the Discourse is an independent platform launched in November 2020 by professional skier and writer Hadley Hammer. A corner of the internet where connection is created through story telling. Letters, written by Hadley and are shared twice per month. Discourse community members can submit their own writing based on Monthly writing prompts or subjects of their choice. All without ads or comments or algorithms.

discourse (v. /n.)

"hold discourse, communicate thoughts or ideas"

 "a running over a subject in speech, communication of thought in words"

"process of understanding, reasoning, thought,"

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Sample Discourse-About Me

Inspired by the poem-The Wrong Person to Ask by Marjorie Lotfi Gill

Don’t ask me about handing in expense reports on time, I never manage to. But you could ask me what it’s like to jump 60 feet into the air doing two of the things humans desire-slowing time and flying,flying until my skis hit the apron below the rocky cliff. 

Ask me how to make the perfect chocolate chip cookie, large and topped with flakes of Maldon sea salt. Crunchy yet gooey, sweet yet salty, an easy way to wow your friends.  But don’t ask me to give you the patience you’ll need in order to not eat all the dough during the two days it needs to sit and “rest” before you begin baking these little, well actually kinda big, masterpieces. 

Don't ask me what it’s like to watch your dad struggle with cancer, nobody is ready to talk about it yet, but ask me what type of music we played for our father-daughter living room dances-Motown, me standing on his toes, him trying to hit the high notes. 

Ask me what it’s like to grow up in the woods of Wyoming with two brothers, my parents would probably say medical bills, I would say the perfect training to become a professional skier. Climb up the tree, jump out of the tree, jump off the roof, steal construction equipment to make home-made rails, slide up the rail, slide down the rail. Build snow caves, snow men, and get used to the putrid scent of hockey bags. 

Don’t ask me what it’s like to climb 5.13, I'm still working on it- but ask me what it feels like to hang on the side of a rock wall with just my hands and feet. Ask me what it’s like to believe in your pinky fingers. 

Ask me what it’s like to eat top ramen for breakfast every day of my childhood, chicken on the days I got to choose, beef on the days my brothers did, salt dripping down our chins as we rushed in order to catch the bus. Don’t ask me how I have excellent cholesterol levels. 

Don’t ask me how to ask for what I need, or how to say no when I really can’t deliver what’s asked. Ask me instead how to make a dream even if it doesn’t align with your figure or personality. But the former will compete with your chances of success with the latter. 

Don’t ask me why I moved to Austria. But ask me about the taste of handpicked preiselbeeren. About teasing them off their bushes, taking them home and mashing and swirling them with citrus and sugar and heaping them onto hot wiener schnitzel and pilling it all into your mouth, fries on the side.

Ask me about the hundreds of people who sent me messages after the passing of my partner, the cards, texts, emails, phone calls, the hugs and hand holds, the visits, the trips, the long walks. But don’t ask me how I can convince myself at least once a month that I am completely alone in the world. 

Ask me about my view. The sand from the sahara has traveled to the alps, turning the sky a golden yellow, to a stark white, and now a fading grey over the course of writing, deleting, writing, deleting, and finishing this letter. The view he used to send my photos of. The view that pushes me to ask the air what it all means, to ask myself what can I do with this view he gave me and excellent cholesterol.

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