A Letter to M.L.

Albums Music

Who We Are Now

A love letter from out west, for you.

Performed, recorded, and produced by Logan Sorese. Photo by Abagail Frank Sorese.

Content subject to periodic updates.

Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International.


A Letter to J.S.,

A year since your wedding and you’re moving, and we’re producing life, and everything is terrible, and how weird it is being years apart from those choir kids in a coffee shop.

I need your new address, thanks.


A Letter for B.R.

Okay, so. Look. I don’t know how to roughhouse, or shit-talk, or take a kick to the shins after a close loss; I never got the training. My brother and I did not play; we said nothing, for as long as possible, floating past each other’s bedroom doors until we had something good enough to fight about. The chairs thrown and righted; verbal abuses swept deep into the back; and a quiet stalemate would resume in the morning. Nothing changed.

I will not play football with you, I’m sorry. I don’t like being touched.


A Letter to N.S.

This place is weird. You can touch things with your hands. Hear my voice when I’m calling your name. Eat with us, taste foods, nourishing your body. Smell heat, timing, and preparation make it just right. Sit down, see what the future holds, but don’t blink until the final credits. You can come here and spend time or leave for a while, but hometowns sneak up in you.

Yeah, it’s really fucking weird.


The Sensible Choice

“Oh, eat shit, you know that’s unfair.” Jason, looking through Spotify in the passenger seat. The highway and the silence pass at the same speed.

“I’m just saying, you’ve been depressed for years and it never goes anywhere. At this point, just admit that everything is ‘fine’. Everything is always ‘fine’, we’re better than most and not accountable for the sins of humanity.”

Jason looking for the right soundtrack to match the moment; it auto-played The Eagles, but that’s definitely not right. Billie Holiday?

“It’s just, the years go on, and I keep waiting for the rising action. I’m the ordinary person waiting to be thrown into an extraordinary moment. Where’s my Die Hard? Independence Day? I want some action, but instead I’m buying groceries and sleeping at 8:30. When’s anything going to happen?”

“Everything happens everyday! People are born in taxi cabs; get exploded by landmines; released from cages; and donate millions to charities. You’re lucky; our ancestors fought and died for the right to be bored.”

“But that’s just it, man. I feel the weight of my great-great-grandfather looking down saying ‘I toiled day and night so that my lineage would prosper.’ And instead of the America they foretold, we have Memes, earthquakes, and seemingly endless beef. I could be on ‘My 600lb life’ in about 5 years, funded by a Walmart salary and a Golden Corral. I’m jus…”

“I’m sorry you’re not more unlucky, Jason. You’re not special. Please, for the love of god, silence for the next 30 miles. I need a break.”

Strangers in the Night blips from the speakers as Jane pulls the aux cable and stares forward.

Cities rise and fall, now the loneliness of Middle America. It’d only been a few states; a few pit-stops; and the whir of a tiny engine. Jane had her eyes on the prize.

Jane liked Jason a couple of years ago; not to say she doesn’t like him now. She likes him fine, but the young man you meet skipping his Medieval Literature class is going to be a fundamentally different person than the one you buy a house with.

Jason was a bartender, or at least had been at one time, before he “got too sick to work” or, rather, “stole someones’ medicine cabinet, lost his grasp on reality, culminating in a very dark phone call from a motel near the airport where Jason scored couple of pills and a brutal ass kicking.” The cops were called, the blood cleaned, the charges tearfully negotiated to “disturbing the peace” by Jane. Privileged, but it was dealt with.

28 miles, the silence hangs unbroken. Jason reaches in the back seat, palming around for chips in the grocery bags, the ruffles.

“They’re in the trunk”, Jane mind-reads. “I think they might be the cooler.”

“Why are the chips in the cooler? And, 29 miles, you broke your own rule.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.” Jane smiles at Jason who takes off his seat-belt and climbs into the backseat of the hatchback. “What else is in this cooler? Did we horde any delicacies?”

Leaving Raleigh was strategic; a change of scenery for Jason, family for Jane. But Jane worried he’d get tired in Montana; he wouldn’t be the first one to go stir-crazy in the woods. A life full of townies, pick up trucks, and going into the “Big City” once in a while to see a show. It’s got a quaintness.

