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vi3lscgbevccwe · 1 year

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awlm3ornbhn · 1 year

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noumenone · 1 year

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— there and back again;

It's not something so outlandish when people are asked the question: How do you define home?

For most . . . Perhaps, the answer comes within a name of certain place close to one's fondest memories. I picture it as a family house on the countryside reminiscent to the days of childhood when growing up is never any of the worries of summer. Fleeting moments of collecting seashells by the beach, building sand castles right at it shores leaving them to crumble as the sea comes thrashing by it waves, the burnt scent of woodfire by the camps set at dusk where grown-ups could not do anything to stop you from stuffing your faces with s'mores.

On a more intimate perspective, it is a person— your person. Making the day's dread a lot more tolerable than it is. The company that keeps your ocean of thoughts at bay. When life seems to throw a lot more lemons than the usual, and everything begins to sour, they're the honey that sweetens your lemonade.

But on one's solitude, it can be the quotidian things you find your serenity in. A cup of green tea in the morning that drives you throughout the day. The open book by your coffee table that's been sitting untouched for a while now. A long warm shower you take before you go to bed after hell's day worth of working in corporate.

An entity of permanence that brings contentment; what gives one the sense of genuine comfort and belonging that gets them through facing the detriments of living.

Although these days, I find myself delineating this word more as a feeling— a lingering sentiment— that comes as you are lost, searching for your way out of a dark tunnel.

It's the familiarity that comes even in the most foreign of places.

Home . . . I could definitely use some of that.

Date Written: November 12, 2022.

Memoires of An Epistolist, E. Clair Loiseau.

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diannehoffman · 2 years

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I moved 400 miles away from my hometown in Southern California to San Francisco when I was 18 years old. I didn’t know anyone when I got here and the internet did not exist. So I would write letters to my friends and family as both a creative practice and pastime as well as a way to remain connected. In turn I received a bounty of replies to my correspondence. I have a large storage bin with at least ten years worth of handwritten letters I received and they are all separated and bundled by name of their author. Sometime in my late twenties the World Wide Web became a thing and email sent letter writing to the waste side. Same can be said for my penmanship. But I did keep all those letters and the fond memories of that time in my young life. I’ve Kept All Your Letters, 2018 assemblage, 16” x 16” x 3” (Sold) #letterwriting #mailslot #correspondence #mailman #postoffice #epistoler #letterwriter #epistler #Epistolist #writingletters #incomingmail #sendmoremail #penpals #penfriend #penpalletters #snailmail #compartments #savedmemories #memoirs #assemblage #assemblageartist #assemblageart #foundobjectart #diannehoffmanart https://www.instagram.com/p/CaK4NWdPdRv/?utm_medium=tumblr

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hourlywritingprompts · 6 years

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Writing prompt of the hour: epistolist

#writing prompts #writing prompt #writing

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prettyforablackgirlblog · 8 years

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Epistolist

In real life, I am not a particularly gushy person. I don’t overtly emote. I’m that awkward person at Church services who can never figure out during the “turn to your neighbor” part if we’re shaking hands or hugging. I’m also least likely to cry in a sad movie. Seriously.“That’s really cool” said over and over in a slightly elevated tone accompanied by vigorous head nodding is about the extent of my emoting. I would probably be the worst game show contestant ever (evah evah evah) unless it was Jeopardy. In fact, I would never voluntarily be on a game show like Price is Right where people jump up and down, throw themselves to their knees, and scream in toddler octaves about a washer and dryer combination. I just don’t have it in me. I am capable of neither emitting those octaves nor that frantic level of emotion. I even have this recurring daydream where the Love of My Life (LOML) finally proposes to me and I respond with a shoulder shrug and “Vegas or nah?” And speaking of boyfriends, I dated this guy off and on in my early twenties and I was pretty convinced in my wildly naive and uninformed 25-year-old-heart that I was going to marry him. Obviously, that didn't pan out. But we did have this really strange reunion about a decade later and one of the things that Specter (as I call him) said to me was particularly interesting: I was ready to get married to you, he said, but I couldn't read you -- I couldn't tell what you felt or thought about it. Even when we would talk about it, you'd just be like "oh yeah, sure". It was like you didn't care either way. Specter confirmed something that I've longed noticed about myself: this could totally be due to being a writer, but when exciting and emotionally charged (good) events happen, I find myself monitoring my own reaction and noting what everyone else is doing. Sometimes I fine tune my response so that my energy level at least matches everyone else's. I spend more time thinking about my emotions and holding them up to the mental light bulb for closer examination-- mining them for writing gold midair -- than actually showing them.

I am most definitely an Epistolist. Or Epistler, if you prefer. Which, if you’ve never heard the word before, you might think is someone who carries around a six-shooter or 9 mil and challenges villains to duels under a bright midday sun. But, you’d be wrong. An Episotolist is simply a writer of epistles – or letters. It’s my go-to form of communication, particularly once conversation has failed.…

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#emotions #epistle #epistler #epistolist #letter writing #letters #Life #writing

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