Wrapping all my best-of’s from Latvia into a new short eBook, This is This.
Set to launch 15 October.
In the old days I would find pics on the internet that felt like they fit the mood for what Kismuth wanted to say and be. Of all the ones I kept, this is my favorite.
To be sure, self-publishing is sometimes seen as a sign that an author believes in his or her work; for instance, photographer-turned-publisher Max Bondi said that “investing in a project shows that you believe in it”.
Nevertheless, part of the reason for the negative stigma is that many self-published books, particularly in past decades, were of dubious quality. For example, in 1995, a retired TV repairman self-published his autobiography in which he described how he had been stepped on by a horse when he was a boy, how he had been almost murdered by his stepfather when he was a young man in Mexico, and how his ex-wife had clawed his face with her fingernails.
The repairman spent $10,000 to have his 150-page masterpiece printed up, and, for promotion purposes, he sent copies to a local library, to the White House, and to everybody with the repairman’s same last name.
These efforts did not lead anywhere; today, the book is largely forgotten. —Wikipedia on ‘Self-Publishing’
The rain came.
The rain stopped, momentarily.
It was one hell of a rain, just now. And I got stuck at a cafe. I got stuck because it was raining so hard I didn’t want to dash even the less-than-four-minute route it would take to get from that spot to this one, where I am, thanks to the spell of a breeze and some sun.
Meantime, while waiting, I chatted someone up and it was incredibly dull. I mean, really dull. I should probably refrain from even saying that because, well, it’s dull and that’s that, right? But as much as I give out about being the way I am (occasional curmudgeon, fully admitted, and antisocial, etc), the truth is, when four plus days pass, having packed everyone off for their own adventures so as to FOCUS and WRITE SOMETHING, and I haven’t spoken to anyone in real life I get a little… wigged out.
Over at DK for the last 38 weeks, I’ve been writing and co-creating a weekly e-mag, S P A C E. It’s kind of been a labor of love, at first, mostly, but with time and continuations and brute-force figuring it out as I go, I’ve discovered a couple of important things.
‘Hug your kids.
‘Don’t work too late.
‘A lot of the things you are likely spending your time on you’ll regret once you no longer have the time.
‘I’m guessing you have 1:1 meetings on the books with a lot of people you work with.
‘Do you have them regularly scheduled with your kids?
‘If there’s any lesson to take away from this, it’s to remind others (and myself) not to miss out on the things that matter.
—J.R. Storment, ‘It’s later than you think,’ on LinkedIn here. ‘Many have been afraid to ask the details surrounding my son’s death. Others who were unaware of it have wondered why I’ve disappeared. Here is the story.’
Found on twitter, via @LeslieFeinzaig
For the last two years, I took a break from Kismuth and my personal projects.
I wanted to see if I could collaborate.
Like, for real. With new people. In foreign lands. Maybe where I didn’t know anyone. Definitely where I didn’t speak what they did.
I guess I had it in mind that it could be a cool, beautiful and interesting way to see what else is ‘out there,’ and co-create with people I had yet to discover, and learn from.
Idealistic. Idyllic. And totally off.
This was a mixed bag.
I can’t stand blogs that go into the whole, ‘I’m so vulnerable’ and silly jazz like that, so I will refrain. But the short awakening was: I can’t work with too many people, and I know that, and I’ve known that for a long time.
Which. Was why. Of course it was why. I had started here. Writing Kismuth.
People would go, ‘Not everyone has the time and luxury to write and travel, like you.’
But yeah. I’m writing more here now. I’ve put together the new issue of Briefly in Sheffield. I loved this story and how people reacted to the zine version of it, which many of us in design like to think of as ‘prototyping’. Although, yeah. Some people think I want to be a ‘zine master.’
I just want to quickly flesh out a story, print it, let people read it, see if they like it. If they do, ask why. If they don’t, ask why.
What else is there?
A new book.
Coming in October. This is This. Pre-Order (USD $15) here.
I’ve written about Latvia, since so many people asked me to talk about it and share all that I had seen. I know it wasn’t a long trip, but for some reason this particular part of the world really held my attention (and I think my community of readers and acquaintances kind of got that, for some reason).
Since my father asked me a billion questions (okay, like four, but that’s a billion these days, isn’t it?), I’m dedicating it to him… RK :)
You don’t have to wait until October to get a sample of what this is going to read like… I’ve already been sharing bits and pieces of the conversations that I had while traveling in Latvia in these four issues of DK’s e-mag S P C, well not really traveling, but rather, looking for the stories in one spot, for six weeks. (I found quite a few, to be honest, but the best-of selections I will share in this new collection, This is This.
