Tag: Love

  • Short Non-Fiction Review: “They Only Come Out at Night” by Kara Melissa

    (The short non-fiction piece “They Only Come Out at Night” by Kara Melissa was presented by Rejection Letters on September 10th, 2025.)

    Image by Janvi Bhardwaj

    I had the hardest time coming up with a solid opening paragraph for this review of Kara Melissa’s non-fiction piece “They Only Come Out at Night.” I like to think that I’m good at introductions, but not this time. The issue I am having is how I can’t wrap my arms around this essay to find one single starting point to explain how this honest, interwoven, melancholic story affected me.

    From the first paragraph, Melissa pulled me in with an intense honesty; confidant in its story telling. Not for shock value, nor did this feel like oversharing, or a performative confession. This was a clear declaration of deep emotions, fully self-aware that maybe some people wouldn’t understand this situation, but it was true.

    What follows are three tangents, platted together with connecting themes of MRI’s, hospitals, logic, brain function, and most importantly love; the compassion, empathy and longings which form in situations Melissa finds herself in. Through all of it, I felt this wrap of a happy melancholy resignation to it all. I wish I could explain that better, but it’s what I feel someone who has loved deeply, and lost greatly would feel towards the world.

    I relished how the essay is presented straight forward and logical – The descriptions of medical treatments, aliments, and the causes. The setting is during the Covid lockdowns, and with the clinical narrative, Melissa creates a feeling of isolation and detachment. This makes her desire for connection, understanding, and compassion all the more pertinent.

    I don’t want to belabor this review, as I am purposefully not going into all the details of the essay, because you should go read it. But I will say that the last section left me with a wonderful feeling of hopefulness. That even in the darkness, when we feel lost, that the love we have for each other can carry us through. With everything going on, I needed to be reminded of that fact.

  • Thoughts on Diane (Unedited)

    (This is a follow up on my post from Monday, which dealt with the passing of my dear friend and mentor, Diane Simons.)

    As this week has gone on, and I have reflected on the time that I spent with Diane, I am filled with overwhelming gratitude. For a very important five years of my life, I was guided by and witnessed the creativity, kindness, compassion, optimism and love that Diane filled her life with.

    Working for her out at Hip Pocket Theatre has defined what I view and expect when it comes to leadership in the arts. She was selfless in that regard – the theatre was the thing, and not her. She supported all of the artists that came through the doors, and never wavered in her optimism in that place. No matter what the challenge was, and we faced some pretty serious one, she had faith that we would all make it though the other side. Having spent so many hours with her, I saw her get angry enough times, but she never let that dissuade her from optimism. That and she cleaned the bathrooms before every show, which is still my yardstick when it comes to people I work for in the arts; would they clean the bathrooms in their own theatre? The answer for 90% of them is no. Diane was committed to doing whatever was needed to be done to make the show happen.

    She also taught me what it means to be an artist. How important it is to get out every idea, and see what sticks. To never limit yourself, or say that something can’t be done. She taught me to collect ideas and influences, and the importance of have a notebook, or a sketchpad near you at all times. That art is giving and sharing and encouraging creativity not only in yourself but in others. That fostering creativity begets more creativity and what you put out you will get in return. That being an artist is fun, but it’s also hard work that can be a lot of fun. I can hear her in my head, “Hell Matt, just give it a shot.”

    But what I find myself coming back to often this week was Diane and her family. Her husband and her two daughters. Oh, how she loved them. If you mentioned any of them in her presence, she would just light up. She was so proud of the women that her daughters became, and how unique and individualistic they were. She so loved being their mother, and was excited about what they did, and loved being a part of their lives. But her husband. “That man,” she’d say, and you could tell and feel how much she loved that man. She would get all giggly and flirty when he was around. Theirs’s was an epic partnership; they co-founded Hip Pocket Theatre, but they also taught theatre to thousands, and created a family of artists. They forged a community out of their love.

    And I am just heartbroken for them. They loved her so.

  • Road Trip Thoughts, Part Two (Unedited)

    When I woke up Saturday morning, the first thing I did was text the wife to see how she was doing. She was happy to report that the medication had started to take effect, and she was feeling much better. Maybe she could have made the trip, but out of caution, I knew we had made the right call to have her stay home.

    I cleaned up and went down to the lobby for my complementary free breakfast. To my surprise, at 8am, the lobby was packed, and not to be rude, packed with retirees. There must have been some gathering happening that weekend because a good number of the men all had the same t-shirt on, though there weren’t any words identifying what organization they belonged to.

