Sorsels

or, some seasonal morsels

Hello,

I write this nestled by a crackling fireplace, staring out the window at the countryside, these words touch-typed as I maintain that longing gaze into the rolling hills. I feel inspired, relaxed, and utterly refreshed.

OK that’s not true at all. I write this from bed, jet-lagged and half asleep. There’s no crackling fireplace in this room and my touch typing, whilst reasonable, can’t sustain itself typo-free for that long.

»Her’e s asentence where I actually just looked out of thw indow whilst typing, Jo wondering what the f&$& I’ doing.«

I should back up: I’m in England at my parent’s house. It’s 8am and dawn has finally crept across the horizon. The last few hours have been spent staring through a window out into darkness, throwing my body clock into further confusion over a switched hemisphere.

It’s a gorgeous spot to be, though, with that typical English countryside moodiness.

I’m hoping I’ll locate some inspiration here. But for now, here are some Seasonal Morsels. Sorsels, if you will. (Note: they’re not in any way seasonal.)

Sorsels, courtesy of the Substack image generator.

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My eyes at 40,000 ft

After scrolling the seatback display for about 30 minutes, wondering whether on a 14hr flight from Melbourne to Dubai my singular choice actually mattered, I settled on Triangle of Sadness. It was good choice. Minutes in, I had a wry smile that didn’t leave my face until the end. The film has a veneer of the surreal that is basted across its social commentary. I laughed at the specific scene the film is probably most famous for, finding it darkly comedic instead of off-putting, the turbulence on the plane making for some (questionably) excellent sensory addition. Even though they are totally different films, the shifting nature of the three acts reminded me of the sudden transitions in 2022’s Barbarian. I’m still wondering on exactly what was implied by the very final scene of Triangle of Sadness, though.

After that, I watched a what-if BBC documentary about contact with an alien signal from space; I used the dialogue in Fincher’s The Social Network as my sleep music; I listened to a lot of jazz.

Then I did that thing where you watch, devoid of audio, whatever the person diagonally in front of you is watching. (You also do that, right?)

I rewatched Dune, which was good to return to after doing a reread of the book Dune. I remain impressed. The visuals and audio are a treat. (If you’ve been reading Dune with us, you may have seen our first Letter from Arrakis, whereby

Alexander Ipfelkofer

,

Claudia Befu

,

Vanessa Glau

and I wrote about how we felt rereading Book One. You can find that below.)

Letters from Arrakis: Part One

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Slakian words

How has it nearly been a year of SLAKE? I don’t quite understand. However that’s happened, thank you for being here. I’m all kinds of grateful that there’s even one person (OK so that’d be me) who opens this email to read whatever nonsense I happen to type each week, let alone n+1 people! In the space of this near-year, there have been words of Renn and Brae, the rainy life of Jisa, a number of dreams (not enough of late), sporadic morsels, the occasional serious post, and a strange thing called The Sernox.

That’s a lot of flitting around, so thank you for putting up with the changing narratives.

Speaking of Brae, look at this absolutely gorgeous cover art that

Alexander Ipfelkofer

designed! I know we shouldn’t judge books by their covers, but if I wandered into a bookstore and saw this on the shelf, I know I would pick it up to read the blurb.

Cover designed by Alexander Ipfelkofer.

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On nom de plume

I’ve been writing under a pen name, obviously, (I assume obviously—does anyone really have the surname Slake?) and I’ve been thinking lately about why. It feels weird to talk about it, but part of it is that I have this strange fear that The People From Work will find me here. They’ll read my words, then proceed to mock me or say to me “but why, Nathan?”

What is it about that environment and my (admittedly very friendly) work colleagues that creates such a barrier? Why should I care what they think? Why do I live a chameleonic existence, fearful of admitting a passion?

I don’t have an answer. Or if I do, it’s buried somewhere deep.

I’ve been trying to find acceptance in myself to say that what I really want to do is write all the time (to which my brain says: but such a desire is not financially viable. You have a good job, you idiot. To which my brain then says: Ah, but think of the creative nourishment it provides. And so on.)

So, yeah, I love writing. It feeds some inner place. So#2, in an attempt to embrace the connection of that with me, here’s a real picture, not some cartoon avatar. This is me (and Jo) being quite cold in the English countryside this week.

Somewhere in Leicestershire, yesterday.

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Thus the morsel tree shrivels up once more. When it next fruits remains a cosmic mystery.