The title story in the seven-chapter eBook is based on a really great conversation I had with someone about ‘what art is’ and ‘what it isn’t’, which we both had to iron out for ourselves and then work into some degree of form which then got obliterated, philosophically and aeshetically, on one rather bizarre evening in the still-light night of 9PM.
We thought we had it figured out. Being super esoteric.
But we didn’t know a thing, and found out in a remarkable and weird moment of awakening to… something wildly unusual, unexpected and jarring in its tenacity.
I wrote about it.
That story itself, that’s the highlight of this new collection.
Every month I write a column for Charlotte, NC-based Saathee Magazine called ‘Kismuth & The Way.’ One of the columns featured Riga. You can find it online: read ‘Drifting into Riga’ here >
I’m really excited to share this. It’s been three years since I published a story here at Kismuth, owing, mostly, to the fact that I had committed two years to do the work at Design Kompany called ‘Atelier S P A C E.’ It took me to Singapore, Finland, Malaysia, Thailand, Latvia, and Slovakia. Read more about that here >
Atelier S P A C E wraps up at the end of September. That’s why this new book will come out in October. Atelier S P A C E helped me learn how to write, but more than that, how to listen. To new people. Sharing. Honest sharing… that’s all we ever do around here, at least, that’s what we do in the books. (Real life: harder, erm. Yeah.) Exclusive writing, new photography, black and white graphic art and other things feature in the new eBook.
Atelier S P A C E, though, was a project that I designed in order to get better at listening. Yup. To doing that. And just that. Mostly. That’s what I would do, I said, because that as where I was lacking skills. So I did.
Go and seek the new and different, in faraway places from those that were known and familiar to me.
Go. Talk to people. Uncover real stories about what they care about, wherever they are, and write them as honestly and in a form that’s delightful to read… at least, to do my best with that intention.
Writers always say their most recent work that’s published is their best. And, well… I feel that way about This is This.
Here’s how to pre-order…
‘You should be writing another book, is what.’
‘What you need to do is not think about the other books, but focus on the writings to come. And get them organized and sorted and put together and done.’
‘Yeah, DK. You’re good at finishing things. Why are you not writing another book?’
‘I’m always writing another book. I just… can’t quite… decide on how to organize the chapters and press print and stuff.’
‘Print isn’t the point. Writing is the point.’
‘You’re right, M.’
‘I know I am. Half of this is mostly me telling it to myself.’
‘It’s usually like that, isn’t it, the best advice?’
‘So now what I have to do is just pick one of the stories and flesh it out and make it happen.’
‘Make. It. Happen. Exactly.’
‘Thank you for this useful tight conversation. It wouldn’t have been possible, though, were we not talking already so adamantly about so very many things for the last four years, in real life. I trust your advice now. I trust that you know me well enough to know what it is I must do. Instead of just offering whatever-general-lalala-advice, you’re giving me something I know is customized for me.’
‘So I’m gonna do it.’
‘Do it. You seem to know how to do that, so do it.’
Rarely on these travels do I have the space, really, to stop and think through what I have uncovered. That’s because it’s too in-the-midst-of-it to grapple with all the many pieces of information, and of course an array of feelings and emotions that also play out, often unexpectedly, in these channels of flux and flow. —Read ‘White Noise’, part of DK’s column ‘Kismuth & The Way’, Saathee Magazine
I was writing about this and other things in a few notes, and sharings, here and there in the conversation spaces that I am part of. Some of them are in real life. Some are online. It’s odd, having so many kinds of ways to connect with people but the thing I am learning is that the texture and quality of that kind of space that I most love doesn’t change regardless of the people or place or medium. We are asking questions, together. That’s the main agenda: to query. To quest. I’m cool with this. Not everyone wants to use writing as a way to pursue new insights, discover one’s way towards meaning. Not everyone wants to use writing like that of course not. I mean, some people just want to write so that people will publish them in fat books that go on shelves that end up unread and dusty, especially these days let’s be honest. But they don’t want ot be honest. They want to be ‘published.’ I don’t know about that. For me, it’s just a way of discovering things. People. Mostly people. Who also want to discover. This is really fun. And yeah. I’m working with some of the people I’ve really enjoyed getting to know, over the course of the last few years, especially, because that is the time that I’ve been focusing the most on developing things with a handful of those whose work I respect and whom I know I can count on. Trust. Reliability. These things, for me, are huge. Solid relationships. Are the footing from which you can make remarkable things. I don’t have time for mumbo-jumbo or wishy-washy. I want. To get. To work. And that’s what I’m doing.
