coconut-oyl

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Two rules for creating anything.

1) Make it weird.

2) Make it with love.

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"People spoke of being completed by love, but Claude already felt complete. She was complete on girl-days, and he was complete on boy-days, and they were complete on the in-between days. Claude's life was full enough without True Love.

Yet that was a problem for everyone else."

- Early to Rise (No Man of Woman Born) by Ana Mardoll.

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a very quick poem i just wrote, made from excerpts of texts my mum has sent me this year.

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Friedrich Nietzsche

We were all monsters and bastards, and we were all beautiful.

Rachel Hartman

Holly Black, The Wicked King

When is a monster not a monster?

Oh, when you love it.

Caitlyn Siehl, Literary Sexts: A Collection of Short & Sexy Love Poems

Alberto Moravia, The Woman of Rome

What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.

Werner Herzog

Rosamund Hodge, Cruel Beauty

 "I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel."

Mary Shelley.

‒ 'Bram Stoker's Dracula'

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“There’s a legend about a Chinese painter who was asked by the emperor to paint a landscape so pristine that the emperor can enter it. He didn’t do a good job, so the emperor was preparing to assassinate him. But because it was his painting, legend goes, he stepped inside and vanished, saving himself. I always loved that little allegory as an artist. Even when it is not enough for others, if it is enough for you, you can live inside it.”

— Ocean Vuong, from an interview with Zoë Hitzig in Prac Crit

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Having sex with someone actually is a big deal and involves a ton of vulnerability and I think it’s extremely troubling and gross and unhealthy and actually exceptionally dangerous that we pretend otherwise and encourage people to “be mature” by compartmentalizing/completely eliminating their deeper human emotions from their sexuality and that any other view is dismissed as prudish and invalid and unenlightened and childish and restrictive. I can’t think about this too much because it makes me rage but I hate how much porn and capitalism have destroyed how we understand and experience sexuality and intimate connections with one another so much.

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Relationships are not a game. Quit the "well they didn't answer my text for two hours yesterday so now I'm gonna wait two hours to answers theirs." Quit the "I'm not gonna tell them that I'm upset cause if they really care they'll notice and if they don't notice they don't really care." Quit the "I'm not gonna text first cause it's their turn." Quit all of that. If you want to talk to them, talk to them. If you want to see them, ask them if they want to hang out. If you care about them, let them know. If you have something to say, say it. Stop playing all those silly mind games. It's a waste of everyone's time.

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there was a disconnect in what you always said

and what you finally did

just talk to me next time

please.

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i didnt dream of you

not in the way you said you did of me

i know i dont have to dream to act

i made a choice to love you

i saw the potential that i was excited to explore

you made your choice

ran out of tenderness for me

guess it was rotten work after all.

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‘love is a banquet in which we feed’

you fed

i starved.

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im not spontaneous

im not a romantic

im not a man in traditional gender roles

i am me

and you didnt see

i live without a care

until i do

and then i poured my heart out to you.

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Friends to lovers, slow burn

I find myself reading sappy romances and pining for your arms around me. I never thought I would actually feel this way about someone, but here I am, a mess at your mercy.

When I first met you, I will admit, my mind went directly to the possibility of us. With two queers meeting, what could go oh so right? I hoped, but in the end I always did my best to convince myself otherwise.

At first, you were not my type; but then again, what was my type? At the time I wasn't to know, but with each passing day as I watched you laugh and smile, listened to you hum as you worked, I started to fall. I have yet to recover.

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Mending 100 years of Calamity [AO3]

After the events of Calamity Ganon, Princess Zelda and Link head out on a diplomatic mission to re-establish contact between the towns and cities. On a recommendation from Riju, they are joined by one they would not expect to be allied with.

The sweet smell of simmering fruits wafted from the cooking pots in Gerudo Town causing four young vai to drool. "Careful its hot! If you want to try a piece you'll need to cool it down first." Poko scooped some of the tender fruit in her ladle, blowing on it to cool it a bit before offering it to the vai to taste. A chorus of "mmmm!", "yum!" and "delish!" came from them as they each tasted the dish.

Poko gave a satisfied chuckle as she watched all of the kids melt from the flavour explosion. She let them enjoy themselves for a moment longer. "Would you little vai like to learn how to cook just like me?" "Is that even a question?" Dalia exclaimed, the others nodding along in approval. "Alright then, each of you pick a fruit to add to the dish." Very seriously, they considered which fruits to choose. As she was waiting, Poko looked up to see one of the town guards approaching her. "Sav'aak Barta, its good to see you. What brings you to the cooking corner on this fine afternoon?" "I have a message for you my dear Poko," Barta bumped shoulders playfully with her as she spoke. "Your presence is requested in the palace apparently. What did you do this time that got you in trouble with Riju?" "Ha ha," Poko huffed sarcastically. "I haven't done anything, its not like I have your track record for trouble Barta." "Hey now, lay off me would you! I'm just a bit too eager for adventure, nothing wrong with that," Barta laughed alongside her. Poko turned towards the vai, still squabbling over fruit. "Little vai, I may have to cut our cooking lesson short for today." "Aww not fair at all!" Pearle complained. "Barta, does Poko have to go?" "Yes little one, unfortunately for you, Poko has been summoned by Riju herself. A chorus of "oooh", "ahhh" and "wow" come from the vai children. "We'll let you off this one time then, Poko." Makure says, pulling away her sister and the others.

