WHY I WRITE VOL.5 – Elias Attea

Elias Attea was born under New York New Moon on one of the coldest times of Buffalo’s history, or so  the legend goes.  While a yankee in heart, Attea crawled six-hundred miles as a baby to arrive and endure Tennessee’s hot, humid southern sunshine.  While proud to be a Tennessee kid, Attea now resides in a quiet farm house in Western New York, shoveling snow, shit, and soil whist working on his practice as a spiritualist and writer (and paying the bills, somehow).

“Why I Write” by Elias Attea


There is a calling onto one’s own

As a child, I used to stroll along the tree lines of Tennessee’s formidable summers, under the bird conversations and the cicada murmurs—even through their most deafening hiding spots—toeing the line of curiosity and unfamiliarity but never quite crossing.  I imagined the other worlds I didn’t visit, the side that I would never brave to explore, believing imagination could last longer than the morning, could go farther than the birds (and of course, I did watch all birds: their spring chorales, summer quarrels, and autumn departures.  I watched them even into the winter where there are still hundreds of them, all crying and calling over one another, not any one of them seeking fame. It fascinates me how despite the overlap of the crows’ cackling and the cardinals’ squeaky piping, somehow all the birds all hear one another; somehow, they find their own.). Birds cross through different worlds effortlessly.  I remember feeling amiss of something under them, a rolling summer suburban boredom, and looking through the tree line, to see the many birds acting like people do.



Rejoice, in our existence

I knew I needed people because life presented itself as merely slow and fading in that time of my life. At some point, I became deprived of sharing, the ability to recall faces and tell time.  Though sometimes time and faces tell us of our hurt and hells, it too tells of our joys and wonders, even if small moments.  All these moments are worth sharing—because you see, while there is despair and joy, these things slowly become encoded, unfurled, and yet, somehow set back again into our bones, but ultimately sharing reminds us we somehow survived.  That is why sharing inspires and connects people.   Unfortunately, sharing is not honored much these days past instantaneous photographs that will never be printed or passed around (Even families rarely share a meal or a moment together).  Despite all that, it is important for me to continue to share, reminding myself that there is always someone listening.


This life is too long to go it alone, too rich to pass by

My solitude opened me to vast meadows, wide pondering and restless musings over quantifying the depths to an empty well.  Interested in exploring the limits to my understanding and my expression without the insecurity, I found solace in writing—dare call me a hermit.  Eventually, I snapped out of it.  This life is too long to go it alone.  Too colorful and wide to only see under one lens. And besides, we are never alone: not during the impulse to run wild through the creek that winds along the ravine, not when the north valley hides the winter season sunlight, not even when we so choose isolation.  It took me a long time to learn, or accept, that we are never alone—and don’t have to be—that there are those we know, some we love, whom are with us.  I do tell people that I do not write to be heard, but so that others can simply hear themselves; however, admittingly, I can only confess to being human: possessing the need to relate and share. In some instances, it’s less that I need to understand a question as much as I need to know that I’m being heard.  Other times, I think of the richness of opinion, sharing observations of what art means to us rather than simply passing by each piece, barely acknowledging its existence.


Compiled by Darby Mae

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