Happy holidays, everyone!
Thank you for Wandering with me this year.
“The Roots of Discontent”
by Andy Greene
If it wasn’t for the saccharine stench of human corpses that still hung in the air, it’d be an idyllic morning.
The rains the night previous had lessened even that nigh-constant reminder of the recent tragedy. The warmth of the summer sun imbued the wreckage that still clogged many of the town’s thoroughfares with possibility; in the rubble of banks, shops, and tenements lay the seeds for a second chance. The Gods appeared to assent to the celebratory disposition that had spread across Amalcross, a fine omen on The Day of the Consecration.
“Healing Self Heals Others” were the words carved beneath the wooden statue of a twelve-handed shaman that greeted all who arrived at the Crossings neighborhood, a thrumming hive of construction and excavation. This ancient interpretation of Bouledar, the God of Healing and Community, reflected what many of the peasants who had lost their homes to the Great Quake believed: They needed all twelve of Bouledar’s hands and then some to salve their fractured families and the wounded, shaken city. At least on this morning, it felt as though Bouledar had answered their prayers — his salubrious digits had already begun their holy work upon the district.
Children streamed out of newly risen flats, improvements to the slums they had previously inhabited, running ahead of their parents into the gathering crowd. The Quake’s destruction, and the rebuilding it necessitated, had markedly bettered their lives already. Their shit no longer flowed in the gullies, for one. From destruction, sweet life could spring forth.
It was fitting that Bouledar bid the growing gathering welcome. Everyone who now bowed and held the hands of strangers had come to visit the temple newly erected in His name. The surging press included the living ancestors of all the Hundred Houses. The Imperial Family was there, too, their first public appearance since the Great Quake.
No matter the size of their purse, thousands walked together up a new tree-lined path that opened into a vast, circular courtyard. Here, all gathered together, and a hopeful feeling of community began to sprout out of their shared grief.
The Temple grounds were marked by thirty-seven freshly planted saplings, representing a new beginning. The courtyard gave way to a garden blessed by Fen himself. There were both exotic everpurple trees from unpronounceable lands across the Hurron Sea and the familiar bottlenecked Oocrahen trees from the local forests. Climbers, creepers, and wildflowers were in orchestral bloom around them. The scent of lingering death that had taken root in the noses of the residents transmogrified into fresh life.
If everyone in attendance were petals of a budding flower, the woman in surreal vermillion and teal robes at the center of a stage in front of the temple’s grand entrance was their pistil. At exactly midday, all attention was fixed on the great High Priestess Binder Farquen. No announcement or bell was required.
Unquestioned leader of the assemblage, the wizened Farquen still looked the part of the warrior mage she had been in her adolescence. Even with only one eye, she seemed to peer into the souls of everyone in attendance. Before she had come into womanhood, it was said Farquen ripped out one of her own blue eyes and replaced it with a red gemstone to affirm her complete devotion to the Meridian. There were whispers that the stone itself was Bound in ancient magic. But one thing was certain: She saw only the truth.
On Farquen’s left, a young man was set to hang.
On her right, a woman overflowing with child was attended by the Emperor’s own midwife. Her loud contractions echoed across the assemblage.
The man and woman had each been chosen via lottery, plucked to sate the hunger of the Gods. The random death of a peasant man, a fletcher’s apprentice, represented Chaos. The birth of a new child signified fresh Order, a great balancing of the Chaos. Or so it was said.
The peasant’s family were there in attendance, cheering. To have your kin chosen for such a sacrifice was a great honor, and brought a flush purse as further compensation.
The newborn child would be brought up in the Imperial Palace, destined for an honorable life in the Amalguard and given access to a fairytale life its orphan mother couldn’t dream of. That thought likely comforted her now, in the throes of agonizing childbirth.
After a particularly grisly cry, the midwife signaled to High Priestess Binder Farquen.
“The new Order is coming.”
Farquen’s announcement incited wordless, full-throated chants. Half of the congregation sang high, the other half low, finding a melodious middle.
The High Priestess removed a small, two-sided axe from her robes. One side was covered in velvet and soft to the touch, whereas the other… well, anything that touched that blade would never be able to touch again.
The chant stopped abruptly as the High Priestess swung the Untouchable end of her axe at the wooden stool upon which the man was standing.
To read the rest of the story (probably my favorite thing I wrote this year), visit DistantReaches.com.
A subscription brings with it oodles of fantasy stories, illustrations, poems and behind the scenes insights into the creative process of building a fantasy world from scratch.
Monica Andrade on Their Sober Journey
“I just started to hear this voice in my head that was like, ‘You can do this. You are capable.’ It was the first time that I can remember hearing a voice like that in my head.”
