snazzy: panda cake; cures depression (Default)
2016-01-02 12:29 am

2016: Bet You Thought You'd Seen The Last of Me

So, the last time I used DW was in 2011, a solid five years ago. To be honest, I forgot I even had a Dreamwidth account; but I made a last-minute decision about GYWO, and my old livejournal is even more embarrassing to admit to, so here I am. Hello!

I don't know how active I'll keep this account, aside from maybe trying to interact in the comment sections-- although this is the only account I have where none of my IRL friends are connected, so I may dip back into public journaling. If I'm clever and good, I'll put my writing here instead of letting it moulder in endless drafts.

But, perhaps an introduction is in order nonetheless.
Ellen; halfdeadfriedrice on tumblr; declairing on twitter; umbrella on ao3 (branding what personal branding)
Current fandoms: The Raven Cycle, Hamilton, Books (I love to yell about books), Captive Prince
Past fandoms: SGA, Inception, Teen Wolf, WTNV, so much dumb anime
I'm most active fannishly on tumblr and most mundanely/with book rants on twitter.

It's a new year! 2015 was quite a world of peaks and over dramatic dips, and I can only predict 2016 will be more of the same in the series of nonsense, navigating human relationships. But I think 2016 could also be a year where I start taking some of my own productive interests seriously; I'm not a great writer, but I won't get any better unless I actually do some writing.

One thing I really like about Past Ellen's Journaling Ideas was to end on a poem (and also, there was a thing about being less afraid about taking up space. It's telling that I said that on a journal that no one knew about, in mini-script, but I've been working on it for five years and I'll keep doing my best). Coincidentally, this poem was my emotional writing prompt for today's words.


Richard Siken
War of the Foxes (iii)

Let me tell you a story about war:

The fisherman's son serves drinks to sailors. He stands behind the bar. He listens closely for news of his brother. The sailors are thirsty. They drink rum. A new ship docks, the Starlight Transport. These sailors have tattoos and blue tongues. 'Blueberries,' says one of the sailors before being asked. Sailors have good stories. 'Tell me a story,' says the fisherman's son.

'There is nothing interesting about the sea. The water is flat, flat and calm, it seems a sheet of glass. You look at it, the more you look at it the more you feel, you feel like you are looking into your own head, which is a stranger's head, empty. We listen to the sound with our equipment. I have learned to understand this sound. When you look there is nothing, with the equipment there is a sound. We sit in rows and listen down the tunnels for the song. The song has red words in it. We write them down on sheets of paper and pass them along. Sometimes there is noise and sometimes song and often there is silence, the long tunnel, the sea like glass-'

'You are a translator,' says the fisherman's son.

'Yes,' says the sailor.

'And the sound is the voice of the enemy.'

'Yes, yes it is.'
snazzy: panda cake; cures depression (Default)
2011-06-09 08:10 pm

the beach

Summer is glorious.

Red sun sets over wet sand-- an exercise in brevity.

The sky looks like a pastel rainbow over the living ocean.

As-- loud, as my family is, as unfit as I am, it can be nice. Children playing with lightsabers, reading books next to me on my couch, videogames before the pool (katamari and kingdom hearts II), tentatively dirty jokes with my aunts and grandfather, and the politest, nicest sections of myself.

your poem:

The Bird - Hiroshi Kawasaki
I want to sing of the bird
In a most fundamental way
First, his beak
His wings
His body
His legs
His tail
His eyes
That's all I need to say
With those alone
A bird can fly
snazzy: finland mochi surrounded by a rainbow (finland mochi)
2011-05-02 11:16 pm

a whole manner of dead things

Scene: top bunk, 8 am. A messy dorm room covered in books-- the rest of the top bunk is covered in study materials. A laptop reigns supreme. There is a forgotten pen resting on its hinge point. One still sleepy-eyed false blonde is hastily reviewing materials.

Me: (voiceover) finals time finals time~ (aloud) See ya later, roomie.
(She hops halfway out of bed-- on the ladder down, she seems to notice the laptop is still open. She reaches over to close it.)

Laptop: :ominous crunch noise:

Me: shit

---

So I managed to break my laptop screen at the start of finals week, making this The Most Inconvenient and Awful thing that's happened since I got in a car wreck and did just enough damage to total my car. It's not been a good year for expensive electronics that belong to me.

Luckily, the laptop repair should only cost about $110, and it looks like a thing I could successfully repair myself. But I won't have time to do it before finals end, and so, this sucks.

Related, since my next finals aren't till thursday and friday and are going to be rather easy once I can actually, you know, look at the study materials, I am left with very little to do for the next two days. So I've been reading "The Girl with the Dragon tattoo" and fairy tales. It was mostly fairy tales today-- and if you've got the inclination, go pick up a copy of "My mother she killed me, my father he ate me." Short story collection of 40 "new" fairy tales, and they are all super awesome, and they tend to play around with their own fairy tale reality of archetypes and meta, if that's your thing. One of the stories is Cinderella enslaved by her prince, forced to make meth. So she goes into rehab and convinces a lot of the hospital staff to try some. It's all very "wtf" and at the interesting crossroads between reality and fantasy where drugs also reside. (Icon totally related)

And the poem:

Fairy-tale Logic
A. E. Stallings

Fairy tales are full of impossible tasks:
Gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat,
Or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat,
Select the prince from a row of identical masks,
Tiptoe up to a dragon where it basks
And snatch its bone; count dust specks, mote by mote,
Or learn the phone directory by rote.
Always it’s impossible what someone asks—

You have to fight magic with magic. You have to believe
That you have something impossible up your sleeve,
The language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak,
An army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke,
The will to do whatever must be done:
Marry a monster. Hand over your firstborn son.
snazzy: panda cake; cures depression (panda cake)
2011-04-30 12:01 am
Entry tags:

Poetry!

Coming to you live from Washington DC, where poetry has been celebrated and lived for the past few days, and the Shirley Temples flow freely, my introductory DW post!

Hello dreamwidth! I am a product of the technologic generation, the Southern US's weather and manners, of thunderstorms and free-will apples, of the Southern Baptist church and subsequent rejection for what all it stands, of the sf/f section of the bookstore and waiting for anime torrents. I want to be a librarian. I want to march in parades. I want to be myself, as loud as I can.

Sorry loves, I've got slam poetry beats under my fingers-- they make me want to start a revolution.

I'm in DC for Poetry Out Loud (a poetry recitation contest far different from slam poetry, in that you are quieter, less angry, and reading other people's poems), because my friend made it to Nationals and we all skivved out on school the week before finals (or AP exams, for my high school friends) to come cheer her on. She didn't make it, but it was a cool contest nonetheless, and just a kind of awesome celebration of the written word given voice.

However, once the celebration was over, the poetry wasn't done. About 8 state champions also participate in slam poetry, and so we walked out to a little park in the middle of the city, amid the ambulances and the streetlights, and they slammed. A lot of people came by to watch, including a lot of the judges and contestants, to see something different and a lot-- raw-er, than the polished presentations. It was a very cool experience.

And in honor of the judge who came by our dinner table to recite a poem and leave (why can't this be normal conversation?) I'll give you a bite and go.

The girl looked at the dog
The dog looked at the girl
"How can I be free?"
"How can I be free?"
-anon 12 year old Chinese girl