“Get me a popsicle while you’re back there.” Six hours to her mom’s house, her childhood bedroom, but probably a better nights sleep than at a cheap hotel room.

Jason plops back into his seat, hands over the popsicle, plastic already sliced off, and unclips the ruffles.

Jason re-opens Spotify, re-installs the aux cable, and scrolls. “Do you think Pharrell is happy? Like, he can afford to pay naked women to bring him soft drinks on a golden platter, but do you think he’s happy? Fulfilled and all that?” This is a game they’ve always played when they’re bored. Along with occasional celebrity death-matches.

“I imagine he’s wildly more happy than us. Not because of the naked women, but despite them. He sees through them. We could never understand the level of contentment Pharrell wields.”

“Maybe with the amount of musical clout he has, he experiences life through the vibrations of the universe, and naked bodies vibrate better than clothed ones. The butlers are a necessity for his craft.”

Janes looks pricks, “Is that what you want? Naked butlers and unlimited clout?”

“Man, think about what I could do if I had a butler.”


Congratulations, You’ve Won


Letter to L.M.

A little later, I always know I’ve fucked up. Recently, playing board games, I kept asking for M. to explain a game mechanic instead of asking both of you, collectively. You’ve always been collective board game explainers. We’ve never “gotten along“, so I jump to Player 2. We’re not enemies, we have an understanding of sorts. We shouldn’t share a kitchen and that’s enough said. You intimidate me in a way that feels so targeted against me. It’s like seeing how I could have turned out had I had more friends.

I want to be a little more kind and thoughtful and buy Christmas gifts for family, months ahead of time.

I wish the world would give us a chance because I think we could both use a lucky break.

Love, L.


Waking Up

A man wakes up, hungover, in his over-large bed and realizes a moment too late that he’s not alone.

“Good morning!”, she says, big eyelashes hovering a centimeter from his face.

“Oooh, hi. I smell coffee?”, the man mumbles out.

“Oh. Yes, I’d love some! With creamer if you’ve got it.”

Ben gets out of bed, quickly puts on boxer-briefs and steals a quick glance at her while closing the wardrobe. She has a slender build, blonde hair and a scar on her right cheek – a permanent reminder of an acne-ridden adolescence. He doesn’t know her, but there’s a possibility; nope, a certainty. She’s wearing Brenda’s clothes. His right hand tenses up. She can’t wear Brenda’s…

His hand tenses.

Coffee first, always coffee first.

His kitchen was small, but adequate. The coffee maker – a run of the mill $100 Keurig machine from Costco – was probably the most utilized item in his house. It used to be the microwave, but he hasn’t replaced the broken one built into the cabinetry.

Coffee used to be a ritual. You buy whole beans from an expensive, yet ethically-sourced coffee roaster in mid-town; grind them up in The Sharper Image coffee grinder you stole from a former roommate; put in a coffee filter – a brown one, unbleached and made of organic fibers – and measure out the grounds, dump, start the Mr. Coffee. For ten minutes the apartment fills with the sounds of ambient dripping and there’s an exciting smell in the air. You pour yourself a glass and stare at it until the temperature cools down enough to drink it.

Nowadays, you put barely recyclable white pods — made of non-toxic and scientifically-advanced polymers —into a black contraption and press the glowing button. Boom, instant coffee for the 21st Century. This one even has a carafe so he can make coffee for himself and the stranger lying in his bed. It’s a modern miracle.

“My name’s Carissa, by the way.” Sly glance from the woman, red cheeks on the man.

“I knew that. I knew that, for sure. Yeah.” He chuckles a little and she smiles back. “I’m Ben.”

“Well, nice to meet you. Ben.” She looks down at the carpet while somehow also looking at him, “Do you remember where we met last night?”

“Honestly, not a clue. I don’t want to upset you, you seem very nice. I don’t doubt that.”