--

Poko entered the throne room at the request of her Princess and saw two hylians she wasn't familiar with. As they noticed her, the usual expression washed over their faces; fear and confusion. See, Poko was a lynel, a feared beast usually controlled by Gannon himself. The face and torso of a monster and the lower body of a large draft horse. She was a sight to behold to those outside of Gerudo Town who were unused to her presence. However, she was a special case. Poko was brought up in Gerudo Town and enjoyed her domestic life with a hint of adventure here and there. She was content. These hylians clearly were not content with her entrance, the voeish looking vai stepping in front of the other in a defensive posture.

A loud clang sounded through the room as Buliara, captain of the royal guard, slammed her greatsword against the tiled floor. "Calm yourselves. This is Poko, the one you seek." The two hylian travellers relaxed slightly, not wishing to be impolite in chieftain Riju's presence. "Thank you for coming so quickly. This is an important matter concerning the hylian royal family." Buliara gestures to the two hylians. "This is princess Zelda of Hyrule and the captain of the hylian royal guard, Link. They wish to make use of your services as another member of the hylian royal guard during the princess' current diplomatic mission." "I have heard of your skills and humbly request your assistance at my side, Poko." Zelda said, her voice fluttering slightly. "Your help escorting me around Hyrule as I re-establish contact between the towns and cities would be much appreciated."

Poko thought to herself for a moment. While she had journeyed with the odd traveller during the dangerous calamity, she had never been tasked to someone so important. Not to mention such a long journey would disrupt helping her mother, Estan, with her stall in the marketplace. Now that Estan was much older, Poko had been doing the bulk of the work for the stall, in addition to small protection jobs. Apparently she was transparent in her musings as Riju spoke up, "I will of course, take care of Estan. I know what she means to you and there is no way I would let anything happen to her in your absence. I'll assign one of my staff to take up your usual duties in the marketplace while you are out." While this was reassuring, Poko still wasn't fully convinced that she should leave Estan alone for so long. She was just about to turn down the offer when a way too familiar voice cut her off. "Poko, its about time you went out adventuring like every young vai does," Estan walked towards her, cupping her face in one of her hands. "I trust Riju will take good care of me as she said she would." "But---" "No buts! You're going to put your skills to good use out there. I have faith princess Zelda is safest under Link's and your own protection." Poko shuffled her hooves awkwardly as she tried to find a way to wiggle out of the situation. With a sigh she turned towards princess Zelda, "It would be an honour to serve you Princess."

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“the books assigned to us don’t have any REAL meaning” 

yeah, i know. i am an author, i felt that keenly through my entire academic career; i hated knowing it wasn’t the case. that i was being lied to.

but we make meaning. the first time someone read into my writing and found something i hadn’t put there, i found myself smiling. oh yeah! it felt good. it felt good they tore it open and plucked something out. it felt like i had done my job well. and they felt good, too.

a lot of books assigned in school won’t have something you see yourself in. they’re general books, or they’re forced in by how cheap they are, or they are just good examples of one type of writing. it is frustrating writing essays about them, like pretending you are panning for gold while you are ankle deep in a plastic pool. these are things that were made for other people, for another time, for a different set of hands. we cannot force ourselves to be kin to what is unlike us. our skin rejects it.

but we make meaning. there will be books - and maybe some will even be assigned - that will not be intentionally written for you, but they will feel that way, down in your ribs, like when you catch your reflection in a store front and for a second don’t recognize who you are. there will be art and dances and songs (god, so many songs) that will do this, over and over and over and over, because our hearts are these big things that love to grab onto any sign we are not alone. that our pain and our losses are not unnoticed. they will be the books you hold differently and the songs you scream along to and the art you cry about in the middle of the museum. and these same books and songs and art pieces will be looked at by other people and those people will say “there’s no meaning here. i don’t get it.”

sometimes, sometimes, i do have a meaning i tuck into words. and sometimes even if i think the meaning is one thing, someone will tell me: here is another. and every time this happens, i am 13 again, and i feel good, and i know i made something worth loving. worth looking at. people come to me and they say: i know you don’t know me, but you know me. and i do know you, because we know each other, because a piece of writing is a two-way looking glass, where you see me, and in that honesty, i hope you get to see yourself, too.

somewhere, tucked into this, chewing on itself, is something i like to remind myself. when i am at the end of the rope, when i am scratching old wounds, when i am trying to untie my tether because none of it matters, i say: we make meaning. and i think of the books that i love that others do not. i think of the flowers that mean things to me that i cannot spell and you cannot know. i think of what i have given meaning to, and who has given me meaning. and i tell myself. yes, this is a dark time. but we will take it and we’ll put it on a loom and we’ll weave ourself something out of it, and we’ll make meaning from this life. i will give meaning to others when i can and i will write and hope others find meaning and i will live like i am meaning to, because if i’m stuck here, i mean to live. 

no, maybe it doesn’t mean anything. but maybe it’s just the wrong book. go on. keep looking.

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who gave oscar wilde permission to write stuff like “death must be so beautiful. to lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. to have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. to forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. you can help me. you can open for me the portals of death’s house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is” with such ease? to touch my soul so casually? like who gave him all that talent and can i have some