I knew you’d give up after so long, it was just a matter of time.” I told them to fuck off. Thoughts are just a wave that can rumble past you if you let it.
Words were becoming annoying for me because my practice wasn’t infused with play and my Substack section posts (moltings, creative process, art fuel) had become my own prison. I love my sections and I see them serving me again in the future, but I don’t want to only do that. I want (and need) my creativity to flow freely, unencumbered with no “shoulds” whatsoever. I needed it to flow into this letter format which is bringing me so much joy because it feels like a blip in time. I want to do more (especially during my upcoming Saturn return) and re-read them when I’m 50 and then again at 75 and then 100.
The essay I did not write would’ve been about the creative process and writing about the creative process again and again feels like you’re writing about writing which isn’t actual writing. I mean it is and I can be moved to tears by it but, fuck, I also want (and need) to just tell stories and talk about life and ideas and moments and yada yada yada. So maybe I’ll write about the creative process some more (I probably will because I do love writing about it and it is a great metaphor for living) but I don’t need to force myself to do it every month. The intentions were pure and now I’m pivoting as I’ve gained more information about my preferences. It’s as simple as that.
And now I’m noting that this format feels utterly lovely. I like talking to you like this. It feels direct and intimate. I hope you feel that as you read this. Like we are at a coffee shop and between sips of my decaf latte and your [insert beverage of choice], I’m telling you these thoughts and you dance back with a response that makes us feel like our wavelengths are fusing and you’re finding my ADHD pin-ball thoughts entertaining, endearing. Do you? I hope.
I will end this as an ode to snail mail by genuinely asking, would you (yes, you reading this right now) like to start a pen pal circle with me? I am dying to. I want to receive long, hand-written letters about whatever the fuck just like Kafka and Milena did to one another before text/email took the fun out of it. A long, intentional email is still beautiful but I would prefer gently ripping open the letter where I know your saliva lays and seeing the smiley face + heart you drew on the back and the stamp you chose and then see your thoughts on paper and observe how you write your lowercase d’s, if you go rounded part first or line first.
I wrote about starting a pen pal circle 2 years ago but was plugged up creatively then and thought I needed to have it all figured out before I “launched” it so I let it sit in google docs. Here I am “launching it” on a whim. Progress can feel invisible for so long and then moments like this happen and it’s subtle but it also feels pretty cool. It’s when your body goes, hmm? Would you look at that.
So anyways, if you’re game, comment here or DM me on IG. I’m being 100% serious. Idk how it’s all going to work out just yet but the operations will come and what I do know with every cell in my body is that I would love to send you a heartfelt letter with nonsense thoughts and I would equally love to receive back a heartfelt letter from you with your nonsense thoughts. Join me in reviving the glory of snail mail. 🐌 💌
I love you!
Kristen
xoxo
PS - Did you note how this letter is dated June 4th? That’s because that’s when this letter was written and that’s how long this lovely snail mail took to get to you. 🥰 ❤
