Rishard Allen Needs Space

I absolutely stole your profile picture for this. :)

My friend Rishard Allen is a really beautiful creature.

He deserves to hear that more often.

Last night, alone in my little hidey hole, he kept me company while I made dinner.

I had declared to make myself a meal, and while I stared blankly into the fridge, my first thought was, “Rishard.” I knew he’d be able to help me. I knew his passion, not only for creating works that punch my guts, but for food, time, care and giving.

I didn’t realize until after the hour-long lesson on how to cook something that he had a bad headache. My solutions from afar are nothing compared to the gifts of kindness and generosity he so easily dishes out, like the meals he creates and shares with others without asking for anything in return.

That is a part of what I mean.

When I came here to Substack, a little lamb-legged, shaky inside a new life, on a new platform, in a new space, I remember seeing his comments on someone else’s post and thinking, “This is a good person.”

If he denies that, I will continue to twist his nipples that he is.

Good people don’t let other people sit in aloneness. They don’t let other people be hungry. They share who they are.

Rishard/Richard/Roichard has taught me what it’s like to trust a stranger, and then, to make friends you’d never meet outside of the internet. Blessed be the whim of an algo that brought his stray comment into my world.

I am grateful. Rishard is a dear friend.

Then, quickly, I learned about his writing.

My goodness.

Shut the fuck up.

I learned fast that he can suck you into an environment. It blows my mind. I should be prepared by now, but I never am. I find it so hard to fully emphasize my experience of reading his work because it literally turns my brain off, which means I am in it.

The sawdust, the blood, the oranges, the ashes inside:

How Samurai Movies Kept Me Sane While My Stepdad Beat Me

Smoky air, rough and gritty grime. The dark bonds of canines who feel human inside an upside-down world, that somehow still feels… whole:

Thursday Nights Are For The Dogs

And now, this one, which I’m partway through (and still partway through the other, Rishard… I will have time to finish this week). This piece, I can already feel in my bones, is going to move me sideways. I began, and it paused me mid-breakfast, mid-thought, mid-life to come write this:

The Gorilla In The Cafe

We met over grilled cheese (I STILL HAVEN’T TRIED MAYO…) and now you can’t get rid of me.

I promise, I will always let you know the joys you bring into my life. Every time.

Now, for you, Dear reader, go. Go subscribe.

My friend Rishard is a really beautiful creature. He deserves to know that.

Don’t miss a fucking moment of getting to know who he is.

This is the line that made me drop life to come write this:

Just… fuck.