#i literally found old journal entries to myself saying something to the idea of this

[love-enby]

Im going to be honest, I don't believe the grooming accusations against Sean Chiplock.

Why, you may ask, when it's (supposedly) all laid out for everyone to see?

Well, after doing some research, I don't believe Casper (or Rina really) to be credible. Why?

Well, let's start!

Firstly, before looking at any of the screenshots, I want to acknowledge Casper himself states he never thought Sean groomed him. That was something Rina claimed, which is false anyway because Casper literally admits they talked for an hour. You cannot groom someone in an hour. I should know, I'm a literal grooming victim myself. (I would rather not share those but if I have to I will idc at this point)

I think it would be better to start with Casper's claim of Sean knowing he was a minor. He and his friend both insist that his age was listed in his profiles, which I can't confirm for Skype (or deviantart for that matter, but as far as I'm aware they never had any contact on DA), and that Sean knew this and still continued to "groom" him. He also claims he never did do NSFW commissions, and that his ex supposedly drew any porn on his account and that he colored it.

Oh? As you guys see here there are numerous claims that he never pretended to be an adult and that he had ages listed in the bio. But you know what? Someone found his Fur Affinity Account, his old Inkbunny account, and a FLIST (for those unaware, this is a PORN SITE.) account linked to his old FA via the Wayback machine. Now, let's look at this, shall we?

So, what about it? Let's look.

No age mentioned here. I'm not going to show every journal entry, but I did CTRL+F the keywords "14" "15" and "minor". No actual results, the numbers just were dates. I provided the link, you can check for yourself. His journals are just classic journal stuff, but he has no mention of his age, unlike the claim here.

Why would he remove his age from his profiles if it was already listed? Unless... it was never there in the first place.

However, I do want to look at one journal entry, which is his commissions tos journal. Why?

Huh? But i thought you said you didn't do those? He does claim the account was "sold when he was a teen". but doesn't give an age at all, or any proof of this. If I had to assume, this was probably after this entry below. Which, the TOS was posted of February of that year. Also, if he had sold it before that TOS was made, why does the archive still have his name listed? It had to have been a late teen when it was supposedly was sold.

Now, let's move onto the Inkbunny thing.

Same username as his old FA, and it has the FA linked.

As you see, there is the Flist account. What happens if you click on the Flist account?

well the actual answer is if you use the wayback machine it just glitches and won't let you go past the warning, but someone found the actual account on the site, which it also shows when someone was last online and when the account was made.

hm. The age says right there, *19*. And it was made 10 years ago. I'm aware the accusations were from 11 years ago, but this account was made a year later. I input the "creation" time from today (July 5 2024 for anyone in the future) and it gave me this date

He was still active on his FA during this time, judging by the journals. I'm sure the date is skewed like a day or so because I'm making this at 2 in the morning, so I have no idea if the FLIST thing was counting today or just yesterday.

So, to summarize: There is no proof that he has listed himself as a minor on any of the medias Sean has contacted him on. Any claims that he has that this "wasn't him", of course, has no proof. Meanwhile, as we see here, the archive isn't lying. This seems to have more evidence against him, as his admitted he used this username before (like I said, he never said *when* it was sold. but it doesn't make sense to me he'd sell it a year after talking to Sean, esp since he had no idea who Sean was at the time. I'm fairly confident this was Casper.)

So? What about those screenshots? Are you saying those are fake too?

No, I'm not going to be one of those "those are fake screenshots!", I'm going to operate that those are real.

Now, Castor, you literally see this weird shit he said to Casper, why the fuck would you side with him?

I feel I should clarify now, I don't think Sean is innocent either. I'm just making this entire thread because everyone is calling Sean a pedo, when all the proof I've seen is a minor invading adult spaces and pretending to be an adult. Genuinely, if you're at a strip club, you're going to assume everyone there is of age, right? Why wouldn't Sean assume the same considering this person was actively in NSFW spaces.

I'm not going to deny, those screenshots are weird. However, I kinda wonder if they weren't intentionally taken out of context. They had both talked previously on FA notes (confirmed by Casper's screenshots), but there is no proof of these notes. We have no idea what was said here. They totally could've had a sexual conversation (not saying they did, just saying it's possible) there, before moving to Skype. I'm not entirely certain of this though. This is just speculation, not trying to argue anything there.

I also feel like Casper's whole argument is lacking a whole bunch of necessary evidence. A bunch of these are just things he claims is true, while having no proof to back these up (minus the screenshots). Literally all the proof he has are those screenshots. Nothing else. I checked.

Meanwhile, the archive literally proves he had to been lying about something, considering the tweets I have shared vs the archive.

This isn't an argument, if this actually happened how it's laid out (x to doubt), but what Rina did also is insanely fucked up. The fact that they decided, without Casper's knowledge or consent, to post all of this "on his behalf" and make these accusations says a lot about them, I feel. This was not Rina's trauma to share. I'm aware he did make a public journal about it, but that was many years ago, and what Rina did was retraumatize and trigger Casper. That's not what a friend does.

I could argue that this whole thing could be intentional, judging by Casper's lack of emotion/anger on this (because I mean let's be real, who the hell wouldn't be mad someone shared your trauma to millions of people and you had to find out by finding the post). I'm aware they did have that little back in forth where Rina was like I MISSED YOU and yadayada, but they easily could've just.. faked that? But that's a whole bunch of hypotheticals without proof, and the whole fucking reason I'm making this post is to post proof against what claims I've seen.

Anyway, I don't really have much else to say, and Idk how to wrap this up tbh.

tldr: i don't believe sean is a pedo like everyone is claiming, i think he was lied to by casper. also, this was a decade ago, and everyone is acting like he can't change from then. i don't think the screenshots are fake and he should be held accountable for those (which he's trying to take some responsibility for but he rightfully doesn't want to say "those are real!" because no one can actually confirm those are real screenshots.)

Also, by all means if more solid evidence comes out against Sean, I will admit I'm wrong. But as of right now, a bunch of screenshots that are out of context, from a now deleted DA account/journal (and Skype) that you can no longer access, does not seem solid at all.

