Good morning and happy Sunday!
No, that’s not me in the picture… though I now realize the best Unsplash photos can be unlocked using the search term “Sunday morning.” Apparently both Chattanooga and Black Bend look just like “Sunday morning.”
I have some news and notes for my readers.
Thank You Note
Loves, Friday night I read I Don’t Know Anything about Lisa Edwards at The Floor Is Yours: Decolonized at Barking Legs Theater in Chattanooga. The Floor Is Yours is an uncensored variety show open to all forms of art.
I’ve often danced at The Floor Is Yours, but never read anything. I had no idea what to do with the mic. It was weird to share words rather than movement. I know there are art for art’s sake writers, but I’m not one of those — I want to communicate.
Anyhow, I felt like I did communicate. People talked to me afterward. They discussed the topic of the essay — not just you’re so brave for reading — which was nice. They laid hands on my shoulders, back, face. (Yeah, we do that in the South.)
I would never have had the courage to share a work like that without the encouragement of my Substack readers. So thank you. One day imma get up my nerve and submit something to a real print magazine.
The New Confederacy
Yooo I’m psyched so many of y’all are sticking with Dorrie and Statius as they go from, well, bad to worse.
[Stop here if you need to catch up, because: spoilers.]
Especially Statius. Has anyone been counting how many lies he tells? (Hint: Dorrie hasn’t picked up on all of them.) Who had him clocked for a Gray — forgive me, an officer of the Army of the Redemption — from the start?
It’ll be okay. I promise. I don’t mean, Okay, everyone ends up happy and good, but Okay, worth the ride, worth the struggle. Y’all are about 44,000 words in; I’ve written out 71,000 or so; the whole story will probably end up around 120 thousand or so. I know where we’re going. You may not like it, but, well, Dorrie isn’t having a great Fall 2043 either.
I do have QUESTIONS:
Whenever I post a section that’s a 25 or 30 minute read, y’all are all over that like white on rice. But when I post a short section, there’s less engagement. Is it an algorithm thing? Anyone else experience this on your Substack?
Are y’all looking through the headlines for sex and … theology? I’m not saying that’s what’s happening. But those pieces are hitting above their weight. WHAT IS UP WITH THAT? WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?
DanceChatt
For readers in the Chattanooga area, I’m opening a new Substack in a couple of weeks to host dance writing by other folks in Chattanooga focusing on our local dance scene. Reviews, criticism, reflections, artist interviews, personal practice notes, dance theory, and even stories and poems about dance are welcome.
Notes on DanceChatt:
I pay writers. Not much ($25 a piece for four pieces a month — that’s what I can afford out of pocket) but I’m turning on paid subscriptions from the start in order to boost the number of pieces I can accept and the amount of money I can pay.
If you live around here and want to write, drop your email in the comments or DM me on Facebook and I’ll add you to my writers’ email list where I post calls for pitches and other information.
You can check out the framework now, but we haven’t had the first issue yet. I just duplicated a few of my dance essays of over from this Substack so DanceChatt won’t look so skeletal.
Because You’ve Gotten So Far
15 October 2043
Good afternoon Doc G.,
Apologies I haven’t been able to send more than a few lines for a while. Things are hectic. Plus, I’m spending half my time up trees — a pleasant diversion.
The strangest thing happened last night. No matter how allegorical his theology, no matter whether or not he’s a literalist, no matter whether he’s a trinitarian, in some way a Christian has to believe God came into the world in the person of Christ.
That’s hard to believe.
Last evening Dorrie was sitting at the kitchen table stuffing cold leftover food into her mouth the way you do when you’re in a hurry and you don’t much care what you eat. I can’t tell you much about her work either. Not safe for me to tell, or for her to do, for that matter. But it’s good work and she was going out to do it on a night already below freezing at sunset.
And I thought: This is how Jesus looked when he set out for the Gethsemane, not radiant, not handsome, probably pouring coffee into His mouth and fumbling with His sandal laces. A tired, middle-aged person going out to work a third-shift job on a cold night — a job He wouldn’t have to do at all if some other bastards were acting the way they should.
No complaining, you know. Distracted but affectionate with his friends, licking honey off His lip maybe, chatting about this and that. Even though it was their — our — nonsense sending Him out in the first place.
He didn’t blame them. He just went.
And there it was.
…
I have some details on the machinations of Cameron Keller’s campaign that may amuse you — if poking your nose in a refuse heap amuses you …
Yr obt svt,
CSB