Dispatches from the Void. X.IV.

Mowgli: Vet Visit Sparks Existential Crisis. Vet Visit Triggers Vocal Shutdown. Smokes Imaginary Cigarettes. Expresses Rage via Side-Eye. Releases Zine Titled “Mewté: A Quiet Rebellion.” Remains Silent, Yet Judgemental.

Akela: Declares Ear Drops “The Final Betrayal.” Insists on Pears as Reparation. Composes Opera in Minor Key Called “The Drip of Doom.” Sues Air Again. Demands Crown, Gets Cardboard Box.

Poe: Refuses to Comment. Stares Into Void. Claims Spiritual Awakening Near Rice Cooker. Lists Pillow as Emotional Support Object. Whisper-Growls at Sunbeam. Aura Remains Forked.

This Week in Underland:

• Crater, Cats, and the Cult of Opinion:
  Salt smashes Amazon. Celia speaks her mind. Apparently having thoughts is suspicious A.F.
• Meowrmeddon: Vocal Loss and Pear Crimes:
  Mowgli goes mute. Akela sues the air again. Poe communes with the rice cooker. Normal week.
• Dispatches from the Unfiltered:
  Celia hits full throttle. Political satire is now a blood sport. Trump not invited.
• Boxes, Books, and the Burned-Out Clock:
  The Great Thai Migration looms. Packing not started. Creative output: strangely thriving.
• Big Feelings, Bigger Love, and Slightly Bigger Suitcases:
  River + Celia keep making things mid-chaos. Queer teamwork, emotional truths, and at least three missing chargers.

It’s been another wonderfully chaotic week in Underland — Salt in the Wound is officially out in the world, and somehow we debuted at #1 in the Human Sexuality category on Amazon (!!). We’re still a little stunned, honestly. I’ve said this before (and I’ll probably keep saying it), but I’m so proud of what we made together — me, my extraordinary wife, and a group of brilliant contributors. If you’ve read it and have a moment, we’d really appreciate a review on Amazon. Apparently once we hit 15, the algorithm stops napping and starts doing its thing.

Creating with someone like Celia is honestly one of the best parts of my life. She’s kind, sharp as hell, and has this infuriatingly wonderful stubborn streak — so once something gets into her head, it will get made. I, on the other hand, am more of a chaotic good type, so a lot of my recent productivity is fully powered by her steady brilliance. We’re very different thinkers, but somehow we sync up perfectly when we make things together. Emotionally and creatively, we’re a proper team — and that’s the part that makes everything else feel worth it.

We’re doing well on the contest front as well! Celia’s piece Speak my Name received a runner up in Vocal’s History Would’ve Burned This Page Challenge, it’s a beautiful piece about loss of language. I’m so proud to see her work succeed. 

Meanwhile, the Great Thai Migration prep continues. The house is still mostly a puzzle of half-packed things and random cat hair, and it’s been hot as hell — but honestly, we’ve been prioritizing making cool stuff instead of organizing our lives. We’ll get there. When we do focus, we tend to blitz through tasks like two neurodivergent tornadoes with a checklist. It’s just that… right now? Creativity feels like the more urgent thing. And maybe that’s okay.

We’re proud to announce we’ve officially received our first hate comments on Facebook — courtesy of some small-minded men (of course it’s men) who love typing long, angry words I’m fairly certain they don’t know the definitions of. But hey, if Fox News and the Daily Mail use them as big bad buzzwords, that’s good enough for them. Right?

The funniest hate comment so far? We were called “Marxist intersectional race grifters.” Which honestly sounds like something Karoline Leavitt skimmed off a flashcard before waddling out to yell at the press.

I mean… iconic? Confused? Threatened by literacy? You decide.

Oh and someone else called us mentally ill, which, duh?

If you’re intimidated by us, little boys, just say so. No need to dress it up with pseudo-intellectual frothing.

We’re not going anywhere.

Overall, things are good — a little chaotic, but good. We’re in the thick of preparing for Thailand and somehow also adding even more projects to Underland (because apparently we thrive on multitasking and mild panic). Truth is, we’re happiest when we’re making things — even if we’re doing it surrounded by half-packed boxes and confused cats.

River x

Well. What a week.

I’m so happy that Salt has made a little crater in Amazon. Not because of the algorithm (though hey, I’ll take it), but because it represents a collective. A group of people who genuinely care about the world and what’s happening to it. People I might never have crossed paths with otherwise. I’m so grateful that River and I get to do this together—come hell, high water, or humidity.

After the vet trauma, Mogs has lost his voice. It’s heartbreaking. The poor guy sounds like he’s smoked a hundred a day since the Thatcher administration. Otherwise, feline affairs are mostly stable—though that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence for the upcoming international relocation. Akela is still acting like the ear drops are a personal betrayal. To be fair, her ears do look exceptionally cute now. So. Swings and roundabouts.

It’s still strange—wonderful, but strange—having River with me through everything. Writing together is joyous and fun and sometimes quietly devastating. Lately, I’ve been leaning into political satire (vetted, of course—my wife has to rein me in occasionally). Once I’m on one… I’m on one. More so now. Especially now.

I spent most of my life not really saying much. Nothing, really. Partly because no one ever seemed to stop talking long enough for me to get a word in—so I just didn’t bother. I’d sit through events and dinners in silence while most people assumed I didn’t have a brain in my head. Honestly? That was fine. I was content keeping my thoughts to myself.

But hitting forty—and the isolation of Covid—shifted something. I’ve always written, but that’s when I started sharing it. And then River came along. They gave me so much love and support, and now I write exactly what I want to write.

Funny thing is, I realised today that most people don’t actually know who the fuck I am. Apparently I’ve gotten “more political.” No. You just never asked. I just never said anything. And now the assumption is that I’ve been radicalised by my wife or some such—as if having an opinion is some kind of contagion.

Spoiler: I’ve always had one. You just didn’t give a shit about it.

Funniest thing of all? Out of the five more political pieces we’ve published together—four are pretty much mine. Here is my personal favourite.

So, just to be clear.

I absolutely despise Donald fucking Trump.
I have my own brain.
And I promise you—I’m not in the cult of River.

I’m just too old, too sad, and too tired to keep shutting the fuck up while the world burns. When that orange turd finally presses the button, I’ll at least die knowing I said what I said. And meant every word.

In other news. Um well what…Nothing much of a lot. Still in limbo. Waiting for Thailand with baited breath and swim suit at the ready.

C x

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Poetry Collection, ‘Is this all we get?’

Prose Collection, ‘ Fifth Avenue Pizza’