Next: where do you find my article, in a zine form? Because of course you want to see it in a zine. :)
The same story, along with other pieces related to this, are also laid out as a zine, S P A C E | ‘White Noise.’ Find it here, in the online store for S P C. Those stories include graphic art and poetry, plus occasional collaborations with other writer-artist-designer friends. Most of whom I’ve met on the road. Ask me about it, sometime.
THIS YEAR, so far in online projects, things are moving in an interesting direction. A giant overarching theme has been coming into shape. People want to talk together share about really big things related to: love, loss, risk, and chance. I get that. It’s kind of a major attractor for me, this idea of leaping into uncertainty. So we talk together about family. Relationships. Life…. Quality. After testing things for a while, it seems clearer and easier, in some ways, that we can develop really great conversation spaces online. More on the way, for those who are connecting, about the next.
TODAY, I’m writing to share a bit of good news about a book of Kismuth’s. I mentioned about it earlier, in this post, but I’d like to expand a bit now.
I wanted to tell you more about the writing and sharing of Kanishka, the pre-quel to The Elopement.
SERIAL. Kanishka‘s first chapter, ‘Orange Juice’, appeared this month in print in the magazine Preet Lari. That was the magazine that hosted me when I was researching the book, as they have a cool co-living program in a village outside of Amritsar. Preet Lari, I understand, will publish all of Kanishka as a serial, monthly. I understand that this usually 100% Punjabi-language magazine has never published anything in English, yet, but has been dancing around with the idea. For a while. They are generations old.
I know from firsthand conversations with my dear friend and editor PS that this was a huge, huge step. And it’s Kanishka. Mesmerizing, to me, because I am floored to think that people in that region of the world who, for thirty years, have also been wondering what happened, will be able to connect with my story, I hope. In some way. From another angle. I wonder if this will circle back, in some way, again, there is only some of most that we can touch, and tap, right? And we can discover something new, together. All this. Connexion. Writing for it. Intrigued by the way the publishing world has changed, such that we can communicate n:n, across time, space and distance.
ABOUT KANISHKA. Hard to write, but important. Why? It’s… deftly coaxed out of me by NPR’s Frank Stasio in a radio interview, which is achived at this page.
THE FIRST FEW TIMES I WAS THINKING, ‘I want to write,’ I guess I was still a kid. I had this notion that you could do it, you could do anything, if you just wanted to enough. Not knowing that there would be a whole lot of people trying to tell you, no, no no, that’s not what you do with your life. When you write, it’s your hobby. When you work, you know, you make money. That’s how it is. Writing is a dream for some people who are idle and rich. Focus. On the tasks at hand. Which are practical, which have everything to do with making it happen, for the things that make sense, because they have to, otherwise… well. Otherwise there would have been no point in existing the way I have chosen to exist… I imagine I hear these things—and I’ll come back to that—I’d imagine, and in this imagining, I’d verbalize it.
I’d state it, like was a fact.
To anyone who’d listen, I’d say, ‘You can hear these things in people’s heads,’ you insist, covering up for yourself on the why question, the why you’re not writing for real, the stuff you want, and you are working at a newspaper because it feels… like the right thing to do, instead. You intellectualize and come up with reasons not to put words together the way you want, the way that some of the most intriguing people, in foreign lands and closeby, will say really inspire them.
Then you will know, but only then that it doesn’t matter about practicals. Until then you are insisting. Saying you have to write for the papers, the magazines, put the freelance-y bits together so… you can… get more work like that. ‘You really, really can hear everyone telling you how it should go. They are there in the everywhere… ‘ Except the day you stop and see. That they are not at all in the everywhere. On that particular eve or morn, you see, at once and forever from that point forward, that they are ringing about, all right, but only in your head.
Accepting the new directions. They are making their own case to exist. —KM
THE FALL OF 2015. Sweden. A small boat harbor. A little bit of time and space. Me, my writing stuff. A couple of black pens and an empty grid notebook. The big idea was to go and discover about ‘uncertainty’. I mean, it was pretty open-ended. Sure it was. That was the point of it. I didn’t know this at the time, but I was going to run into a bunch of people who might, just might, change my outlook on how things are. How things go. What things mean, don’t mean, and what they might look like if you just shift the angle, change the lens. Another universe, for me.
