For Gian

Sophie Frost

I asked for a baby brother when I turned ten. I wanted an older brother, but I figured a younger one could be cool too. That didn’t happen, and I grew up an only child. With Giancarlo, I felt something I think I can call brotherhood, like I got my wish after all. Especially with how I think he found me a little annoying at first (like an older sibling should!) for being so different but undeniably cut from the same cloth. I think he made a lot of us feel that way. But I always felt his genuine happiness to see me when I showed up at readings around NYC. Our friendship online brought us closer, where I sometimes posted things just for him. Not directly, but with little irregularity a heart would appear, and it was like I was back in Sezze with him, his husband Giuseppe, Chelsea our fearless leader, and the wickedly beautiful people I befriended at Mors Tua Vita Mea that spring.

It was April of 2018, the second session of the program. The engine was hot, and we were all so eager (jazzed, really) just to be there. We bonded in a way I don’t think any of us expected, a way I hold in such high esteem I hardly bother trying to explain it (Mila, Ivan, Lexi, Hurley—you know what I mean). Truthfully, it made some people jealous, and I understand why! It’s one thing to be chosen by a hot prolific writer plus the Tyrant himself to attend the workshop, but to do it in a villa in Italy? And form a lifelong bond with six strangers?? Yeah, some might say ‘it’s too good to be true’ with a hint of envy, but that’s only because of how real it all is.

At the end of the session, I’d say I’d bonded the least with Giancarlo. I definitely hit it off with Giuseppe, which I know went far in Gian’s eyes (even if he didn’t quite know what to make of me yet). Like him, like what I saw in him, is a shared ability to walk into a room and appear at ease even if we are far from it. It’s rarely the situation itself, but some form of pain we know is a step behind us; always threatening to catch up and ruin the good time. Always running from that feeling that nothing is in our control. Chronic pain is no joke. The way it makes even the things we love unbearable, how helpless people feel around us. I know it’s made me scared to share the bad days because of the friends I lost during bad spans of time. So we learn to shield those we care about from the brunt of it, or else they might leave us, too. Pour it into our writing instead, and so we do.

I think being able to see through some of the bullshit layers made him a little nervous. Because he knew that I knew. And I knew that he knew that I knew! Which is why I wasn’t deterred, but inspired to get Gian to know me. I respect it when someone doesn’t let people in right away. I had to earn it (which usually just means not being an idiot jerk; maybe be cool to talk to, show up for people when you say you will, that sort of thing). But like him, I want to see the best in people, which can lead to disappointment in our judgement, and thus the hesitation. But once he realized I possessed all those qualities (or did my best to), I was in.

Amidst the jubilance of the workshop I was sure to commit to memory the main message from both Chelsea and Gian’s one-on-one critiques of my piece. With Chelsea, she practically bled insight, filling every vacant space of white on the papers of my essay with emerald green ink, scanning each page only to remind herself of her methodical notes, that what I got was a lesson in how to be precise. Not just in my writing, but in my actions, and to strive to act with honor. That the struggle is half the journey, so use it. To not be afraid to tap into every part of myself for inspiration. How frightening inspiration can be, but to not fear the process. That anything and everything is in my reach. I don’t think I would’ve been able to write this without her guidance.

I was way more nervous to talk to you individually, Gian, because until that point at the villa you and I had not. I’m having that weird déjà vu of déjà vu as I put these words to the page. It could be I practiced what I’d say the next time I saw you. It has to do with that moment at the villa, during our one-on-one, when you changed how I felt about my writing, for the better. I hadn’t realized how that had been missing for so long.

We sat on a patch of grass overlooking the valley below Sezze. Once filled with Mediterranean Sea, now acres of farmland sprawled out between us and Rome (thanks to Musillini, as Guiseppe loved to remind us with a laugh). Neither one of us grew tired of the sunset, I discovered, as we both stopped everything to admire the dramatic descent of the evening. I’m lucky to have this memory of you there, happy, when the grass turned a burnt orange, like tomato sauce, as the smell of Guiseppe’s cooking made its way out of the villa, and reminded us of another one of life’s simple pleasures. Why had I been so nervous? We were on the same wavelength.

I think you were nervous my essay was going to be a slog. It was the only non-fiction piece in the bunch, and you had a penchant for emotional, blood-sweat-and-tears type of writing. Well, so do I, my friend. But little did I realize I had blocked that off in me, but somehow you knew. You said to me, “I don’t know, I just feel like there’s this voice in there trying to break its way out!” and I knew exactly what you meant: The Tell-Tale Heart in reverse.

In that moment I felt relief, acceptance, and understanding. Sometime over this past decade of writing critically I forgot my start as a poet and fiction writer, often combining the two into songs of mystery and suspense with few clear conclusions. In that way they were truer to life than any analysis could ever be. But in the real world the pressure I put on myself to create and end original stories felt like the blank canvas anxiety I also experience as an artist. Like giving birth just to see it die or destroyed. Maybe that’s why I can never pick one path, one thing to be, because that’s just not how life goes. If one could disappear, so could I. So I cover as much ground as possible.

I didn’t realize writing had become where I hid my creativity. Where I buried it. I buried it to the point where I would get so lost in what I was attempting to prove I would lose track of what I was trying to say for myself. I had been missing my voice, but you heard it when I needed someone to remind me it’s one of my strengths. There’s that heart of yours again, moving the earth beneath my feet so I have room to grow.

More than anyone, you encouraged me to dig out the thing I had been applauded for neatly packing into an objective argument. My flare had been turned into an accessory instead of the main ensemble. Going against what most people think, or just genuinely surprising me, is a good sign in my book. And you did.

That’s what I was thinking about, and how excited I was to tell you that what you said completely altered the course of my writing (in a good way) the day I found out. I had hoped it would make up for how I didn’t see you sooner. We hadn’t been in NYC at the same time for a few years, but we had been talking more and more, across shifting tides and time zones, even if it was just a quick reply over Twitter to let the other know You are not alone.

I had noticed your presence missing there over those last few days. Mayday

But that can mean so many things, and I hoped it meant you were busy having fun with people you love, and love you. Mayday

I was procrastinating on a deadline. I knew you’d understand once we got the chance to catch up, I recall thinking.

Mayday

That was when I got a text from someone in the program about something serious. Something bad, something that needed to be said over the phone. In one gulp my stomach swallowed my heart, and I knew you were gone from this mortal plane. It’s not the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of one of those calls. In fact, my earliest memories are of the fallout after losing someone unexpectedly (my father fell while climbing on a mountain in Alaska in the 90s).

Those calls do not get easier, we just get better at handling them, to the point where I regret how much I tried to hold it together on the phone that day only a few months ago. Being strong is not being immune, it’s being alone. It’s like cutting through scarred skin; resistant but bleeds all the same once reopened. When I felt the sting autopilot took control, but maybe a little too much. Maybe it’s the shock and disbelief when we realize we saw you for the last time, laughed about something dark with you for the last time, said ‘see you later’ to for the last time. What if I had been there (would you still be here)? These thoughts are familiar to me but unanswerable, like the family we don’t get to meet, you are a friend, mentor, and brother I was just starting to know.

Mors tua mea vita. Your death is my life. I think I’m starting to get it now.

Love always,
Sophie Frost