I was talking with a friend the other day about the book Hidden Valley Road. I admitted that I sometimes feel guilty for appreciating (or in that case, raving) about such well-crafted narratives of traumatic events. How can I be enjoying reading about such difficult situations? Am I just a lout? And so here I find myself in the same situation with "When I Disappeared". How does one properly convey "What happened sucks, but damn, you hit it out of the park with the writing!"? I can say that now I'm extremely interested in Jouhatsu and the Night Movers. Those tales remind me of a certain vacuum cleaner salesman in Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul. *Sigh* I don't know how to sign off of this comment. Everything I've come up with sounds so trite and hollow. I'll just say, I'm looking forward to reading more of your stuff... and slowly slink away.
I love this comment so much. I know exactly what you mean and I love that you're up for admitting to the awkwardness. I felt the same way when I was reading your letter--horrible events, but damn, that's some good writing. Thanks for reading, and I am very happy you liked the piece.
oh my, Tonya. what a fantastic piece of writing. thank you for taking it on and with such honesty. when in my late twenties, after ten years of an unplanned marriage and two kids - I walked out the door. something, in an instant, said "time to go". we had invited people for dinner that night. go figure. it was time to go and I did.
What an evocative thought, heading out the door with dinner guests on the schedule. I absolutely love that. You were true to yourself. That's been such an important message for me, the thought that I only have one life and it's such a short time. We all have to be true to ourselves, above all. Thank you so much for your kind words, Tabby.
This was a stunning piece of writing, I started saving quotes at the beginning and have a full page of words that resonated deeply in my soul. Once, post breakup, I went to church (side note: I don't go to church, not really, but that day I needed to go to church, it was a very hippie church with a pride flag outside, so I let myself slide). During the surface they sang a hymn based on words by Rumi.
“Come, come, whoever you are,
wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving,
it doesn't matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow a hundred times.
Come, come again, come.”
And I lost all the air in that room. That's what I was, the l.over of Leaving. I had disappeared myself so many times I feared I had forgotten how to stay. It took me a while, to find the beauty in that adopted mythology. Yes. I had left, and left and left again—but it was always in search of myself. Always making my way back to me. And I'd do it again and again to get here.
As I was reading some of my favorite words from Lidia Yuknavitch's The Chronology Of Water came to me:
“It’s not easy to leave one self and embrace another. Your freedoms will scar you. Maybe even kill you. Or one of your yous. Its okay though. There are more. How many times do we die? Words, like selves, are worth it.“
One of those strange serendipities--I have "The Chronology of Water" with me right now. I'm on the road, and it seemed engrossing enough to keep my attention even after a long day of driving. But that quotation makes me want to jump into right now.
Thank you so much for your kind words, and for finding yourself in what I wrote. It means a lot to me to find other members of this weird community, the "lovers of leaving." It's the only reason it's worth it to publish these pieces.
And I was so struck by another line from your Rumi hymn, "even if you have broken your vow a hundred times..." I want to sit and ponder that for a while, there's something so beautiful in that phrasing.
Oh Chronology is a book that both shattered and saved me, and broke all the rules of writing as I knew them and patched them back together in an entirely different configuration. Although my life and Lidia's were not similar in specifics, she did a better job articulating my experience of what it is to be a woman in this world better than anyone ever has.
And yes, now I want to ponder that line as well (and probably write about it). We live in a world that teaches us to prioritize our contracts with others over our contracts with ourself. I think that for every broken vow I can tally (and there have been so many) I was in some way learning to uphold my contract with myself.
Which - of course - leads me down the rabbit hole of words even further... to this.
"I was in some way learning to uphold my contract with myself." YES. I love that. There's so much to think about re:vows and what they mean, how exactly they break...
Jan 6, 2023·edited Jan 6, 2023Liked by Tonya Morton
You managed to place me in that empty space of shock. The humanity of others recognizing what you were going through, the kindness, yes! Like walking around with an emotional white cane feeling for unknown edges. I so get it and love,love,love. this passage below! Thank you
" I had been under the impression that time moved like liquid, flowing in one direction continuously. When you put your finger in a stream of water, it flows around the obstruction, but it’s the same fluid and it’s still moving.
Time isn’t like liquid. I get that now. Time can flow in two directions at the same time. It can pause and dam up for years, without anyone noticing. It can be broken, like wood, and splinter where it breaks."
I love the idea of feeling around with an "emotional white cane". That's spot-on, and something I hadn't been able to articulate. Thank you so much for your thoughtful, kind words.
This is the best piece ever, Tonya. I read it over & over again, remembering my own flight into a sometimes scary, overwhelming new life of self-discovery. You vividly captured those jumble of feelings in way I simply couldn't. Thank you so much for sharing this part of you, Tonya.
Thank you for this. It felt like a hug as well as a trip. Connie Converse I adore and this whole thing is just "right". Which proves the point - that sometimes you can actually make sense of the senselessness of life. Once again - thank you Tonya
Beautiful piece, Tonya. So many layers & levels, honest struggle & acceptance. & fantastic writing. Thank you for keeping me company on my Pennsylvania-to-Virginia leg of our road trip!
I was talking with a friend the other day about the book Hidden Valley Road. I admitted that I sometimes feel guilty for appreciating (or in that case, raving) about such well-crafted narratives of traumatic events. How can I be enjoying reading about such difficult situations? Am I just a lout? And so here I find myself in the same situation with "When I Disappeared". How does one properly convey "What happened sucks, but damn, you hit it out of the park with the writing!"? I can say that now I'm extremely interested in Jouhatsu and the Night Movers. Those tales remind me of a certain vacuum cleaner salesman in Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul. *Sigh* I don't know how to sign off of this comment. Everything I've come up with sounds so trite and hollow. I'll just say, I'm looking forward to reading more of your stuff... and slowly slink away.
