Of the all-time great sequences of tracks in albums, it is hard to beat Teenage Dream by Katy Perry. The title track, “T.G.I.F.,” “California Gurls,” and “Firework” kick the album off in that order. Meanwhile, in the back half, you get “The One That Got Away” and “E.T.” one after the other. It’s a comfort that thirteen years later I can still enjoy this album for what it is: pop bliss. I vividly remember hiding the fact that I loved the album back in middle school because I desperately wanted to cultivate a certain image–one that I’m not sure I even understand or actually remember. Whatever that image might have been, it certainly did not last.

My 27th birthday came and went and as always I’ve been down about it. A trait I’ve inherited from my mom is a disdain for birthdays, and yet my birthday is my favorite day of the year. I contradict myself. Oh well. 

I am thankful for life but I desperately want its pace to chill out, but also speed up, but also stop completely, and yet I want it to zoom forward at an astounding pace. 

In particular, I want the time to halt a bit because I’ve been writing. The projects I’m working on I’m very proud of and at least one of them, I sincerely believe, has real merit and potential. The worst part about writing is talking about writing. People ask what I’m writing, and I tell them, “Oh, I’m writing. A thing. A novel, I guess.”

“Oh, cool,” and I know in most people’s minds there’s this subsequent, “You know, you aren’t going to make it. And that’s ok, Matthias! We’re glad you are trying.”

That’s also my voice, of course. Something about 27 screams, “It’s too late” to achieve whatever I set out to do. 

Indeed, that last half of the previous clause is the question of the hour. What is it I set out to do? It’s quite simple, really. I want to tell stories. Ever since I first performed skits at Boy Scouts camp in, like, fifth grade, I’ve loved telling stories. To use a not-so-favorable term, I’m a bit of an attention whore. But in a good way, I think. 

But there’s more I want to do. For a very long time, I considered myself, as a writer, “amoral.” I wanted to tell stories that did not preach. While I do not wish to suddenly sermonize, I’ve come to terms with the fact that stories need to do more than entertain, although that’s a very good and, I believe, a holy thing to do. (This year I’ve come to terms with the fact that Ursula K. Le Guin is perhaps my favorite contemporary American novelist, and she is also, without a doubt, the most “moral.” More on that some other time).

I teach high school in South East DC. The other week a person was shot and killed on the street outside our school. Homicide detectives and news crews flooded the scene. And the staff and students just went on with our day. My students shrugged it off, some laughing about it, because what else can you do? 

When your world includes people getting murdered outside of schools in broad daylight, and that is a given, something that must be accepted, then something is wrong. I refuse to accept that. 

I stepped outside that day and could see the capitol building from the sidewalk. I couldn't help but think about all the 20-something and 30-something white people jogging on Capital Hill, going about their daily lives, working for politicians in think tanks concocting (sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously) how to ensure basic necessities like food are difficult to access so that those in power can stay in power. Meanwhile, twenty minutes away, murders outside of schools; the world turns. 

And there was this march for Palestine. Well and good. But if the government will not help the people twenty minutes away, do you really think they’ll do anything for the displaced and dispossessed thousands of miles away? 

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Before I sermonize, which I never set out to do (but I see is somewhat inevitable) I want to say that I desire to make art that allows us to question the horrors we assume are “just the way things are.” While most people tend to say our societal ills are “very complicated” and cannot be swept away, I increasingly have a hard time believing that. Ensure everyone is cared for, fed, and given shelter and medical care. It’s actually quite simple. Perhaps I’m utopian in this, but I’m ok with that. 

The project I’ve been working on, I believe, addresses this problem on a physical and spiritual level. It’s been difficult to write shorter works and upload them here because I’m pretty consumed by this other project. Also, the stresses of teaching and not having enough money to adequately live where I do prevent me from taking care of myself.

I learned last week that my psychiatrist had a nervous breakdown and can no longer help take care of me. The irony is pretty rich, but also, as someone with Bipolar disorder, I need care, and this hiccup in care has had unfortunate effects on my productivity and well-being. 

All that said, I wanted to thank everyone who has supported me in my writing and my life. I pray you will continue to do so, but moreso, I pray that you are well, taking care of yourself and your loved ones. If you are reading this, I assume you are in the small social circle of my life. Know that I love you very much! 

At the end of the day, I see this project, both this website and the longer projects, as a way to connect us all, as the best works of art do. Empathy, love, and understanding are, in the end, the real motives of this whole thing. We speak to be known; it is a two-way street. 

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One love, 

-Matthias

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Remembered after the fact that something I wrote earlier sounds much like this quotation from Bakunin: “That we are Utopians is well known. So Utopian are we that we go the length of believing that the Revolution can and ought to assure shelter, food, and clothes to all — an idea extremely displeasing to middle-class citizens, whatever their party colour, for they are quite alive to the fact that it is not easy to keep the upper hand of a people whose hunger is satisfied.”

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The photo is one of my amazing students who dressed up as me for "Dress Like a Teacher Day." I was extremely flattered.