“Ha, no. I’ve been told that I’m a generic looking person. My first name is actually Rachel, not Carissa. I use my middle name because it adds a air of mystery. My clothes are pretty generic – 60% Kohl’s,3 5% Thrift-store, 5% Forever 21.” She’s pacing around now, “my hair has been cut by the same middle aged, white housewife at a place called Unique Chic for the past decade. I go for a Martha Stewart, pre-incarceration look. I graduated middle of my class in ’09 and I work in an unspeakably grim office building downtown. It’s a whole…”

His coffee pod was still brewing and, while he was hearing most of what she just said, it was all waiting in the queue to be processed by his prefrontal cortex. He impulsively cuts her off, “Well, thanks for the information, Carissa.”

Heavy silence follows, tempered only by the coffee maker’s hiss and the light coming in through his old, one-ply curtains from Bed, Bath, and Beyond.


Honestly, it’s nice having someone in my bed. Last-night-me was somehow comfortable enough to bring a woman home and maybe I should be more grateful for the opportunity.

Walk over, pour myself a cup of coffee, forget, grab a second, pour another cup, fridge, pass the creamer.

“Thanks”, Carissa says, enunciating a bit too much. She stares intently at her host.

“Can I ask where you got your gown?” Ben asks, sounding unsure himself.

“Umm, that hanger over there? It looked unisex. Is that okay? I looked around for clothes after you fell asleep. My clothes were wet”, she points at the wooden, base model IKEA chair in the corner, “but I didn’t expect to have to sleep in someone else’s apartment and I can’t sleep naked.”

Ben turns his head to side like a puppy, looking at a slice of kosher hot dog.

He turns his head back upright, then tilts in back, big stretch, slumps forward and dangles into the chair. “Well, those are my wife’s clothes. Or, err, they were my wife’s clothes – she died in April.”

April. Carissa gathers a sense of time and it’s October. “Oh. I’m sorry. I…”

“No, no, you’re fine. Sorry. You’re just the first to wear it since. Honestly, it’s kind of nice, I wasn’t sure anyone would ever wear them again.”


Carissa suddenly felt awkward. Like she had stepped through the wrong door and ended up in someone’s else’s life when she had intended to get on the Q to Brooklyn. Like those stories on 60 Minutes where babies get switched at birth and both mother and daughter can’t shake the feeling that they’re in the wrong place, wrong family, but can’t express that they feel that way. Something deeply instinctual doesn’t align and they’ll never have a comfortable Thanksgiving. They just cook the cornbread, whisk the gravy, and assume it’s all normal.

“Do you want me to take it off? Let me take it off.”

“No really, really you’re fine. Relax. I’m.” He sat down on the Ikea “workbench” he uses less like a workbench and more like a shitty coffee table.

“Honestly when she died, I was relieved. I loved her, I really did, but we got married young – too young for our own good. She was a good person and I loved her until the day she died and still do, but I don’t think I was cut out to be a husband.”

Silence again. Carissa looked at her feet – hobbit-like, by far her least favorite part of her body.

“Was it sudden?”

“Car crash. The medics said instant, but I’m not sure if that’s true – she was a fighter.”

Ben finished his cup, put it in the sink, and sank into the sofa. She stood and studied the spacious, previously tidy two bedroom apartment.

“Hey, I’m going to be honest here; I don’t think I’m prepared for this kind of conversation. I don’t handle conflict well – at all.”, She looked morose. “I once had a cat who was a piece of shit to me and I just let it outside and it never came back. I faked crying on the phone with my mom twice to throw her off my trail.”

Ben looked up at her and smirked. “You did the right thing. I fucking hate cats.”


A Letter to B.B.

Hey B.B.,

In the original office at the bottom of the hill, I lined random junk on the ledge by my desk with Pittsburgh memories. A box of salt and corn nuts from a punk band playing in a basement in Oakland. A small rock, stolen from my boss’ desk at my first shitty job after college. A handwritten card from Danielle’s kid. A toy pegasus, but also a unicorn. No clue where that one came from.

Then we moved into the office at the top of the hill. I really wanted my own space. I’d never had an office and it sounded so nice to get away from everyone; a little quiet for once, I told myself.

I built myself a nest. A dark, lightless nest of an office with no desk-space and decreasing number of knick knacks. First they didn’t fit on my desk, then in my drawers, and then I started passing them out to everyone in the office to get them out of my life.

I had so much space in my nest, but no space for myself. It wasn’t long before I got the MacBook, packed up, and moved away.

I hope you still like your knick-knacks,