Out Here in the Strange Landscape called Now
We are travelers crossing paths in uncertain terrain
Amici1, lately I’ve been picturing these turbulent times as a strange landscape. A dimly lit terrain, full of mystery, danger, and marvel. Like travelers, we are winding our way through this wonderland to a better future, though we don’t entirely know the way.
We go on foot, by sea, or catch a passing train. Sometimes, we know exactly where we’re heading next. Other times we follow a hunch, a half-remembered tale, a bit of local folk talk.
We sketch hand-drawn maps. Fill in new places as we learn them. Erase details we thought we understood until experience taught us otherwise.
We carry what we need: a pack of tools, a few wise sayings, a compass, our instincts.
Sometimes (maybe too often) we travel alone. Other times, we walk in pairs or small groups. The good company steadies us.
Out here in the strange landscape called Now, we are brave and weary.
On occasion, we cross paths with each other—a happy sight on these faint trails. If we are lucky, we stumble upon a clearing, a watering hole, a small respite, where many travelers are gathered.
Relief washes over us. We put down our packs and rest a while.
We swap stories. Give pointers. Compare the details of our hand-drawn maps.
“No, no,” you say to me. “The rocky hillsides start much sooner. A half-day’s journey due West. Look…”
You pull out your map and a half-written letter falls out. Before picking it up, you pause and stare. “I was thinking of finishing that and sending it to someone I love.”
“You should do it,” I say softly, tapping a finger on the center of my chest. “If it’s from the heart, send it.”
You nod, then we turn to your map. While you point out the hills, I pull out my pencil and correct my copy. Then we scan the next leg of your journey.
“The good news,” I tell you, “is that you’ll run into the river. You won’t go dry.” I tap the point on your map where the riverhead starts.
Another traveler, poking the fire behind us, suddenly looks up. “But watch out, something big is in the water. A monster, right below the surface. Don’t just run and dive in.” Their eyebrows raise up high in warning, but they don’t share more.
We both make a note on our maps, “There’s always a fucking monster,” you mutter.
I give you a warm, worn half smile. “Always.” I sigh, looking up to the heavens. “San Michele, difendici…2”
We sit together for a little while longer, letting dusk settle in. We listen, pass stories, improve our maps, and watch the stars begin to come out.
These moments of pause—they matter.
Not only because they offer rest, but because they remind us that we’re not alone out here in the strange landscape called Now.
It’s been too long since I’ve found such a campsite. And so, amici, I’m lighting just such a fire in a clearing for us.
A place to circle up and listen. To find words that describe the terrain we’re in. To offer a bit of what we’ve been carrying: a question, an insight, a bright spot pointing us in the direction of a better future.
That’s what Sketching at Dusk is. A campfire-style monthly Substack chat. A place where you can drift in off the faint trails.
🕯️ Our first fire lights on Wednesday, May 14th. I’ll be feeding the flames from 7 to 9 pm EST. Come when you can, stay as long as you like.
This month, all subscribers—free and paid—are invited in.
After this, it becomes a monthly fire for our paid circle, with occasional open nights for everyone to gather.
You can come quietly.
You can speak or simply listen.
You can arrive late the next day and chime in.
You can bring what you have, even if it’s a different way of seeing things.
This campfire has room for the many paths, trails, and worldviews we’ve all picked up out here in this strange terrain. What better way to improve our hand-drawn maps?
So if you’re weary (and brave—I know you are brave), come wander over. We’ll be there, around the fire.
Let’s rest a while and watch the stars come out. Together.
Un forte abbraccio3.
A strong embrace,
R.G.💙
If this sounds like the kind of fire you’ve been looking for, you’re warmly invited to join us. We’ll be lighting the first one on Wednesday May 14th 7 pm (Eastern).
“Friends” in Italian. Rough How to Say It: ah-MEE-chee
“Saint Michael, defend us” (Standard Italian.) Invoking Saint Michael as a protector is deeply embedded in Southern Italian and Italian-American cultures. Saint Michael is revered as a guardian against evil and adversity. This plea is both a spiritual invocation and a cultural expression of seeking protection during challenging times. How to say it: sahn mee-KEH-leh dee-FEN-dee-chee
“A big hug” (Standard Italian.) Used in everyday Italian and among Italian-American families as a sign-off that says “I’m with you,” even from far away. How to say it: OON FOR-teh ahb-BRAH-choh
If you’re new here, benvenuto—welcome! Letters of Ultraazuli is a magical realism writing project and meeting place for practical dreamers from across the landscape of ideas.
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