The Last Text
Your echo in my bones.
I've been a bit quiet this past week. A couple days ago it was the 7-year mark of my brother's passing. I'd like to share some perspective about love, loss, and storytelling.
It’s really difficult to explain to someone what it’s like losing a big brother suddenly. I fought through a years-long depression, my entire life was upended, I was abandoned by people I thought were in my corner, and every day there’s a painful longing to just ... catch up with him. My personal relationships were obliterated or suffered greatly, I gathered a massive amount of debt, and even now I look back a few years and barely remember that time of my life. It’s a haze.
Joe was my biggest cheerleader. He always pushed me to do more, and always rooted for me. He was my hero. Yes, that’s little me in this picture. 1982. I was 7, and he was the star player on an undefeated state champion HS team. A true knight in armor to my young mind.
It took some time, but I decided a couple years ago that the best way to honor him is to create with the gifts and talents God gave me. And to do so without apology.
This is why I produce music, story, and characters under the moniker XXXII. Joe is woven into everything I do, every story I tell, every song I create and lyric I write, every character, and every single creation I put into the world.
The constant through-lines in all of my work incorporate grief, identity, loss, death, and the longing for brotherhood - to be witnessed, understood, and celebrated, flaws and all. I pick up my grief like an object, examine every facet of it, study the vulnerability under the brightest of lights, and my brain cannot help but weave every element of that examination into the stories I tell - sometimes front-and-center, sometimes as a simple and subtle undercurrent.
I tell the stories I want to tell through books, music, and visuals because it’s how I honor my brother. It’s why fans of my work can recognize my storytelling voice and style so easily. I’m not here to tell you a story you might like. I don’t “write to market.” I’m here to throw my emotions into my work so I can heal - be it absurdism, non-fiction, or complex and deep urban fantasy. I’ve developed my voice as a creator by being authentic and inviting people into my worlds.
People who appreciate my work recognize me within it.
This is why there is nothing anyone can say or do to me that will silence or censor me. He is the reason I create what I do with enthusiasm, and with full belief in myself and my talents. I have absolutely zero regard for critics, naysayers, or those trying to emotionally manipulate me into feeling bad for the stories I tell, tools I choose to use, or process and timing I operate within.
They don’t matter.
Look, people say this sort of thing all the time. Grief is something we all experience. And you always hear advice like “Hug your loved ones a little harder” or “Call someone and tell them you love them.”
“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” - Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
I never understood those platitudes until Joe left.
Appreciate the people around you, friends, and don’t be afraid to let them know you do. Any moment could be your last chance to put those words into someone’s heart. One day, you’re having a lighthearted text exchange, 7 years later, it’s a silent echo.
Don’t ever censor yourself, and don’t ever think you’re being corny for telling someone you love and appreciate them.
I’ll be back at it soon, friends. I’ve got a massive trans-media IP launch coming up in 6 short weeks, music to create, books to write, and my entire heart and soul to devote to this upcoming project. It is my masterwork, and it exists because of the love and lessons Joe’s loss taught me.
Much love to you all.
I appreciate you.
🧡💙
Hugs, you.