93. The Week in: Sam Runge
A guest essay from Sam Runge, published poet of Intoxicating Sonnets!
Connect and be friends with Sam on Instagram: @samisontheinternet.
The Mythos of Misery
Suffering is sexy, or so goes the unwritten, undying premise of what it means to be a writer. One poet writes anthologies lamenting their artistic malnourishment; another is a bar-hopper carving haikus on bathroom walls with a pocketknife; and another creates a multimodal tapestry of their medicine cabinet. The economy of schadenfreude puts the poet in an uncomfortable position, a self-reproducing ethos, and a troublesome psychological loop. It represents a broader cultural conversation of how dejection and self-loathing are profitable, but it also illustrates a much deeper dynamic between ourselves and our artistic endeavors.
I feel as though this is an appropriate phenomenon to address, especially in relation to my chapbook Intoxicating Sonnets and my past misunderstanding that pain is an essential component of writing. Intoxicating Sonnets plays on the image of the archetypal Troubled Artist — the Bukowskian hubris and the splendor of self-medication/destruction. However, while the work critiques and identifies the shortcomings of the Troubled Artist trope, it still finds itself in that same position. It illustrates unbridled intoxication, questionable romantic decisions, crude fantasies, or suicidal inclinations. The suffering on display teeters on exhibitionism. While this in itself isn’t innately harmful, the real issue is the belief that this lifestyle is sublime.
I used to take pride in my self-destruction, convincing myself that suffering was transcendental, that pain fortified me and sculpted me into a Good Writer. Sometimes I wrote to make sense of my own emotions, most of the time I wrote because it was the only thing I was capable of doing. Because writing was an involuntary function, I didn’t think it was cathartic, that it would make me a better person or help me come to terms with the abyss — the abyss wasn’t something to be reckoned with, let alone conquered. I was certain that the quality of my work would always be proportional to the degree of my agony. Being so deeply consumed by my own self-loathing, however, rendered me incapable of using my imagination for anything else. Both my reality and creativity were dependent on suffering. The Mythos of Misery leaves us blind to the full scope of ourselves.
While Intoxicating Sonnets illustrates (and lightly romanticizes) a litany of self-destructive tendencies, I also try to portray finite pockets of pleasure or enjoyment embedded in swells of negativity. Whether it’s a reprieve in the form of dancing, dartboard escapism, or fantasy projection, identifying these elements is a process, a recognition of self and the complexities of experience. The step forward is illustrating ourselves as multi-dimensioned beings. We have immeasurable textures, depths, and spirits. To deprive ourselves of that truth is one of our greatest limitations. The goal of the writer should be to move forward.
The question then becomes this: How can we move beyond that limitation?
I don’t think there’s any one particular answer.
It may take the realization that catharsis is transitory; or that an endless purging of woes, when too heavily relied upon, fuels our stases and myopias.
It may require a broader cultural assessment, one that rages against the economy of pornographic misery.
It may simply be the uncomfortable epiphany that we’re more than the sum of our pain.
Sam’s first substack post is here. Check it out and thank you, Sam!
To read:
on Sonya Massey:From
, a true media literacy sage:“Swallowing: I Was Mike Mew’s Patient” - on mewing, that shit 4channers do to have visible chins.
Eternal she-ro and lawless baddie Jane Fonda in conversation with Joan Baez.
“Why Restaurants Are So Loud, and What Science Says We Can Do About It,” an interactive soundscape piece about restaurant noise.
"Now that my secret is known, I'll forever Rest in Peace." Sob reading this complete stranger’s obituary. Rest in peace, Col. Edward Thomas Ryan.
From my buddy
:This is literally just Simone:
This is literally just Lugosi:
Actually my babies:
Various and sundry:
HIPS is a harm reduction coalition that provides tangible aid to Washington, D.C.’s most vulnerable: sex workers, the unhoused, drug users and those who struggle with addiction, and women and people of color and trans folks and just about everyone most neglected by our structures of care. I have supported them financially for many, many years and ask that you look at their GoFundMe. My birthday was this Monday and any donations in honor of that would be so immensely appreciated.
I thought this was a little weird guy hanging out on the toilet and I thought: me.
My culture:
This is how I hope y’all are in the coming week: small, ever so cozy, and dreaming of Stanley Tucci cooking you a pasta in cream sauce and then kissing you on the temple.
Love you bitches,
TG
Lugosi in the frame 🥹
Man holding pizza catch of the day 🫡
Thanks so much for sharing my Father's Day post and giving me such great stuff to read!