John Paul Brammer

Buy me chowder. Hello from Dublin. The longer I keep a journal, the less I want to write about myself, and the more I want to write about strangers. Not because I think I’m uninteresting, but because it’s interesting for a person to find other people interesting, and the worst thing you can be in your own journal is boring. It was keeping a journal that revealed this unintuitive fact; that it’s the things that seem totally unremarkable at the moment that are the gems.

Your paid support makes my writing possible. Thank you. It speaks to a deep spiritual inadequacy in me that I’m not a sports fan. What the average beer-bellied football enthusiast is capable of doing from his recliner on a Sunday afternoon is nothing short of astral projection in my book. When I look at what’s keeping me from enjoying sports, it looks an awful lot like what’s keeping me from escaping samsara. I’m a smarmy materialist.

Please help me recoup my losses from these IMAX tickets. Please! Bear Week in Provincetown. Last night, I had the privilege of viewing The Odyssey the way it was meant to be viewed: on the largest IMAX screen in the country, with merlot, a cup of Dippin’ Dots, and three friends. Very traditional. I discovered today that I could have sold these $30 tickets for something like $4,000. It’s all getting to such a point, and I wonder how much longer I can endure.

Thank you for being a paid subscriber. “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.” The most impressive thing Jesus did. The fish and loaves thing looks like catering in comparison. I’d find a way to walk on water before I forgave. I don’t think I’ve ever genuinely, earnestly forgiven anyone. Not of my own will. I’ve forgotten. I’ve pretended until time did it for me.Deciding to forgive someone? Choosing to? I wonder if it can be done.

Your paid support makes my writing possible. I regularly read on the subway. Physical books. Increasingly, these books are leatherbound tomes. I’m at high risk of someone sneaking a photo of me and posting it online with a caption like “Look at bro seeking occultic wisdom in the grimoire… you are not a vibe my guy.” Plus, my fit will probably be trash. “Performative reading” is an allegation of inauthenticity.

Thank you for being a paid subscriber. I’m around the age that features in marriage pacts between teenaged besties. “Okay, if both of us are still single by 35…” I made some of these pacts myself, which says something about being young. I thought 35 was impossible. No one was 35. I didn’t know anything. I’m supposed to want to go back to that brain? My body doesn’t ache nearly enough to trade wisdom for youth! I imagine this will change. “Still.” A nauseating word. Mosquitoes lay their eggs in it.

Your paid support makes my writing possible. Thank you. Inspiration strikes non-consensually. It’s possible to make the case that, by courting it, we offer it pre-consent. Coffee. Reading. Visiting museums. Heady conversations. But inspiration has no obligation to obey us. If it did, if a contract could be drawn up, we’d work with it more often than we do. Inspiration is more bully than business partner. It wants to use us like a pack of crayons. I’m bored on a flight.

My pretentious-ass desk right now LOL whatever I ain’t scared Thank you for your paid support. Forgive my use of “stuff.” The word “stuff” called to me, and I answered. I don’t consider these books to be reducible to such a frivolous word. But the way their contents sit in my brain is undeniably stuff-like. While reading a book and being shepherded word-to-word by what is usually a master of the craft, sentences are sharp and voice is distinct.

Your paid support also supports Thriftbooks in a roundabout way. Thank you. I used to read a few books a year. Now I read about one a week. If you’d have seen my habits only a year ago, you’d understand how unlikely this is. It’s a little embarrassing. I look back and feel as though I spent several years of my life without showering. How was I getting by at all? Why didn’t anyone say something?

Thank you for your paid support. No, really, thank you so much. I listened to myself on a podcast today. The episode was recorded over a year ago. Culture, politics, the usual. I don’t typically listen to my podcast appearances. I avoid myself when possible. But there comes a time when it stops making sense to ignore certain things, when you dare to lock eyes with yourself and ask, “What do you want?” I sat, listened, and found what I was afraid to find. Mmhmm. Haha. Yes! Hehe. Gooey pleasantness.