life is strife, and to survive it too long is the true “hell.”

"But to leave when you are not ready is an indecency to all humanity too great to conceive."

life is strife, and to survive it too long is the true “hell.”

© Publishing e v e r y / w o r d.

We're not even halfway through all the old stuff, yet the anthology – every / word, is coming together better than I expected, to be honest. In case you missed them, here’s a look at some early thoughts and poems written by my dad in the mid-sixties to early seventies, before I was born.

Honoring his memories that he no longer can, is a way for me to continue connecting with him.

To properly tell his story, I’ve got to go back.

As far back as I can.

There’s a part of the story that I want to be told from his perspective…

Every word he didn't publish helps to tell his (story).

💬 In this week's issue:

Was this email forwarded to you? Subscribe here

no, everything is not ok

Dad and I spent some time walking together this afternoon. I guide him by holding his right arm with my left. When he feels my touch, he reflexively says,

thank you, buddy.

Then he tells me;

you’re a good man.

While he taps my chest.

His expression is evidence of his brain telling the rest of his body to divert all the stored chemical energy to the muscles in his face that make his lips pucker in the middle and curl up at the edges. Making him smile makes me smile, and it feels good, until one second later when it doesn’t. Everything is not as it was. He has no idea who I am. No idea who he is.

I chose to live in this moment.

A little over six years ago, I was stressing about the usual stuff someone in their early forties stresses about. Politics, the economy, things I couldn’t control at work, why I had to work in the first place. I found myself in the fortunate position of having a happy home life. Living it up as a dad to amazing kids and an equally fantastic wife.

Your “real” family is usually the one you choose. There are most likely more strangers with the same blood running through their veins as you, that could give two shits about you, than there are people that you were drawn to start a life with. And then, you make people together and pray that they don’t end up fucking hating each other. It’s a fever dream, and in your head, you are a cycle breaker.

Clarence Roland Giles – aka "Dad" circa 1975 (The year I was born)

His words, a catalyst of creativity.

Why can’t he remember?

Once obsessed with mortality, fear of and then acceptance of death.

A combination of science and prose, a carefully crafted story emerges.

Always the protagonist, his characters enjoy life more than him now. They have the chance to grow, to be free, to live forever — like he wanted to.


Random thoughts.

Suicidal thoughts.

The words stay the same, it’s the story that keeps changing.

His story will not be forgotten.

I miss you, dad.



🎨 Surrounded by art, I looked outside to find even more…

Looking down toward the street below from a window inside The Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan, New York.

August 19th, 2023

Please allow me to, Clareifi 🎙️

  • Is a reader-supported independent publication launched in August 2023 by me, Euri Giles.

To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. I'm an independent journalist & writer. Your support is what helps me continue doing work that I love.

If you subscribe today, you'll get full access to the website as well as email newsletters about new content when it's available. Your subscription makes this site possible and allows Clareifi to continue to exist. Thank you!

Access all areas

By supporting my work with a paid membership subscription, you'll get access to the full archive of everything that's been published before and everything that's still to come. Your very own private library of everything / "Clareified". Get updates as new blog posts, poetry & prose, podcast episodes, and videos are released.

What do you believe happens to our souls when we die? 💀

Do you believe in the idea of human life possessing a soul to begin with?

My dad was a man of science. Now suffering from Alzheimer’s, he may or may not answer if you were to ask him if he believes in God.

I’ve previously written that he was;

“not absent of faith, yet solitary in his spirituality”.

He didn’t actively practice a religion or attend church, although he often talked about faith, and believing in something bigger than himself.

Early in his life, his writings were philosophical, questioning religious beliefs and making comparisons of religion, science, and exploration.

He wrote the following poem in 1970 when he was about to turn 25 years old. Now, 53 years later, at the age of 78, he is nearing the end of his life. I wish he could tell me what he thought, but Alzheimer’s has robbed him of that possibility.

Here is his idea of what happens to our soul when we die: 💀 🪐

From meteor to meteor, asteroid to asteroid, through the timeless empty mass of a faded meteoric storm.

I have transversed the universe already an uncountable number of times, and for what? Only to find the same thing as when I left.

The same cluttered void. This was and probably is the only bit of void that has a mass, which is solely contributory to the combined masses of its void.

Hopping from one life-giving nebulae to another, trying hard to osmotically receive the life-giving secret of the nebulae.

Then only to cast shiftlessly and endlessly from one dead start to another.

Your body fragmented by the solar stormed surfaces of the celestial bodies of space and time.

I am weary now, and I must rest like the dead star; in a silence of atmospheric serenity.

— C.R.G. – March, 6, 1970

Kicking the socials can kill distribution for an independent publisher…

Enjoy this newsletter?

Forward to a friend, sharing is caring.

Anything else? Hit reply to send me some feedback or say hello. Glad to connect!

Maybe next time, I’ll be able to, Clareifi…