This week I’m joined by comedian and filmmaker Monica Andrade (@vape__sommelier) to discuss their journey to sobriety. Oftentimes the decision to get sober is where the discussion ends, but as Monica tells us, it’s the start of a new, difficult story.
At the time of this conversation, Monica is less than a month sober (they’re now 100 days sober!)– this is raw and immediate and Monica’s strength imbues every word they speak. Monica relates their trial and error experiences with getting clean and what they’ve learned about themselves along the way.
We talk about feeling powerless and overwhelmed. We talk about how substances were a way to control emotions and feelings. The need to be present, to find joy in the boring, small moments home alone, is a huge part of this journey.
We discuss decision fatigue and how the decision to be sober isn’t just one decision, but an infinite number. We end on the story of a fateful whitewater rafting trip that awakened a powerful voice within them.
To accompany our conversation, Monica made a mixtape:
Physical Therapy
For a couple months, I didn’t have the drive or desire to record or edit any new podcasts (or newsletters for that matter). This monologue takes a peek into why.
I finally talk about what's going on in my life -- and it all starts with a rock in my shoe.
I've been in physical therapy for the past couple months and that has coincided with a depression that has made it hard to do everything. The journey begins in childhood and is ongoing, but here's the story for now…
Walking in the Air with “The Snowman”
by Andy Greene
Several years ago, when I was back home from college, my mom was packing up old videotapes and junk from childhood. I protested, looking through the boxes before allowing such a thing to happen. As I pored through the proposed trash, I realized that, yes, this stuff needed to go.
However, there was one thing I requested to keep: a battered VHS for The Snowman, an animated TV film from 1982 that I knew moved me as a child, but hadn’t seen in years.
Like many movies or pieces of art, I had this feeling about it — that this movie demanded my attention, and would impact me in the future whenever I had the time and space for it.
That time and space finally arrived earlier this week, toward the end of a year that sorely lacked in each.
The Snowman, based on Raymond Briggs’ picture book, is simple, pure, anathema to the tempting excesses of Christmas. It’s about a boy who builds a snowman who magically comes to life Christmas Eve night. This isn’t a horror film, nor is this Olaf (an even more frightening thought) — the snowman is silent, an imaginary friend, your inner self, God, the manifestations of dreams, of longing.
Of course, the adventure, like any adventure, has an expiration date. Stupid morning, stupid adulthood has to come, and the snow too must melt.
Every day I am the boy running outside to discover his dreams have melted and changed overnight. Or worse, they’ve been forgotten. What had I built, exactly? Where had I built it? Or had I imagined the whole thing? Words are like snow, often feeble attempts to conjure a meaning and feeling that melts in your hands when you try to grasp at it. Every day I am the boy searching for the right snow, for my younger magical self who knows exactly where it can be found.
The Snowman is transcendent even without pictures or words thanks to Howard Blake’s stirring score. Blake’s music is a trip on its own, but “Walking in the Air,” gorgeously sung by 13-year-old Peter Auty is the angelic ornament atop the Christmas tree. It takes me back to a mythical time when life made sense, or rather, to a time when it didn’t have to make sense. The operatic anthem produces in me chills and tears every time I hear it, and that includes the seventeen times I listened to it on repeat while attempting to collect my feelings here.
This time around the North Pole, it was startling to see how closely The Snowman mirrors the psychedelic experience. That soaring come-up, flourishes of hallucinogenic magic filtering your vision, your soul. And just when you think it can last forever, just when you think you’ve figured something out about yourself, about the world, the sinking has already begun… forcing an emergency landing back upon the melted shores of reality. The words fading footprints…
But that’s the point. Every morning, if you’re lucky enough to glimpse it, promises the possibility of fresh snow, new friends, new adventures and the inevitable heartbreak that comes with the certainty that they all must pass. The trick is to fly together during the times we have.
A “Perfectly Adequate” Olive Garden Musical!
I don’t think I need to write anything more than “Olive Garden Musical,” but my pal Michael Ornelas and cohost Garrett Zwerk are on a mission to find the most “fine” dining experience in America.
The most mediocre meal is their quest, their destiny, and this comedy podcast is their Captain’s Log, and they recently climbed the salty peaks of the Breadstick Mountain range, reaching… Olive Garden.
Their experience was made into a musical with 7 full-length songs featuring a cavalcade of talent and marinara.
Last year, musician pal Robert Panico helped me create a 12 Days of Christmas music video for Movies with Friends with my Christmas guests.
This year, he worked on the above 12 Days of Spongemas for Nickelodeon that is a treasure trove for fans and lovers of, well, fun.