Madness and Love

A soft return to Substack and some thoughts on artistry

Dear Reader,

I’m happy to see you here again reading this letter. I’m glad you haven’t abandoned the joy of reading me as if it had not been me who abandoned you (though momentarily). Until recently, I thought of myself as a failed essayist, but now I write with a new hope and a new enthusiasm, knowing I have readers like you, readers who are gracious, who hold me to a higher esteem than I do myself.

Also, welcome to my new readers… I’m glad to see you all, and I’m glad you’re being accurately introduced to my inner world as you are now.

Before I took a break, I wrote to you about my future plans. I had hoped that planning would somehow make me an efficient and consistent writer. These plans, however, were inadequate. This is simply because I am a mere beginner at everything I love, be it poetry, essays, thought, or even discipline. For I do love discipline, but it seems to me that discipline is a difficult virtue to befriend. It is the virtue that would make me the efficient, consistent writer I would like to be.

For now, I want you to know I have returned to Substack at your encouragement.¹ I like to remind myself as I miss the mark of my own expectations, that we do not have great artists because they were great (or tortured), but because they were loved. The very poor and failing Vincent Van Gogh wouldn’t have painted much had his brother not supplied him with supplies and sustenance throughout Vincent’s poverty. Neither would we have Lovecraft’s body of work (which inspired Edgar Allan Poe who in turn inspired Stephen King and so on) had his friends not insisted upon publishing his work posthumously, even though no one in their time showed any interest. The only truth is that artists, however great, are not made by their hardships², they are only ever made by the love they receive from the madmen who believe in them, and now I feel your love and belief in me.

Thank you for being my madmen.

Now, a poem on self perception

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My gift of intimacy is imperfection
For how could I dare show myself
Fully to someone who could -- with mere indifference --
Reject who I am?

My gift of intimacy is imperfection
Yet my closest friends, my confidants
have chosen to be dishonest
Or worse, they are wrong in their perceptions

For when they draw my portrait
They show a man of character
When they tell my tales and legends
I am the hero too
And when they have the chance to speak,
They praise my inner being
And even still my body, weak and shameful as I see it
They call for in flirts and flatter

Am I accursed, then, to never be known?
For in every picture they take
I do not recognize their friend
Who claims my own identity
I would love to meet him,
Yes, I would
I’d love to meet their friend

But the ever-present hope
That shies away in me
Is that my eyes are the ones that are hazy
My narration the one untrue
That the person I see in the mirror
Is not but the crooked interpretation of my heart

For I trust my friends and their judgement
And I trust them to be champions of excellence
Excellent gazes, excellent artists
With excellent taste in friendship

Thus now, I’m compelled to believe, though hesitantly
That their judgment of me is right
They're not madmen
But rather just see me in a brighter, truer light

For how else, if not in truth,
Could they take such a terrible gift
In which I see nothing but shame,
And then see me an admirable man?

— Matias Vasquez, August 2024

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My Plan - Revised

I call this letter a soft return because, in reality, this letter has nothing to do with poetry (or literature) in any way. It is simply a letter about myself, although I don’t wish for Poetría to be about me. I hope to make it about, well, poetry. However, for now you must be content with whatever this little letter is.

Finally, I don’t expect to write consistently anymore.³ After all, don’t really write for you. I write for myself; to improve my writing; to practice the craft I love; to learn continuously; and and build character through discipline, a discipline that for now means simply writing. On the other hand, this return means that I plan on writing more than nothing for the coming time. You can expect a Halloween special which will undoubtedly be written. It has been brewing for far too long. I also plan on writing a bit about Brave New World or something of the sort, and finally, I have a few thoughts and tips I’ve collected over the past two years on writing poetry that I would like to share.

If all that sounds good, come along! I’d love to share all of this with you.

With all the love and utmost appreciation,

Matias C. Vasquez

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Yours truly, through the eyes of a friend who loves (@von_huene on IG)

p.s. Since last time I wrote you, I decided to study English Language and Culture (in essence, literature and linguistics) at the University of Utrecht. Classes started last week, and it has been an amazing time! The people I’ve met and the conversations I’ve had have further convinced me that literature — in whatever shape — is all I want to do.

p.p.s In august I started a new barista job, which means I may or may not be obsessed with latte art lately.

1. I would like to thank you by name. Thank you Acacia. Thank you Jo. Thank you Siegrid and Sigal, my housemates. And thank you Ana! (and with that, a special welcome to all those who follow me through her).

2. Although, I must admit, we do need the trauma for the art!

3. yet another reason to call this a soft return