[hearthandhomemagick]

Cottage Witch Journal Entry - Post Yule & Christmas

Okay, so far this forum of mine has discussed some very off the wall topics that invade my head throughout the day. Some very self destructive thoughts, and some self awareness thoughts. Thoughts on religion, video games, spirituality. Hell, I may even choose to discuss sexual exploration in the future. Who knows? All I know is that after looking back at some of my posts, I’m starting to realize how chaotic one individuals thoughts can be. How genuinely complex a humans life and mind can truly be. 

Think about it, if you’ve read my posts in the past, regarding witchcraft, self care, self love, eating awareness, hyperawareness, overthinking, and so on and so forth, then you would think you’d be able to point me out in a crowd. 

The truth is, you wouldn’t. A great deal of my writing is simply the regurgitation of my persistent, sometimes unrelenting, thoughts. I’m noticing the complexities of humanity, and it’s beautiful and tragic all at once.

Last time we spoke, I discussed in a mini post that Judy Alvarez was mine for the taking a staple of independence and power to me and that getting my power back was of high priority to me. It’s been a few days, but this still remains a significant thought in my head. I find myself becoming more and more enthralled by her character and persona, drawn into why I relate to her as much as I do. Then, I noticed the underwater life she loves so much, and am reminded of the blue jellyfish behind my left ear. I see her whale tattoo and think of the same one I have under my left boob. I think of how I wanted to shave the right side of my head similar to Judy’s hair back in High School and my mom telling me it wouldn’t look good. And finally, I think of her selflessness, and her need to help a traumatized soul, and how I used to be a Sexual Violence Outreach Advocate, just trying to help a traumatized soul. I relate to her in more ways than one, as silly and stupid as it sounds, and these may be extremely minute to notice, but important for me. 

My boyfriend and I had a few conversations this weekend, all separate times, that really pinned me to myself. One conversation, he asked me what exactly I believed, in that moment, when it came to religion and spirituality. From there we got into a lengthy discussion (mostly my fault) where I explained my thoughts in detail. One quote I said stood out (I was also stoned so when I said it, it came out as a surprise to me as well), for I digress from the want to overexplain myself. 

As I told my boyfriend, Hyperawareness will destroy a man before it enlightens him. And this year, Hyperawareness seemed to be the proprietor of my mind, for it most definitely would have destroyed me had I continued.

Another conversation we had, which we both agreed to, was the power of our physical bodies directly correlating to past experiences we’ve had with other humans. Also, our relationship with unsustainable lifestyles.

Example, my body issues are founded on the idea that I wasn’t allowed to be a tomboy and play sports or take karate or MMA Fighting classes, but I also wasn’t perceived as delicate and pretty because of my weight/I was bigger than other girls. I was discouraged from doing the physical things I was interested in, and gave up as a result.

Those experiences have perpetuated in many areas of my life as well. In High School, I chose Shop as my number one elective and Weight Training as my second. They chose to put me in Theatre and Intensive Reading instead (Intensive Reading is a class kids take when they make below average on state wide tests). Now, my first choices were classes I felt would develop my character and reflect the life I wanted to live, and I was told it was a bit manly for me to choose those classes. Now, as an adult, I don’t go out of my way to work on mechanics, even though it’s an interest of mine and I haven’t done weight lifting because I thought I’d look like a man. False ideas.

When you are denied your own personality as a child, and don’t realize that is what is happening because it is still happening, it becomes a spiral of what options do you actually have? You become an open book for others influences to freely write in, because you want to be your own independent self but you don’t even know who or how that person is. So, for a while when I got out of High School I was clinging to others personalities in an attempt to find myself. That’s not a good way of doing it, either. 

I lived to please, so when people called me Sunshine, I figured the Sun didn’t wear a lot of black and didn’t act like a man. 

Reality check, I was overthinking it.

I should dress and live how I see fit, regardless of the typical aesthetic. Fuck the idea that I have to subscribe to one aesthetic anyways. If I want to own a Bee Hive, a Cottage in the Mountains by the river with a tiny self sustaining garden, all while wearing black alternative outfits that somewhat line the aesthetic of post apocalyptical,  then fuck yes I’m going to be a gentle, bright, motorcycle loving, knife wielding, MMA Fighting, Yoga and Meditation doing, soft spoken bad bitch. 

Here’s the thing, I haven’t even bought myself clothes this year, because people were literally buying clothes for me. WHICH I AM EXTREMELY GRATEFUL FOR!!!! But, over the weekend I got rid of a lot of those clothes because they restrict my personality, I never wear them or they don’t fit anymore.

After the lengthy conversations, we both agreed that our youthful selves are not finished being fully alive. We didn’t stop being young once we got out of High School, we stopped being young when we started saying we were too old. So, we are starting to set goals together. Getting rid of old clothes was the first step, and we took into consideration that we are still individuals just helping each other accomplish a common goal, so the next step is our physical selves. 

The plan is to clean out our storage room and transform it into a self-care/training area. Together, we will start the P90X after work on some days, while I try to keep up with yoga on my off days. This month, being aware of what I eat without the focus of losing weight has helped me actually lose weight. Now, focusing on my workout regime is the goal. Not to lose weight, but to be able to start MMA Fighting Classes. 

MMA Fighting is something I started in High School right before going to college, but never finished. It’s something I want to commit to so as to release anger while Yoga will help me process my anger. So, healthy eating to support energy, and healthy workouts! I have also been having more endometriosis pain than usual, so avoiding my health won’t help me!

Spiritual wise, I want to focus on my better self. I want to put more effort into me rather than letting myself go in a world of people who don’t care if my personality exists or not. I want to be open, strong and powerful in what I believe. I want to own my shit, and fuck anyone who wants to stop that type of Sunshine. In the words of Meghan Thee Stallion, “Fuck being good, I’m a bad bitch. I’m sick of motherfuckers tryna tell me how to live.”

I’m inconvenient, and I’m happy with that. I’m not perfect, but I’m a process. I’m not weak and quiet, I’m strong and silent. 

This specific post is a reclamation of my power. Somewhere along the road of this shitty adult life, I forgot the beauty in my own power. I’m equal, not less than.

Thank you for reading, if you did. This is, again, one of those things where I am journaling my thoughts, and trying to go over everything in my head without going crazy. If you thought this was annoying, just remember I deleted 5 paragraphs before posting, because I was overthinking and didn’t want to overexplain. (I do everything in copious quantities). If it bothered you, look past my post. If you related, let’s talk about it. All in all, thank you for being alive, darling. I’ll see you later!