Cool and Novemberish, the autumn. Such a discrete opposite to the same time of year in Cambodia, my home-away-from-home-away-from-home. A long story, this drifting into new territories.
You could say it’s inspired by Situationism, but I think it’s more about my situation. Getting lost on purpose starts with some degree of, let’s just be direct… necessity. Nobody who is comfortable where she is would really opt to get out there and get lost… would she?
To sort of figure out what the heck was going on with my life, I did something I very infrequently do. I wrote poetry. Poetry! Of all things. Yet it fit. The more the little boat rocked, oh yes, just a little gale, but also quiet sometimes, but then super cold and even -7 one day, that’s CELSIUS, I got faster and shorter with my notes. I didn’t write the novel. Not quite. I am in the middle of it now, though.
It’s two years later, for sure, and I’ve been to a bunch of other places in the meantime. But the story from there, the interviews and the conversations that shaped the new thinking (which inspired the title, a title I can’t share yet because you know how it is when you talk too much about something and then you sort of lose interest in your own idea? Well, yeah, that). I need to share the gleanings, the learnings. The Denmark and Sweden of my six weeks in Scandinavia. If you scroll down on this page, under ‘links to essays,’ you’ll find ‘Six weeks in Scandinavia.’ Oh! One of the people I met was playing an incredible song and I drew it, and now it’s on their CD. That’s what the pic is about. Chance. Uncertainty. Serendipity. The road.
If you’re curious about the new book that’s coming out, check it out.
Here we go.
It’s starting. The new writing.
I love this part.
AN UNLIKELY CONNECTION, but a powerful one. I have a lot to share about the conversations that began in virtual space and grew, and bloomed, into a remarkable collaboration. Here’s a hint.
A Punjabi-language magazine. A place for people to come and learn and write and make space to discover, and co-discover.
(Was I reading into it? I wasn’t sure. This is what my impression was, taking away from the internet gleanings on Wikipedia about Gurbaksh Singh, who edited Preetlarhi magazine.)
Took the risk in late 2013, from a hotel in Gangtok.
Could I ask about the writing residency there, I wrote into a form on their website. Could I know more about it, perhaps, since I’ve, um, I’ve got this story I want to write, and that would mean having to come to Amritsar?
I was typing on a digital tablet, which like me, was on the brink. Fumbling our way around India, with no plan or agenda or expectations. Or money. Could we make it to Punjab? If we got invited, we would find a way. And we did. A lot of bus transfers, via Kathmandu and this dusty border town at Nepal-India. Chandigarh. Et cetera. But that was just the road journey, to Preetnagar.
What happened next? So much. But the story continued, as we kept in touch ambiently through the next four years. Here we are in April 2017. And this month, Preetlarhi published in English the first chapter of Kanishka. All kinds of things to say about this, but for the moment, it’s just, ‘Wow.’
FOUND in The Atlantic, this bit about self narrative.
Ahead of our eCourse SELF, I thought it would be fun to share a few finds like this.
Here it is:
But just as there are consequences to telling, there are consequences to not telling. If someone is afraid of how people might react to a story, and they keep it to themselves, they’ll likely miss out on the enrichment that comes with a back-and-forth conversation. A listener “may give you other things to think about, or may acknowledge that this thing you thought was really bad is actually not a big deal, so you get this richer and more elaborated memory,” [Developmental psychology professor] Monisha Pasupathi says. If you don’t tell, “your memory for that event may be less flexible and give you less chance for growth.” This is basically the premise of talk therapy. Read the full story here >
WELCOME TO THE COJOURNAL.
This is about who applies, and what we make together as a result of consciously setting aside time and space to commit to writing, writing better, and sharing what we write. (It’s an unusual space and a conversational one, but it’s not for everyone.)
COJOURNALING gives our participating guests a chance to (re)discover the things you know. (You don’t have to sound ‘smart’ or like you are supposed to win something for your job—a raise, a grant, or some accolades for a good line. Instead, it’s about you. Your world, your reflections, your story.) The heart of what makes you you. It’s not coaching. It’s not a writing course. It’s not a trick. The cojournal has really worked for people. So we’re back, with it. Here in mid-2017. Bringing it here, but in a very low-key way, for those of you who happen to be on this page and are open to it, I invite you to apply. Limited seats. Are you ready?
THIS IS A PAGE with details about what is happening now. See what you think, and maybe see you on the other side. —KM
THIS IS FUNNY.
