two hearts

two aching hearts, intertwined.

both of them, cards on the line.

neither of them, surrender their pride.

two futures that no longer align.

how their love, now disoriented.

separation seemingly cemented.

two aching hearts, pulled apart.

not entirely ready to restart.

i'm sorry - written by me

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

Please remember that Contessa Guiccioli, Byron's lover while he was in Ravenna, wrote her Recollections of Lord Byron after he died and these are some of the chapters:

"I am tired of being a person. Not just tired of being the person I was, but any person at all. I like watching people, but I don't like talking to them, dealing with them, pleasing them, or offending them. I am tired."

-Susan Sontag, I, Etcetera: Stories

A STORY FOR CHILDREN (a collaborative children's book with @uglyfruit it's probably one of my favorite things I made this year, based on my own experiences and my time spent as a preschool teacher) !!

god pearl in hermitcraft is still an idea i'm so obsessed with

[alutegra/alucard x integra, hellsing]

a betrayal

you are nothing to me

just a sad memory,

of someone i knew

or had begun to,

but they didn't exist,

now i just reminisce,

on the days when we lay,

and just wasted the day,

skin touching skin

oh what could've been.

now you're nothing to me.

just some sad memory.

she - written by me

Jack Marsh (2005), Friendship Otherwise - Toward a Levinasian Description of Personal Friendship

big hater of the "james repeatedly asked lily out in ridiculous ways even though she kept rejecting him" headcanon BUT i think the idea of james unconventionally 'courting' lily after they both admitted to their feelings is very cute and should be used more

In my continuing quest to learn more about Laura Ingalls Wilder as a writer beyond the Little House books, one of the most surprising things I've learned is that apparently she wrote a small collection of cutesy poems about nature fairies.

They were originally published in a children's column in the San Francisco Bulletin in 1915, and are apparently about a couple of fairy characters who paint flowers and bring dewdrops and bring about other natural phenomena. This post goes into more detail about the poems, and the interesting blend of practicality and whimsy that goes into her presentation of fairies.

It also provides one of the poems.

And this quote about the importance of giving children fairy tales that's almost Chestertonian.

Wilder explained why she preferred such magical images of natural processes in a column for the Missouri Ruralist called “Look for Fairies Now.” She argued that children needed tales of fairies to help them see beyond the surface and to use their imaginations. In the olden days, she explained, farmers left some of their harvest for the Little People who “worked hard in the ground to help the farmer grow his crops.” Perhaps this idea was just superstition, she continued, “but I leave it to you if it has not been proved true that where the ‘Little People’ of the soil are not fed the crops are poor. We call them different names now, nitrogen and humus and all the rest of it, but I always have preferred to think of them as fairy folk who must be treated right.

On the one hand, this feels like just another example of how it was apparently a requirement for female authors of a certain era to write cute nature fairy poems. But with the context of the quote, it's also surprisingly fitting for who she is as an author.

i know my mother loves me because every morning i wake up, there’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, even on the days where she isn’t having any / because i wake up to text after text, videos and pictures and links, all to say that she thought of me while i was sleeping / because i grew up believing in the tooth fairy and santa claus / because she pulls me out of bed to see the sky at sunset at the first hint of hue in the clouds / because when all i want to do is dig my heels into the earth and resist any movement, she pushes me forward — which is not to say that she wants me to pretend that i’m not hurting, but that she doesn’t want the hurt to hold me back / because i grew up to be empathetic and silly and creative just like she is / just like she made me to be.

(cc, 23)

um. poetry. or something

“You write poetry?” Klaus asked. He had read a lot about poets but had never met one.

“Just a little bit,” Isadora said modestly. “I write poems down in this notebook. It’s an interest of mine.”

“Sappho!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something like “I’d be very pleased to hear a poem of yours!”

-The Austere Academy, Lemony Snicket

SUNNY?? MR. SNICKET?? WHAT??