[cctinsleybaxter]

2020 in books

2020 was a year of changed reading habits; people reading more than ever or not at all, some changing their tastes and others turning to old comforts. While there weren’t any huge overhauls on my end, more free time did mean a total of 32 in a wider range of genres. In the past couple of years I found a lot of the things I read to be kind of middling and ranked them accordingly, but this year had some strong contenders in the mix. With college officially behind me I love nonfiction again, and I really need to stop being drawn in by novels with long titles that ‘sound interesting.’ A piece of advice to my future self: they will only make you angry.

The Good

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky I loved the BBC radio play when I first listened to it back in 2017, but didn’t know if I could stomach the idea of actually reading the 700-page book, especially since I already knew the plot (spoiler alert: this had no effect and I gasped multiple times despite knowing what was going to happen; Fyodor’s just that good at atmosphere.) The story follows Prince Lev Myshkin, a goodhearted but troubled man entering 1860s Petersburg high society and meeting all of the wretched people therein as he navigates life, laughs, love, unanswerable questions of faith, and human suffering. I care about it in the same way I think other people care about reality TV shows and soap operas. I’m so personally invested in the drama and feel so many different emotions directed at these clowns that it’s like being a fan of Invitation to Love (with an ending equally upsetting to that of the show ITL is from, Twin Peaks.)

Salt: A World History by Mark Kurlanksy I adored this book. The first half reads a little like a Wikipedia article, and I was worried that it was leaning too clinical and would be disaffected with colonialism and indigenous peoples, but even that oversight is corrected for as the text goes on. It’s not going to be for everybody because it really is just the world’s longest encyclopedia entry on, well, salt, but it’s written with such excitement for the topic and is so well-researched and styled for commercial nonfiction that I think it deserves any and all praise it’s gotten. We have to talk about that time Cheshire was literally sinking into the ground, and companies who were over-pumping brine water to steal each other’s brine water said ‘no it’s okay it’s supposed to that’ so were legally dismissed as suspects.

Midnight Cowboy by James Leo Herlihy Cried. 10/10. The plot of Midnight Cowboy is very classic and actually has a lot in common with The Idiot, as 20-something Joe Buck moves from the American Southwest to NYC and meets myriad challenges as a sex worker. I’ve been obsessed with the movie for a few years now and the book made me appreciate it anew; I think it’s rare for an adaptation to take the risk of being so different from its source material while still capturing its spirit. The movie doesn’t include quieter moments like the full conversation with Towny or time spent in the X-flat, nor does it attempt to touch Joe’s internal monologue or his and Rico’s extensive backstories, but these things are essential to the book and are some of the best and most affecting writing I’ve ever read. Finally! The Great American Novel!

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones I would firmly like to say that this is probably the best horror novel ever written. The setup is very traditional in that it’s about a group of friends facing supernatural comeuppance for a past mistake, but delivery on that premise is anything but familiar. A story about personal and cultural trauma that raises questions about what we owe to each other and what it means to be Blackfeet, with a cast that’s unbelievably real and sympathetic even at their absolute worst. Creepypasta writers trying to cash in on the cultural mythos of lumped-together tribes wish they were capable of writing something a tenth as gruesome and good as this. It could very well be a movie the visuals and writing style were so arresting, and I can’t wait to read whatever Jones writes next.

Found Footage Horror Films: Fear and the Appearance of Reality by Alexandra Heller-Nicholas This is the least accessible title on the list since it’s a college textbook for people with background in film, but it was so nice to read a woman unpacking film theory with the expertise and confidence it deserves that I have to rank it among the best. I had an absolute blast reading it and am going to have to stop myself from bringing up the horror of 1960s safety films as a cocktail icebreaker.

Blood in the Water: The Attica Prison Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy by Heather Ann Thompson

The year’s toughest read by far, but also its most rewarding. Thompson uses mountains of documents, government-buried intel, and personal interviews to explain what happened at Attica from beginning to end, and does a fantastic job of balancing hard facts and ‘unbiased journalism’ with much-needed emotion and critical analysis. It’s more important reading in the 2020s than any kind of ‘why/how to not be racist’ book club book is going to be, and the historical context it provides is as interesting as it is invaluable. The second half drags a bit in going through lengthy trial processes with some assumed baseline knowledge of legalese (which I did not have. All that criminal minds in 2015… meaningless), but aside from that editing and prose are some of the best I’ve seen in nonfiction. 

The Bad

The Woman in the Window by A.J. Finn A friend and I decided to read this together because I’m obsessed with how insane the author is and wanted to know if he can actually write.

He cannot.

The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All by Laird Barron Barron is an indie darling of the horror fiction scene, so I was excited to finally read one of his collections but can now attest that I hate him. If you’re going to do Lovecraft please deconstruct Lovecraft in an interesting way. I had actually written a lot about the issues I have with how he develops characters and plots, but one of the only shorthand notes I took was “he won’t stop saying ‘bole’ instead of tree trunk” and I feel like that’s the only review we need.

Bats of the Republic by Zach Dodson Look up a photo of this author because if I had bothered to glance at the jacket bio I honest-to-god wouldn’t have even tried reading this.

This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone I went in with high expectations since this is an epistolary novella I’d seen praised on tumblr and youtube but oh my god was there a reason I was seeing it praised on tumblr and youtube. This is bad Steven Universe fanfiction. Both authors included ‘listening to the Steven Universe soundtrack throughout’ in the acknowledgements, and to add insult to injury there’s a plug from my nemesis Madeline Miller.

