fatbeanbun
Love & Other Mistakes
Bean // she/her // Lucid Under the Rain Collection // Main blog: @merromello // I like trees and also coffee
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no i am not the coldness of the bottle, its orange sweaty sheen
a reflection of hope lost or maybe it is not hope but something else looking back
I am not the coldness of the label and its following
numbers scurrying like beetles across blurry sight
I am something much wilder and harder to tame
I am the chemical ridges of nuclear heat from the sun
Atoms unfolding and unfurling like sails and lizard wings
Sting of mandarins burning over my tongue
sharp and real
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The little demons of grief came to live with me, in the space between the shadows and the floor.
I can't hear what they're telling me, even though I try.
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Somedays i feel like a weapon, a creature of god. One of his dutiful angels, full of fire and a righteous fury that strikes truer than arrows and bends steel. Somedays i feel like a blade but not one of metal and soaked in rusty promises. A blade of grass listening to the next story and nodding along.
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❝ I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you. I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. If our demons cannot dance, neither can we. ❞
— Nikita Gill
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In the literal sense, she would ask me to scratch her back. She had horrendous eczema, not knowing what it was called back then. Backscratchers, her own hands did no good. It was all open sores and blisters. I would think of all the hurt she has laid on my own back and resist the urge to sink in my nails. I want to be a healer. I want to rid the world of these signs. I turned my bladed thoughts into soothing cloth and cooling creams.
Invisible to her, but open to the rest of the world, the scars would remain. Scars of not motherhood or childhood, but a different body-hood, her own flesh attacking her.
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the whole "every piece of media is abt love" nonsense falls into a category of lacking media anaylsis that i like to call "escapism theorying". people will often attribute themes like love or escapism to a work if it has themes that make them uncomfortable or challenge them – and, in an ironic twist, use the idea of love or escapism as a universal theme to avoid thinking about those other, more challenging themes. often times you'll get a super surface level reading of a work that skyrockets in online popularity because of this sort of thing and it lends to this extremely watered down textureless analysis
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Okay if you write. Listen to me.
Set a daily word goal. Not a big one, because you won't be able to make it every day, you will likely procrastinate and not write at all, or feel guilty about not making the goal.
Set a small goal. Set a tiny goal if you have to.
400? Amazing. 100? Wonderful. 50? Heck yes. One fucking sentance? VALID.
Mine is 200 words a day. I haven't felt particularly inspired recently, but over the past month I've written at least 200 words nearly every day.
Which leads me into my next point: if you have to skip a day THAT'S OKAY. There will come a day when you feel really inspired and write 2000 words, and you'll make it up.
Sometimes I write 200 words and then my creativity runs out, but sometimes I sit down and write a whole lot.
Since I started doing this, my story has progressed so fast, and I feel like this is probably going to be the first full-length novel I finish.
Obviously this method isn't for everyone, but I recommend you try it. If it doesn't work for you that's fine! Find something that does.
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Log #31
School is only about two weeks away and my out of state friends are already moving back in! I am so excited to see all the people I love that I haven't seen in so long.
Meanwhile, I am trying to get into the school spirit and routine, which starts with building a sleep schedule that makes me happier. Truly, though, I am trying to focus most of my energy on relaxing these last few weeks and fueling my creativity. As someone who grew up not at all thinking of herself as a creative person, this is something I've only recently been conciously thinking about.
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it's just - the way you were, the way that you got, back then. the bad rush, the oil spill so high up your neck that your teeth swam in it. what you needed back then was a barn raising. what you needed back then was all-hands-on-deck.
it's just - you needed a village, is all. you needed your parents to actually just cool it for a second, because for one minute if you were very still, in the middle of the act of being roadkill: you could feel it. the edges of that sharp thing, the other-world, the promised land, the bird that was supposed to be born in your throat.
if you'd just - if any one person had just - noticed. maybe that would have been enough. you could have convinced your body to do a strange form of necromancy: you could have come back with the rope ladder. you were an emergency flare. you were morse code.
it's okay. come home again. us do-it-yourself undead, those of us who broke the book and still found our way out of the grave again. we never got the return flight. we never got the party. we just got up. we got up and then we kept going, because nobody else was gonna clean the mess. we might as well. we just... exist here, half-ghosts, barely-made it kids. no medals, except the strange serene rush of spreading jam on perfect toast. of moving a paintbrush. the silence that knows about the danger of sparks. the little candle of our heart not a stormbreaker or earthshaker. just the persistent lick of hope.
it is a quiet reward. we will not get the barn, but we do get each other. a night sky of little lights made from the gruesome survival of blood and bone. the life we made in the dark. a little somber radiance. a spellwork that's all our own.
in the end - despite it all, we built ourselves a home.
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it's rotten work, but without the rot nothing can grow
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