    Seeing these older people, I wondered what type of retired guy I will be like. Having witnessed my grandfather and father’s retirements, what I observed is that they weren’t very social. They had hobbies and read all the time, but neither of them belonged to some “group” that did things. They were solitary men, and as I thought about it, that seemed correct for me as well. But maybe I would travel. Go from one budget hotel to another; seeing America in a very comfortable and affordable way. Staying right off the highway, and not venturing into town.

    I checked out, and fueled up the car. I sat in the parking lot and called the wife. She confirmed that she was feeling better, and we were both excited about having the kid back. We didn’t talk for too long; the wife still needed to rest, and I was excited to pick up the kid.

    I was only an hour and a half from the camp, and the drive was a peaceful, leisurely one that took me up into the Appalachian Mountains. I was anxious to see my daughter, yet there was this feeling that kept creeping over me – a feeling that I wasn’t living up to some standard that I had in my head of the type of father I need to be. It was failure. I felt like I have been failing as a dad, not giving my daughter what she needs to be a strong woman in this world. I have no idea where this thought was coming from, why at that moment of driving to pick her up that I felt that I wasn’t doing my job as a dad.

    Too much time alone with my thoughts can be dangerous. Honestly, I couldn’t remember when the last time I had almost two days alone to myself. Without someone to talk to, I descended into my thoughts, and I’m not very kind to myself. I have been working on that; being kinder to myself. Telling myself that these negative thoughts aren’t very helpful. I will be kinder to myself, and not so critical. Not that I do that, but I have been thinking about making this change.

    The camp is off a little single lane road. There was a check point where I had to show my ID, verifying that I was the kid’s father. But I was fifteen minutes early, so they had me pull into a small parking lot to wait my turn. Now, this was the worst part – so close to getting the kid. I was ready for her to be dirty, and smell bad because it was an outdoor camp, and she was free to be dirty and smelly, and have the best time as possible. I was sure her hair would be wild and tangled, and she would be taller, and tan, and happier and more confident than she’s been in a long time. I was getting excited about how great of a time she had had.

    Then we were given the all clear, and it was time for us parents to get our kids. What that really meant was that we all got our cars to line up and slowly drive into camp. And the excitement kept building in me.

    And this was another moment in my life where I was taken aback by my emotions. I thought I knew what I would feel, but what I felt was stronger and more sweeping than I knew I had in me. I was going to burst – bust in tears, laughter, scream – something was going to give way. I was barely holding on, only slightly in control of my emotions. The last time I felt like this was when I found out about my mother’s cancer diagnosis – and I was angry, and depressed, forlorn, and hopeless – and at any whim, I was overcome and I wasn’t able to control myself. And I just felt, and it came pouring out of me, just a river (a flood) of emotions and feeling – a raw live wire. At least this time, sitting in my car, waiting my turn to get my daughter, it was joy happiness and love that were bursting to come out.

    See, you’re not supposed to get out of your car when you get your kid from this camp. Pick up there is like an assembly line, which makes sense. They greet you at the first stop, then you get your kids trunk at the next stop, and the final stop is that you kid jumps into your car, and then you are on your way. Hence why you stay in your car.

    When I got to the “get you kid” stop, I hopped out of my car, and was quickly yelled at by the councilors to get back in. Oops. The kid jumped into the car and asked, “Where’s the dog?” I didn’t get a “Hi, Dad” or nothing. She didn’t even ask for her mother. So, the dog was the big winner. Anyway, I enplaned to the kid that mom was sick, and I left the dog with her. The kid said I could have still brought the dog.

    I drove out of camp, but first I pulled back into the waiting parking lot. I got out of the car, and told the kid to do the same, because I was hugging my daughter, damn it! I was going to hug the stinky, wild haired, mosquito bitten, summer tanned kid that I love more than love itself. I just wanted to hug her. “I missed you,” I said to her, with a catch in my throat.

    “I love you, dad” She said back. And then added, “Are we on a father/daughter adventure?”

    “Yes, we are.” My heart exploded a little, for I was in this moment. Keenly aware that this was a memory, an experience, I was creating; one that I would think back on, hold on to, remind myself of when life gets hard. A new core memory for me.