The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton The premise of this one plays with so many tropes I like that I should have been more suspicious. It’s a dinner party with stock characters one would expect of Clue, and rather than our protagonist being the detective he’s a man with amnesia stuck in a 24-hour time loop. Body-hopping between guests, he must gather evidence using the skillsets of each ‘host’ until he either solves Evelyn Hardcastle’s murder or the limit of eight hosts runs out. I read a lot of not-very-good books, and it’s so, so much worse when they have potential to be fun. This is how you lose the most points, and how I abandon decorum and end up writing a list of grievances: • Our protagonist can only inhabit male hosts, which I think is a stupid writing decision not because I’m ‘woke’ but because wouldn’t it make sense for him to also be working with the maids, cooks, and women close to the murder victim? • Complaining about the limitations of hosts makes some sense (e.g- there’s a section where he thinks that it’s hard to be an old man because it’s difficult to get to the places he needs to be quickly), but one of his hosts is a rapist and one of his hosts is fat. Guess which one gets complained about more. • One of the later hosts is just straight-up a cop with cop knowledge that singlehandedly solves the case. We spend some time being like ‘wow I couldn’t have done it without the info all eight hosts helped gather’ but it was 100% the detective and he solves the murder using information he got off-screen. • The mystery itself is actually well-paced and I didn’t have a lot of issues with it (e.g, there’s a twist that I guessed only shortly before the end), which makes it all the worse that the metanarrative of this book is INSANE. No spoilers but the reveal as to why our unnamed protagonist is even in this situation is stupid. I just know they’re going to make it into a movie and I’m preemptively going to aaaaaaaaa!!!

Trust Exercise by Susan Choi The fact that this was the worst book I read all year, worse even than the bad Steven Universe fanfiction, and it won multiple awards makes my blood boil. I could rant about it for hours but just know that it’s a former theater kid’s take on perception and memory, and deals with sexual abuse in a way that’s handled both very badly and with a level of fake deepness that’s laughable. Select fake-deep quotes I copied down because at one point I said ‘oh barf’ aloud: -I’m filled with melancholy that’s almost compassion. It’s sad the same way. -[On a friendship ending] We almost never know what we know until after we know it. -Because we’re none of us alone in this world. We injure each other.

There are also bad sex scenes that I can’t quite make fun of because I think (HOPE?) they’re supposed to be a melodramatic take on how teenagers view sex, but I very much wanted to die. Flowers were alluded to. Nipples were compared to diamonds.

Honorable/Dishonorable Mentions (categorized as the same thing because, well,)

The Life and Death of Sophie Stark by Anna North This book was frustrating because the first third of it is fantastic. It’s set up to be a takedown of the manic pixie dream girl trope, jumping from person to person discussing their relationship with the titular Sophie, and indirectly revealing that she was just some girl and not the difficult and mysterious genius they all believed her to be. Then in the third act, BAM! She was that difficult and mysterious genius and she’s now indirectly brought all the people from her past together. I wanted to scream the plot beefed it so bad, but the good news is I really liked this octopus description.

It was the size of a three-year-old child, and it seemed awful to me that something could be so far from human and obviously want something as badly as it wanted to get out of the tank.

Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America’s Shining Women by Kate Moore Cool new nightmare speedrun strat is to hear a 2-second anecdote from a documentary that people used to get radium poisoning from painting watch faces, be curious enough that you buy a book to learn more, and be met with medical and legal horror beyond anything you could have imagined. This was almost one of my favorite books of the year! Almost.

Radium Girls is very lovingly crafted and incredibly well-researched; one of those things that’s hard to get through but that you want to read sections of again as soon as you’ve finished. The umbrage I take with it is that it’s very Catholic. The author and many of her subjects are Irish and their religion is important to them, but it casts a martyr-y narrative over the whole thing that I found uncomfortable. Seventeen-year-old girls taking a factory job they didn’t know was dangerous are framed as brave, working-class heroes, but there’s not a set moral lesson to be gained from this story. Sarah Maillefer didn’t make “a sacrifice” when she agreed to the first radium tests, she agreed because she was terrified. She didn’t think she was helping she was begging for help.

The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins by Anna Tsing Tsing is an incredibly skilled researcher and ethnographer; there are so many good ideas in this book that I’d almost consider it essential leftist text… if I could stand the way it was structured. Tsing posits that because nature is built on precariousness she will build her book the same way, allowing it to grow like a mushroom, and thus chapters don’t progress linearly and are written more like freeform poetry than a series of academic arguments. Some people are really going to love that, but I’m me and a mushroom is a mushroom and a book is a book. I don’t think in the way Tsing does, and while I tried to keep an open mind it’s hard to play along when something is this academically dense and makes so many ambitious claims. As if to prove how different our structuring methods are, I’ve made my own thoughts into a pros and cons list

Things I liked: • ‘Contamination’ as something inherent to diversity • ‘Scalability’ as a flawed way of thinking (Tsing has written whole essays about this that I find very compelling, but a main example here is that China and the US have come down on Japanese matsutake research for being too ‘site specific’ and not yielding enough empirical data) • Discussing how Americans were so invested in self-regulating systems in the 1950s we thought they could be applied to literally everything, including ecosystems • “The survivors of war remind us of the bodies they climbed over- or shot- to get to us. We don’t know whether to love or hate the survivors. Simple moral judgements don’t come to hand.” • Any and all fieldwork Tsing shares is amazing; I especially liked reading about the culture of mushroom pickers living in the Cascades and their contained market system

Things I didn’t like: • Statements that sound deep but aren’t, e.g- “help is always in the service of another.” (Yep. That’s what that means. Unless an organism is doing something to help itself which then nullifies your whole opening argument.) • A very debatable definition of utilitarianism • “Capitalism vs pre-capitalism,” which seems like an insanely black-and-white stance for a book all about finding hidden middle ground • A chapter I found really interesting about how intertwined Japanese and American economies are, but it tries to cover the entire history of US-Japan relations. Seriously, starting with Governor Perry and continuing through present day, this could have been a whole different book and it’s a good example of what I mean when I say arguments feel too scattered (the conclusion it reaches is that in the 80s the yen was finally able to hold its own against the dollar. Just explain that part.) • A chapter arguing that ‘true biological mutualism’ is rarely a focus of STEM and is a new sociological development/way of thinking which is just… flat-out not true

For all the comparisons art gets to ‘being on a drug trip’ this anthropology textbook has come the closest for me. Moments of profound human wisdom, intercut with things I had trouble understanding because I wasn’t on the same wavelength, intercut with even more things that felt false or irrelevant. I can’t put it on the nice list but I am glad I read it.

[correspondencearchive]

2. Natalia Nakazawa & Nazanin Noroozi

Natalia Nakazawa and Nazanin Noroozi discuss their use of archives and photographs, creating hybrid narratives, cultural transmission, and the formation of personal and cultural memories.

