Ladies, Gents, Godfathers, and Godmothers

A quick word on places of the self and the family

Jul 24, 2024

Hi, everyone-

This week, I wanted to take a brief moment to thank all of you.

I’ve had the opportunity to do many meaningful things in my life, including restoring places, and the stories of the people. But few come so surprisingly wonderful as writing for this publication.

The process of writing now isn’t at all like how I remembered it when I was younger. Writing used to be a simple mirroring act: whatever I was reading and observing, I’d spill back out on paper.

But now, it’s deeper. There’s more mystery. The more I know, the more I don’t.

When I write now, it can at first feel very much living through the first scenes of the Godfather movie experience. Except I’m in an opera house like the Sydney Opera House.

The shell concrete-glass windows of the Sydney Opera House looks out into harbor and the sunset. *[Photography: Simon Clayton]* 33°51′25″S 151°12′55″E

If you haven’t seen the Godfather in some time:

A mafia boss, Don Corleone, vouches to help Bonasera avenge his daughter being beaten by two men. Corleone agrees and says,
“I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Everything seems just as it should be.
But then, of course, throughout the story, we learn that what Corleone meant was the brutal gunning of the men.
The backdrop of this operatic story starts to become clearer:

Fierce family men can still do the unspeakable. And they only do the unspeakable because they’re fierce family men.

And when Corleone’s son, Michael, became the godfather of his sister’s baby, while at the same exact time, directing murder—things no longer seem as they should be. His beloved wife Kay, whom he’s wooed and loved with all his soul, had no idea.
At this point, it’s like I could start to see the real backdrop of this operatic story: A sun that burns more as it sets. Because it refuses to die …
Until at last, Michael outwardly lies to dear Kay about his hands on the murders. And then, the closing scene:
Michael shook hands with the men he’s helped through murders. Kay, looking in, before the door finally closes on Michael and the men.

Writing for this publication, about places and people, doesn’t make me feel like Michael.

It makes me feel like Kay.

I can now see. But as soon as I do, the door shuts.

The sun disappears behind the music. And a part of me—has been executed. Probably for good reason. Left forever with wherever the story, the people, and the opera choose to go … without ever telling me the full truth.

And maybe that’s the reality of seeing. Depth often means the departure from the prior self. And yet, departure is the arrival of a new sun … rising behind the same opera house of humanity.

Except this time around, the story might play out differently, even if it’s just slightly so.

I think this is one of the greatest things about writing for this publication.

Thank you for giving me the chance to lay to rest parts of me in my writing each week, so I can take on—with the sunrise, the door closing, and the opera-house settings—the lives and places I talk about in this publication.

In a way, you are godparents to the stories and the places I research, study, deconstruct, and write.

-Thalia

PS:

Thank you to those who have been there for me each week:

, Patrick Chew,

, and

And of course, none of this is possible without premium subscribers who believe in me, in what I do, and in putting food on the table for my family … all the while teaching me the value of humanity. I’m so grateful for your support, especially:

DocTalk, Allan N Schwartz PhD