I love this comment so much. I know exactly what you mean and I love that you're up for admitting to the awkwardness. I felt the same way when I was reading your letter--horrible events, but damn, that's some good writing. Thanks for reading, and I am very happy you liked the piece.
oh my, Tonya. what a fantastic piece of writing. thank you for taking it on and with such honesty. when in my late twenties, after ten years of an unplanned marriage and two kids - I walked out the door. something, in an instant, said "time to go". we had invited people for dinner that night. go figure. it was time to go and I did.
What an evocative thought, heading out the door with dinner guests on the schedule. I absolutely love that. You were true to yourself. That's been such an important message for me, the thought that I only have one life and it's such a short time. We all have to be true to ourselves, above all. Thank you so much for your kind words, Tabby.
This was a stunning piece of writing, I started saving quotes at the beginning and have a full page of words that resonated deeply in my soul. Once, post breakup, I went to church (side note: I don't go to church, not really, but that day I needed to go to church, it was a very hippie church with a pride flag outside, so I let myself slide). During the surface they sang a hymn based on words by Rumi.
“Come, come, whoever you are,
wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving,
it doesn't matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow a hundred times.
Come, come again, come.”
And I lost all the air in that room. That's what I was, the l.over of Leaving. I had disappeared myself so many times I feared I had forgotten how to stay. It took me a while, to find the beauty in that adopted mythology. Yes. I had left, and left and left again—but it was always in search of myself. Always making my way back to me. And I'd do it again and again to get here.
As I was reading some of my favorite words from Lidia Yuknavitch's The Chronology Of Water came to me:
“It’s not easy to leave one self and embrace another. Your freedoms will scar you. Maybe even kill you. Or one of your yous. Its okay though. There are more. How many times do we die? Words, like selves, are worth it.“
Lidia Yuknavitch
One of those strange serendipities--I have "The Chronology of Water" with me right now. I'm on the road, and it seemed engrossing enough to keep my attention even after a long day of driving. But that quotation makes me want to jump into right now.
Thank you so much for your kind words, and for finding yourself in what I wrote. It means a lot to me to find other members of this weird community, the "lovers of leaving." It's the only reason it's worth it to publish these pieces.
And I was so struck by another line from your Rumi hymn, "even if you have broken your vow a hundred times..." I want to sit and ponder that for a while, there's something so beautiful in that phrasing.
Oh Chronology is a book that both shattered and saved me, and broke all the rules of writing as I knew them and patched them back together in an entirely different configuration. Although my life and Lidia's were not similar in specifics, she did a better job articulating my experience of what it is to be a woman in this world better than anyone ever has.
And yes, now I want to ponder that line as well (and probably write about it). We live in a world that teaches us to prioritize our contracts with others over our contracts with ourself. I think that for every broken vow I can tally (and there have been so many) I was in some way learning to uphold my contract with myself.
Which - of course - leads me down the rabbit hole of words even further... to this.
https://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/Poets/W/WhyteDavid/AllTrueVows/index.html
"I was in some way learning to uphold my contract with myself." YES. I love that. There's so much to think about re:vows and what they mean, how exactly they break...
You managed to place me in that empty space of shock. The humanity of others recognizing what you were going through, the kindness, yes! Like walking around with an emotional white cane feeling for unknown edges. I so get it and love,love,love. this passage below! Thank you
" I had been under the impression that time moved like liquid, flowing in one direction continuously. When you put your finger in a stream of water, it flows around the obstruction, but it’s the same fluid and it’s still moving.
Time isn’t like liquid. I get that now. Time can flow in two directions at the same time. It can pause and dam up for years, without anyone noticing. It can be broken, like wood, and splinter where it breaks."
I love the idea of feeling around with an "emotional white cane". That's spot-on, and something I hadn't been able to articulate. Thank you so much for your thoughtful, kind words.
I listened to this today, for the second time.
It’s beautiful, sad, moving. You have a gift for writing.
Thank you so much, Michael.
This is the best piece ever, Tonya. I read it over & over again, remembering my own flight into a sometimes scary, overwhelming new life of self-discovery. You vividly captured those jumble of feelings in way I simply couldn't. Thank you so much for sharing this part of you, Tonya.
Thank you so much for the kind words, Cherie. And I'm so pleased you can recognize yourself in what I wrote. That's the goal of everything I write.
Thank you for this. It felt like a hug as well as a trip. Connie Converse I adore and this whole thing is just "right". Which proves the point - that sometimes you can actually make sense of the senselessness of life. Once again - thank you Tonya
Thank you so much, Johanne. I think there’s a secret club of us who find Connie Converse when we need her.
I think this is one of the most beautiful pieces of writing I've read in ... years?
Thank you so much, Stephanie.
Amazing piece of writing, Tonya! Looking forward to spending the winter reading more of your treasures.
Thank you so much, Jo! I’m so glad to have met you in Substack-land.
me too, Tonya!
It’s so hard to leave because you know what you are leaving behind but no real idea of what’s ahead.
What a loss that your essays are disappearing also.
Keep Writing !!!
Thank you!
Beautiful piece, Tonya. So many layers & levels, honest struggle & acceptance. & fantastic writing. Thank you for keeping me company on my Pennsylvania-to-Virginia leg of our road trip!
Thank you so much, Ellen. And travel safe!
Great piece, Tonya!
Oh, what a beautiful phrase. The walls of the asylums, made of paper. That's extraordinary. Thank you so much, Connie.