Natalia Nakazawa, Obtrait I, Jacquard woven textile, 71 x 53 inches, 2015, Photo credit: Jeanette May

Natalia Nakazawa: First off, Naz, how are you doing? There has been so much going on - it is far too easy to forget we have bodies. We have families, we have things we need to do, and we need to take care of ourselves. As they say, put the oxygen mask on first, and then help others. Can you maybe start by just telling us what your day looks like? What are you doing to take care of yourself?

Nazanin Noroozi: I’m doing ok. I have to balance my day job and my studio time. My day job is working in high-end interior design firms in which our clients spend millions and millions of $$$ on luxury goods. It is very interesting to look at the wage gap especially considering the pandemic. When someone can spend 40k on a coffee table for their vacation house, and you hear all the issues with the stimulus checks etc, it makes you wonder about our value system and how our society functions.

As for self-care, I guess just like any other artist, I buy tons of art supplies that I may or may not need! I just bought a heavy-duty industrial paper cutter that can cut a really thick stack of paper! I needed it! I really don't have room for it, but I bought it! So that is my method of self-care! Treat myself to things that I like but may be problematic in the future. ;)

Natalia: I recently re-watched Stephanie Syjuco’s Art21 feature online where she talks about having to actively decide to become a citizen of the US, despite having come to this country at the age of 3. One of the poignant points she brings up is how we are all reckoning right now with what it means to be “American”. She also brings up the iconic photo taken by Dorothea Lange  of a large sign reading “I am an American” put up by a Japanese American in Oakland right after the declaration of internment - thinking about how citizenship can be given or taken away. This all feels very relevant right now. What do you think about these questions? How do you use archives and photos of our past to engage in these issues of belonging, citizenship, and the precarity of it all?

Nazanin: What I try to do with archives is to question them as modes of cultural transmission and historical memory. I think many artists deal with archives in a more clinical and objective manner, whereas I like to add my own agency to these found photographs. When one looks at a family album or found footage, one is already looking at fragmented narratives. You never know a whole story when you look at your friend’s old family albums. I truly embrace this fragmented, broken narrative and try to make it my own. I also constantly move back and forth between still and moving images, printmaking and painting, experimental films and artist books. So there is this hybridity in the nature of found footage itself that I try to activate in my work. In these works handmade cinema is used as a medium to re-create an already broken narrative told by others, sometimes complete strangers to tell stories about trauma and displacement. That is what fascinates me about archives. The fact that you can recreate your story and make a new fictional alt-reality.

Nazanin Noroozi, Self Portrait

Natalia: But who is to say these if fictional alt-realities are less important or less serious than purely “art historical” narratives? One of the things that I am exploring in my work is giving space for slippages in memory, rearranging of timelines to accommodate a lived experience. What happens when we look at collections - even museum collections - with the same warmth, tenderness, and care that we would an old friend? What possibilities are dislodged there? What benefit is there to towing the status quo - which is built on white supremacy, stolen artifacts, and other types of lying, exclusion and dubious authoritative storytelling? Also, there are so many family histories that often become reified - being told and retold with certainty over and over again. How do we claim agency from that oppressive knowledge? The things we tell ourselves about our families may not be “true” so what do we risk by revisiting our archives and re-telling those histories through our current eyes? When we re-examine the history - we may discover new ways of seeing and being with ourselves.

Nazanin: I like to think of photographs as sites of refuge. When you look at a photograph of a kid’s birthday from many years ago, you know for fact that this joyous moment is long gone. These mundane moments that bring you “happiness” and security won't last. It’s like “all that is solid melts into air”. In a larger picture, isn't everything in life fragile and fleeting and there is absolutely no certainty in life?  For example, look at how Covid has changed our “normal everyday” life. A simple birthday party for your kid was unimaginable for months. In “Purl” and “Elite 1984”  I mix these mundane moments with images of flood, natural disasters and other forces of nature to talk about fragile states of being and ideas of home. I digitally and manually manipulate footages of a stormy Caspain Sea, Mount Damavand or a glacier melt to ask my questions about failure or resistance, you know? I let the images tell me the new narrative, both visually and thematically.  

Something I find really interesting in your work is how you re-create these alt-realities by actively and physically engaging your audience into participating in your work, like your textile maps - called Our Stories of Migration? Do you have any fear that they may tell a story you don't like? Or take your work to a place that you didn't anticipate? How do you deal with an open-ended artwork that is finished but it needs an audience to be complete?

Natalia Nakazawa, Our Stories of Migration, Jaquard woven textiles, hand embroidery, shisha mirrors, beetle wings, beads, yarn, 36 x 16 feet, 2020, Photo credit: Vanessa Albury

Natalia: I am always stunned by the generosity of the people I meet - those who dive in and share their own histories - and I think it points to a universal need of ours to share and connect. There is always potential to create intimacy - even within the walls of large institutions, such as schools or museums - when our own lives are placed at the center with care and concern. I’ve never heard a story that didn’t make me pause and grant me more space for contemplating the complexity of being a human on this planet. We have all kinds of mechanisms for memory - archives, written diaries, photos, paintings, objects - but at the end of the day they are nothing without our active participation. Quite literally they are meaningless unless they are being interacted with. That has been the entry point for me, as an artist and educator. How do we take all of these things that exist in the material world and make sense out of them? What does the process of “making sense” do to the way we live TODAY? Or, perhaps, how we envision the future? It is almost like a yoga practice, a stretching of the mind, a flexibility to think backwards and forwards - that lends us more space to consider the present.

Nazanin: Yeah! I think you really are on point here! I think we really can't understand our existence without retelling the history and recreating new realities.

Nazanin Noroozi, The Rip Tide

Natalia: Thank you, Nazanin! Anything coming up for you that you want to mention?

Nazanin: Yes, I am actually doing a really amazing residency at Westbeth for a year. This is an incredible opportunity as I get to live in the Village for one year and have a live-work space in such an amazing place. Westbeth is home to many wonderful artists!