  • Short Story Review: “Consolation” by Andre Alexis

    (The short story “Consolation” by Andre Alexis appeared in the May 20th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by André Derainne

    If you have read any of my reviews, then you know that I am a sucker for a story about death, especially if it’s a story dealing with the death of a parent. “Consolation” by Andre Alexis is such a story, as it deals with the death of both the narrator’s parents, but it is also about how parents’ shame can affect their children, can affect a marriage, and can affect the community they live in.

    The piece begins with the narrator telling how he got in an argument with his elderly mother over driving directions, and the narrator was so hurt but his mother’s anger, that he didn’t speak to her for two years. Only when they reconciled, did the narrator learn that his mother had dementia, and most likely the fight was a precursor of her disease. This leads the narrator to recount the death of his father, which happened a decade earlier, and though we feel that the son loves his father, we also learn that the father was a serial philanderer, thrice divorced, and despised by the narrator’s mother for the infidelity. Then the narrator tells us the story of his father, who was born in poverty in Trinidad, worked his way up and out by becoming a doctor, and then married the woman who would become the narrator’s mother. Together, they started a family, and moved to Canada, to a small all white town, where the father dealt with the indignity of the town’s prejudice, to become a respected member of the community. It is also the place where the father’s infidelities began to be noticed, and affect the family.

    This is a well thought out, and written, short story. The characters are compelling. The family dynamic is honest, complicated, and uncomfortable. It’s paced well, has a very unique climax, and I just didn’t like this story when everything is telling me that I should. I have been thinking about, and thinking about it, and I should like this, but something just feels off to me. And today, it came to me; it’s passion. Which is even more striking as there is a paragraph in this story that is about passion – between the father and another woman, and the son realizing that this moment of discovering this passion lead him to his career as a lawyer. That this is a story about passions, between lovers, between family members, how they can spark trust and betrayals. Yet, I found the narration less than passionate, which I can only say was done on purpose. This passionless narration juxtaposed with these lives driven by different forms of passion which elicit reactions of shame, desire, and anger. I go back to the start of the story and the narrator describing the argument he had with his mother. The way it is described is almost clinical, factual, without any hint of what the narrator was feeling. It is an event that is only described and not felt. I get the decision to write this story in this way, to make the point that is needed for it to have its conclusion. This artistic choice left me feeling divorced from the emotions of these characters, which explains why I couldn’t connect with the story.

    I will fully admit that I am the odd man out here. I can totally understand why people will love this story, and be dumbfounded by my inability to relate to this piece. Yes, it’s me, and it is not Andre Alexis. You should read this story, enjoy it greatly, and then shake your head at me for not getting this story.

  • Personal Review: “First Love” by Gwendoline Riley

    For the life of me, I don’t remember who or what recommended First Love to me. It was on a list of books that I should read, and when I found a copy of it at the Strand, I picked it up without a second thought, nor having any idea what I was about to get myself into. To be honest, I appreciate the joy and excitement that comes from reading a book that I know nothing about, by an author I also know nothing about, because it does afford me the ability to truly experience a work without any preconceived notions. In this situation, I didn’t even read the description on the back of the book.

    First Love isn’t about the “happy” side of love. It’s not about the joy, fulfillment, or really any of the positive side of love. Oh, now and then, that side of love does show up, but on the whole, that’s not what this novel wants to explore. For the protagonist Neve, she shares with us all of people that she first experienced a form of “love” with; her mother, her father, a boyfriend, and her husband. Each relationship is troubled, difficult, in some cases even toxic, and they all overlap on each other, influencing each relationship from actions that happened in the past, and fears of what might happen in the future. For this reason, it is not a traditional novel, and time and events shift – nothing is linear here, but it adds greatly to the theme of these loves bumping and conflicting with each other.

    I found myself thinking about the works of Rachel Cusk and Maggie Nelson as I read this book. Riley’s novel tackles a serious subject, but the narrative never becomes weighed down, as it feels like a conversation. As such, this book was akin to the Outline Trilogy, and the examination in Bluets. It felt very internal, that we were being let in to very personal thoughts and exanimations. I will say that though First Love is a new form novel, like Outline, Riley did have a more traditional climax here, which gave the novel a satisfying conclusion.

    When I read a book like First Love, I am rather envious of writers like Gwendoline Riley, who create drama and self-examining characters, while never making their stories so personal that it becomes dull of whiney. It’s a bit of a magic trick, that is fun to experience. Thank you, to what, or whomever put this book on my reading list.