Two years ago I was going on a journey. I wasn’t sure whom I’d meet, or what would happen when I got there. There were a handful of scattered appointments, nothing set up truly, to be honest, but I had a feeling about good things to come. Showing up. That was the important step. I had to go on two airplanes to get there, then I got there. I wrote a lot. I thought a lot. And I slept more than I had in years.
What happened after six weeks in a faraway place, far from anyone I knew or anyone I would ever see again, was remarkable. Truly. It wasn’t like I knew this was going to happen. But a number of super conversations really did take place. Talking about chemistry, bicycle lanes, composition, uncertainty, intrigue and an odd concept about going inward to do the big work of reflection that I sort of sketched on a piece of graph paper tentatively and said ‘I call this, I think, N – 1.’ Great nods of recognition in something that had never been spoken between us. People who were new.
And in those moments I had insights, insights that were going to lead to bigger ones. Things you put together, without overthinking in our logical Western overly designed rational way, thinking in a different style. In my sleep.
Finding the bliss of solitude, and discovering what it felt like all over again to just be quiet. Alone. All alone. Sometimes for days in a row. I mean, kind of. I still had to go out and get groceries and have the odd smalltalk with people also hermit-ting like me. I did these things. It worked out. I knew somehow that what I needed to do was visit the ‘N – 1’ space. Yes.
‘What are you doing in Sweden?’
‘Are you visiting someone?’
I thought briefly of the young lad who owned the boat I was renting. Technically you had to be a firm friend with someone if you were going to do that. There were rules and regulations. The people gave me knowing looks, and nods, and smiles. But I wasn’t visiting him. That seemed ridiculous. I was visiting someone, though, all right. The more I thought about it, the less strange it seemed.
‘Yes. I’m visiting me.’
A NEW CHAPTER BEGINS for Kismuth Books & Publishers, then. Helping others also make room for this kind of space. Space to go inward. Space to reflect. There are two programs on offer, and they are outlined here and here.
I wonder if you are curious? Check them out, if yes.
If you’re wondering about the COJOURNAL project, there are limited seats by invitation for that. Do let me know if you know about this, and might be interested in finding out more. Best way is through the form at this page, be sure to ask for Kismuth.
Wondering what happened after the boat? Here is a link to the essay about it, ‘Six Weeks in Scandinavia.’
Oh, also. I forgot to tell you what was funny. YESTERDAY, of all days, someone tells me he doesn’t think I’m the kind of person who gets together with girls for ‘girltalk.’ I mean, he seemed perplexed when I said I had a friend in San Francisco I stayed with a whole week drinking wine and talking late into the night with, having, you know, ‘girltalk.’ ‘You don’t seem like you’d have girltalk, he said. You seem like you might start a conversation something like, “I was thinking about the space between zero and one…”‘ I laughed. Then I actually did start thinking about it. Then I was like, wait, wait, wait. This is it. This is IT. This is N – 1. More to say, but I’ll expand in the smaller, closed writing circles. —KM
THINGS ARE MOVING in a new direction. Isn’t that always how it is, though?
If this were a letter, it would be to the people who had been reading the Kismuth e-letters, which I remember sending probably too often from the year I started Kismuth, 2012. I have stopped sending them, more or less. I guess because sometimes things find their natural ending, don’t they? Cycles. Time. Shifts, the story.
But I do remember writing a lot, and in the letter style. It would open in this kind of slow, easy way: I wonder how this note finds you, and how you are feeling where you are. Perhaps I’d go into a bit of a soliloquy, talk about something philosophical and maybe (probably) abstract. Esoteric. Admittedly it was a thing that would happen, an illogical compulsion towards illogic. Then I got into quantum physics. Then I learned about uncertainty, and its principles. I got intrigued, studied, and wrote completely other things for whole other segments of people. So I stopped with the e-letters to people in Kismuth, those whom I would meet while traveling in Viet Nam or India, who would ask me what I was doing, to whom I’d respond in my earnest and idealistic way that I was writing a book. A book about The Road, about the choice to go On It, and take a chance on things and buck the status quo, for better or worse. Sometimes it was better, sometimes it was far worse, but most of the time, and I think this is the thing that I must not forget, there was really good learning. And that learning is where the other things happened. Things that some people call ‘growth.’