Natalia Nakazawa, History has failed us...but no matter, Jacquard textiles, laser cut Arches watercolor paper, vinyl, jewels, concentrated watercolor and acrylic on wood panel, 40 x 90 inches, 2019, Photo credit: Jeanette May

Natalia Nakazawa is a Queens-based interdisciplinary artist working across the mediums of painting, textiles, and social practice. Utilizing strategies drawn from a range of experiences in the fields of education, arts administration, and community activism, Natalia negotiates spaces between institutions and individuals, often inviting participation and collective imagining. Natalia received her MFA in studio practice from California College of the Arts, a MSEd from Queens College, and a BFA in painting from the Rhode Island School of Design. She has recently presented work at the Arlington Arts Center (Washington, DC), Transmitter Gallery (Brooklyn, NY), Wassaic Project (Wassaic, NY), Museum of Arts and Design (New York, NY), and The Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York, NY). Natalia was an artist in residence at MASS MoCA, SPACE on Ryder Farm, The Children’s Museum of Manhattan, Wassaic Project, and Triangle Arts.

www.natalianakazawa.com @nakazawastudio

Nazanin Noroozi is a multimedia artist incorporating moving images, printmaking and alternative photography processes to reflect on notions of collective memory, displacement and fragility. Noroozi’s work has been widely exhibited in both Iran and the United States, including the Immigrant Artist Biennial, Noyes Museum of Art, NY Live Arts, Prizm Art Fair, and Columbia University. She is the recipient of awards and fellowships from the Artistic Freedom Initiative, Elizabeth Foundation for the Arts, NYFA IAP 2018, Mass MoCA Residency, North Adams, MA and Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts Residency, NY. She is an editor at large of Kaarnamaa, a Journal of Art History and Criticism. Noroozi completed her MFA in painting and drawing from Pratt Institute. Her works have been featured in various publications and media including BBC News Persian, Elephant Magazine, Financial Times, and Brooklyn Rail.

www.nazaninnoroozi.net @nazaninnoroozi

[sourcherrybomb]

SoKai Week 2020 - Day 2 - For ____ Eyes Only

Synopsis: During the time period Kairi was within Sora’s heart, she kept a handy mental diary of all the places and people she encountered. Let’s take a peek at it, shall we?

Sneak Peek: I’ve been in Sora’s heart for a little bit as of now. It’s a nice kind of… warm, if that makes sense. Like a perfect sunny day on the Islands. Knowing what kind of person Sora is, it’s unsurprising.

Tags: Light Romance, Adventure, Comedy, All Ages, F/M

Prompt for the Day: First Meeting / Unseen Adventures

Words: 3.5k

Fanart By: @softpinkbee​

Entry 1: Welcome to Sora’s Heart. Population: 1 (I think)

Sooo… This is a thing that’s happening. All because of a stupid, literal world ending storm.

Oh wait, aren’t I supposed to start with “Dear Diary”? Not like I’m physically writing in a journal since I don’t have a body anymore… Ugh, Sora and Riku would probably poke fun at me if they found out that I kept one. Well sorry that I like to be sentimental and have a way of remembering and planning our future adventures, lazy bums.

I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? I’ll do this once to get it over with.

Hello there (mental) diary, my name is Kairi! I’m 14 years old and I lived on the Destiny Islands before I somehow ended up in Sora’s (my BFF and lazy bum #1) heart. That little mishap took place right after I met this weird old guy in brown robes in our Secret Place. I don’t know where Riku (my other BFF and lazy bum #2) ended up, but somehow Sora got sucked into a black hole that sent him… Or is it us? To another world called Traverse Town.

I mean the boys and I always planned to travel to other worlds, just not like this. We were supposed to travel by raft, I was supposed to have a body, and it was going to be all three of us… Okay maybe I asked Sora if he wanted to go alone with me, only to end up chickening out at the last moment, but this current situation is not what I had in mind!

Apparently these monsters called the Heartless destroyed our world, sending us to Traverse Town. I feel bad. 

Sora was lost and alone. I knew because I felt it in his heart.

Luckily, Sora has met a lot of new people since arriving. There were these two girls, Aerith and Yuffie, that I would have loved to talk and meet with. Selphie definitely would have loved to meet Aerith, she was so pretty! Besides them, Sora also met this edgy guy named Leon (who kicked his butt) and a cranky old mechanic named Cid. More importantly, Sora met this talking duck and dog named Donald and Goofy. They’re pretty entertaining, so I hope they can keep Sora company since I can’t speak to him and we lost Riku.

I’ve been in Sora’s heart for a little bit as of now. It’s a nice kind of… warm, if that makes sense. Like a perfect sunny day on the Islands. Knowing what kind of person Sora is, it's unsurprising.

I just can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something… no, someone else in here.

Entry 2: Topsy? Turvy? Definitely Crazy.

Is it possible to have an out-of-body experience and a fever dream at the same time? Because that’s what Wonderland feels like.

Geez, where do I even start with this one? I guess with the talking rabbit entering the talking doorknob? Granted that rabbit was kind of cute, if not panicky. I could get used to that. Sora shrinking and entering a place full of playing card soldiers and a cat with a decapitated head (I think? He reattached it) are things that are going to take a bit to get used to.

Gosh, that feels like the understatement of the century.

I knew other worlds would be different than the islands. It’s just that going from a quiet city to a place where gravity is bonkers and playing cards can kill a person makes a girl really question what’s out there.

I wish I could take pictures so people would believe my words. Luckily this cricket named Jiminy has a journal where he keeps track of Sora’s journey. He stays safe inside Sora’s hood, so it’s sort of like we’re neighbors and journal buddies! I’d love to give him my point of view on things once I get my body back.

Oh one other thing before I forget, there was this one girl named Alice. I don’t know why, but she was giving off this really familiar aura. I couldn’t help but feel oddly drawn to her.

I feel like this won’t be the first time we come into contact with her.

Entry 3: Anyone else hear horns?

Like seriously, Sora and I both hear horns coming from this world, but neither of us have any idea as to where they’re coming from. This (extremely small) world is the Olympus Coliseum.

Sora, Donald, and Goofy got thrown into some challenges and ended up fighting waves of Heartless. Really makes me think about how I should have tried sword fighting with Sora and Riku. Sure, I’ve picked up some things by just watching them, but I think actually practicing with them would have helped me in the long run. I mean, I totally could have fought off that weird guy in the brown robes.

Ugh, just thinking about him gives me bad vibes. 

Going back to the challenges, Sora totally got his butt handed to him by this guy, Cloud. It was way worse than the loss Sora took against Leon, I don’t think Cloud was holding back. 

I’m thankful he didn’t finish Sora off. Partly because he’s my best friend, but also because if Sora bites the dust, then I’m also gone. It was rough seeing Sora lose again, but watching him take out a giant three-headed dog right after certainly was a sight. Although I swear I heard Hercules whisper to his little red friend, Phil, next to him that he weakened the monster. 

Maybe. But since it felt like I was fighting alongside him, I’m not ready to count Sora out just yet. He’s grown so much stronger day after day.

Entry 4: Note to Self, Never Let Sora Drive

You know, if the three of us did leave on that raft as planned, I always had a feeling that Sora might fight with Riku over where to take us. Sora’s never been one for his directional skills, that was always more Riku’s forte. Because of this, I always mentally prepared myself for the event where Sora would get us super lost.

WHAT I DIDN’T MENTALLY PREPARE MYSELF WAS FOR SORA TO CAUSE A GIANT SPACESHIP TO CRASH BECAUSE HE ARGUED WITH A TALKING DUCK!!!

That’s not even where it ends! This Deep Jungle is nuts! There’s a leopard that’ll attack you like every five steps, there was a giant Heartless that turned invisible, and Sora even got a gun fired at it! Granted that last one was because of some hunter jerk with a stupid mustache, but if he’s from this world, he’s part of the problem.

The only saving grace was the fact that there are giant tree trunks that act like slides and as many vines to swing on as I wanted to. Tarzan has got to give me some tips when I have the chance to meet him, it was like he was flying through the trees! I’d honestly enjoy the chance to talk to Jane myself as well. She seems so smart and would have so much to talk about. I think she’d make pleasant conversation. That being said, when she showed Sora a picture of a castle in the slideshow, I couldn’t shake this sense of… familiarity. Like I had seen it or something like it before. But where…?

Even though this world and I got off on the wrong foot, once I get my body back, I’m definitely making Sora bring me here so I can do all that!

Although I still have no idea how that’s gonna happen.

Entry 5: I don’t know why, but this place feels oddly familiar

Today may have just been one of the best days I’ve had since I’ve been living in Hotel Sora’s Heart, over here!

For starters, dogs. Sooooo many dogs! Leon told Sora about all of these Dalmatian puppies that got scattered across the various worlds. They’ve been taking the time to rescue all 101 of them, and they’re absolutely adorable! Ahhhhhh, I can only imagine playing with everyone one of them.

Secondly, I’m finding Traverse Town a lot more comforting than I originally did. Something about the tall building walls makes me feel nostalgic. I never was from the Islands to begin with, but where I originally came from is a mystery to me. I don’t think it was Traverse Town, but maybe it was another city. I’m sure that in travelling to other worlds, I might be able to remember more!

Today I even got to talk to Sora a little bit, albeit by accident, when he and his friends wandered into this old tower. I looked around and said to myself that it reminds me of the Secret Place, all dark and surrounded by stone. I never expected Sora to hear or see me! I had so much more to say, but when this wizard guy showed up, Sora couldn’t hear me anymore.

But that’s not even the best news: Right after, Sora ended up running into Riku! He’s safe! It was brief, Riku ended up disappearing moments after, but now we know he’s out there and can protect himself. Sora was even able to protect Riku from one of the Heartless!

Never thought I’d see that day where the roles were switched. It suits Sora.

Entry 6: I hate sand.

I may find not having a body to be a major inconvenience, but for once I’m quite pleased at the fact considering Agrabah, the world Sora and his friends just left, was full of sand.

At its worst, sand was rough, coarse, and irritating. It already got into my clothes back on the Islands, but around here I’d imagine it gets everywhere.

That being said, this world has got to be one of the most adventurous we’ve been to so far! Desert temples filled with treasure, magical genies, all in a faraway kingdom? It’s like all the games Sora, Riku, and I used to play when we were younger. If only Riku joined with Sora back in Traverse Town, he would have loved this!

One odd thing though, we ran into another woman, Princess Jasmine, who gave me the same vibes as Alice! Turns out she’s more than just a regular old princess, but one with special powers. I wonder what it could all mean...

Entry 7: Did you know that the stomach would eat itself without the mucus lining its walls? 

Back on the Islands when Sora, Riku, and I made plans to leave on the raft, we always wondered what kind of animals we’d see. The one that would always pop into our minds was a whale since they might be big enough to swallow us whole.

We always laughed it off and went back to working or playing, so actually getting swallowed whole by one feels very ironic. It’s a lot grosser than I thought it would be. Smells like fish everywhere you go, so I really hope Sora, Donald, and Goofy take some showers once they leave.

This whale named Monstro even swallowed this old man and his son, Gepetto and Pinnochio. The latter is somehow a walking, talking puppet!

But what’s even crazier is that out of all the worlds, Riku shows up here, only to kidnap Pinnochio! And not just that, I think he knows where my body is. Geez, Riku was being a real jerk about it, though. Said that Sora was fooling around and not helping, when I know for a fact that he’s doing more that Riku has! I mean, I’m in the guy’s heart, that’s gotta count for something!

I wish I could tell Riku that all this time, Sora has been protecting me. I know I give him a hard time every now and then, but out of all the people in the world, I’m really glad I ended up in his heart.

Entry 8: Rival Redhead Acquired

I know that my last entries make me seem like a jealous person, but mental diary, trust me when I say that I’m not usually one to be envious of others.

Until now.

Being in Sora’s heart, I sort of get a feel for his emotions. By all means, even without being inside him, Sora is pretty much an open book to begin with. It’s just that in being directly connected to his heart, I can feel almost every emotion he has. That includes the mess of emotions he felt when he came into contact with this mermaid named Ariel.

Yup, a mermaid. Atlantica is full of them.

It’s a pretty cool world! There are sunken pirate ships, an underwater kingdom, even a giant sea witch that Sora defeated! But nope, the thing that makes Sora’s heart flutter is another red head when he already has one right here! Ughhh, I’m really glad this diary isn’t physical, I might die if Sora or Riku ever found out I think stuff like this.