I would go on about so many topics in my letters, much of those letters were long and long-winded. I don’t know. Somehow they led to new things, as things often do. I learned how to write in a way that was my own way. I stopped it with the old styles, the ones that had become bad habits. I won’t blame anything for that, they just were. Part of it was being afraid to say too much, at once. Fear. Fear of being seen as who I really am. When, I guess, if I am truly honest with myself (and you) about this, the thing is, if you don’t put who you really are into a thing, into a work, it’s just not going to be that interesting. To anyone. So you have to do it. For better or worse. Again, that refrain. This time, where will it take me?
The journeys are always good teachers. The reflection that happens at the endpoints even more so. But over the years I find myself returning to the same themes. Those of imagination. Those of love. Those of destiny, and the question, ‘What about if?’ But in a much more resigned way now than in that anxious kind of style that attaches itself to the young and dogmatic and idealistic and did I say dogmatic? Yes. Yes, I did. That is the key word, there.
So much more to say. I’m afraid if I put more here, for now, you will become bored. I am going to stop, then. This would have been the eletter from Kismuth, but as this is a new place, a bloggy kind of place, and as this might invite new people, as it has somehow magically done in the past (blogging, I mean), I will see what happens. The new territory is as dogged, strange, dark at the corners as the real road was, in 2013. The new territory is a walk into the Art, the search for Beauty. It was always at the heart of it, though. This quest to find the better, the meaningful, the elegant and eloquent in that which is around us, right here, where we are.
The below letter was first published online for Kismuth’s VIP e-community, on October 24, 2013.
This one’s for G.
SOMETHING HAPPENED THIS WEEK that changed my whole idea about what it is that “writing” is for, anyways. But let me start at the beginning.
So, I was wrong.
It’s hard to admit.
But yup. I was so totally misinformed when I set out on this quest to “see how other people in Asia raise their children, because, man, it takes a village, doesn’t it?, and we’re so wrapped up in ourselves and our own lives in America.”
Turns out, Asia is wrapped in itself, too. Gadgets, status, timecrunch.
So that changed everything. About what it means to be a person with a kid and have “the village” helping out… We did our best. We cried and tried. Writing about the hard moments, that’s what I wanted to try to do in the series. Yet I haven’t been able to come at it in a really meaningful way. It’s such a personal journey, and all that hard stuff that happened, well, could I really put it into words and share that, out loud? Really, could I?
Then something happened.
Someone else showed me her courage, when she shared with me something that happened to her. Not about anything I could have in a million years have imagined coming, but it is her story, a true one, and something that made me sit up very straight. You can read it, too. [Editor’s note: The Kismuth.wordpress.com has since been made private.] Today’s e-letter is dedicated to G. My new understanding of the purpose of Kismuth became clear when you hit “publish.”
Kismuth started to become something just last week, when you showed me how it helped you talk about your own very real, very haunting story. Coming back to the village, I now see that the work isn’t about the manual labor of holding a baby or the copywriting that comes with making blogs. It’s about the emotional labor. The love that goes into the bonding with your child, or the courage that it takes to say what hurt or changed you with others you don’t even know yet, out loud. The village isn’t about stuff or time. It’s about people. Sharing. Our real stories. All of us. It’s about finding the space and time to open our hearts to one another. Thank you, G.
THIRTY YEARS AGO ON JUNE 23.
That’s when it happened.
The friend who ‘didn’t come back.’
What happened, why did it happen, what if it hadn’t happened?
These questions led to 30 years of running around the world “in search of meaning.”
Get it here now:
That’s when it happened.
The things that I want to tell you more about. The event that I alluded to when NPR host Frank Stasio asked me about it in this interview.
The friend who ‘didn’t come back.’
What happened, why did it happen, what if it hadn’t happened?
These questions led to 30 years of running around the world “in search of meaning.”
Opened up new queries, the secondhand tiers of that pull you to the existential books on the shelves in libraries, entice you to the Himalaya just to see the moon rise. To look at the stars. To ask the Sheltering Sky things that only it might know. Kismuth means ‘destiny’ in my parents’—and her parents’—native language, Hindi.
A lifetime of search, of query.
Thinking out loud, in letters, stories, columns, and sometimes, in books.
I want to tell the final story in the series Kismuth.
Kanishka—coming this month—is Volume I. Yes, I started with Volume II when I launched The Elopement in 2012. I just wasn’t ready yet to tell Kanishka right. Now, though. Thirty years after this tragedy shook the psyche of other 10 year-olds who, like me, wondered what had happened to our dear and no-longer-with-us friend, I’ll share the words I think are right.
This story is for –.
For pre-orders, please go here: Kanishka on Gumroad >