Still, Ariel isn’t a bad person so it’s not that I dislike her. She also loves adventure and wants to see other worlds. Moving past my jealousy, I think I’d love to be friends with her some day. Ariel and I are similar, but I think I at least have something over her.

Sometimes when Sora talks about me, he gets this squeezing feeling in his heart. Now I’m not gonna let Sora or Riku tease me over my feelings, I’m sure gonna tease Sora about his once I get my body back.

Entry 9: A lot more tricks than treats!

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. I enjoy going around to houses and getting candy, but I enjoy scaring Sora even more so. I mean, I definitely did that outside of Halloween, it’s just that the holiday made it feel special.

Needless to say, Sora finding a world exclusively dedicated to it is probably one of the best things I’ve ever found out! When Sora, Donald, and Goofy arrived, they even got special outfits to blend in! With Sora being a vampire, I could see Riku being a werewolf, but when it comes to me, I can’t choose between being a witch or a scarecrow.

There are even monsters! There was a talking skeleton who was surprisingly nice, a mad doctor, and a giant living sack of bugs! (It was super gross when he was defeated.) Sora got a bit squirmy when he died, so I really wish I was there to double down and make Sora sora yell out loud!

I definitely want to go to Halloween Town when all of this is said and done.

Entry 10: I miss candy…

So Halloween Town was fun for the thrills and chills, but felt severely lacking in candy. I may be a disembodied heart without a body, but my heart aches for something sweet! Which is why the 100 Acre Wood was torture for me.

Pooh Bear and I would get along. He loves honey, I love candy, it’s like we’re two peas in a pod. I too would probably get myself stuck inside a tree if I was desperate enough for a sweet snack. 

Pooh’s other animal friends are all so cuddly and adorable! Out of the cutest, I’d have trouble choosing between Piglet or Roo. Tigger reminds me of the stuffed animals I keep in my room. Part of me really wants to hold onto him and see if he can bounce around with me on it, like a pogo stick! When it comes to Eeyore, in all honesty I kind of just want to give him a hug...

Honestly this place is a nice change of pace. No Heartless to be found, it’s always a clear and sunny day out. When it’s night time there aren’t any clouds so you can see all the stars in the sky. I remember all the stories that Sora used to tell me about the constellations instead of learning how to find his way with them. That was more Riku’s job.

I’m glad to know that what I’m feeling when I look up at the sky, Sora is feeling the same. Take your time and relax, you’ve earned it.

Entry 11: It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No, it’s Sora, Donald, and Goofy!

Forget swinging through trees, forget playing with countless puppies, and forget scaring Sora, when I get my body back, I’m making Sora take me to Neverland so I can fly up high in the skies!

Wait no Kairi, focus, there are more pressing things at matter. Mainly, Riku has become a full on jerk, has sided with the Heartless, and is dragging my lifeless body around with him! I mean, my eyes were open, but my body was basically a ragdoll without me in it. I mean on the brightside, Sora was absolutely brimming with joy when he realized my body was safe.

That may or may not have made me feel an indescribable amount of joy and embarrassment, mind you.

I mentioned having an out of body experience in Wonderland, but having a literal one felt even weirder. When Sora got close enough it was possible for me to twitch my hand a little, sort of like I was reconnecting with my body. Sucks that it ended up being dragged away, I was this close to getting it back. What sucks even more is that Riku ended up fleeing to this Hollow Bastion place with it.

Still it wasn’t all bad. Body or not, I was still able to fly around with Sora. He doubted that I’d believe him if he told me.

I don’t think he’d believe me if I told him what I’ve been up to in his heart.

Entry 12: Riku…

I’m back in my body. I wish it was as simple as Sora making contact with it, but things took a turn for the worse this time around.

I need to start from the beginning.

Right before we reached Hollow Bastion, Sora was able to connect with me. He awoke a memory of mine that I’d long forgotten since I came to the island: my favorite story that my grandmother would always tell me. Remembering it gave me this warm feeling, one that intensified when we arrived at Hollow Bastion. 

Only to have that feeling crushed when Riku took the Keyblade from Sora.

I’m glad Sora was able to get it back and knock some sense into Riku, but for a moment Sora really felt at his lowest. Sora was able to become his old self again, but deep in his heart was so much hurt at the fact that he lost Riku to the darkness. Not just any darkness, but from this man named Ansem. He was the one who revealed I was inside Sora’s  heart. Sora was able to beat the possessed Riku, but in the end he made a sacrifice I don’t think I could ever pay him back for.

Losing Sora in my arms made me feel even more useless than I did while I was inside his heart. Interestingly enough, when my heart left Sora’s body, I felt another leave as well. It wasn’t like Sora’s heart, but certainly had similar vibes to it.

Regardless, somehow I was able to bring him back from being a Heartless, but the feeling of losing him in my arms like that is something I don’t want to experience again.

We ended up leaving Hollow Bastion shortly after that. When Sora and I were alone, I was finally able to tell Sora that I was with him the entire time. I had so much I wanted to tell him, but there wasn’t enough time in the world. Not to mention all the unfinished business we had back at Hollow Bastion. I wanted to come with Sora, but he was right. It is dangerous, and as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I didn’t really have any ways to protect myself...

I gave Sora my lucky charm. Wherever he goes, I’ll be there with him.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Entry 13: For Our Eyes Only

Hi there diary, this might be the last time I update this formerly mental journal. 

Sora’s gone off on another adventure to save Riku. He saved all of the worlds, but wasn’t able to save his best friend. If I was in Sora’s shoes, which I might as well have been, I would have done the same thing for either of them. As for me, I’m back on the islands safe and sound. Part of me wanted to jump across the darkness and into Sora’s arms once more. But after fighting for so long to keep me safe, I think the best I can do for Sora is to let this one wish come true.

I know he’ll come back for me. After all, he still needs to give me back my lucky charm. And when he does, I’ll make sure to give him this handwritten diary to help him understand just exactly what I went through on this adventure. No…

Our adventure.

---

When I started this fic, I was honestly thinking about dropping it and starting from scratch with a new idea. Quite frankly, I’m glad I decided to keep at it. I’m pretty proud of the result and feel that I’ve made a somewhat creative little oneshot!

Once again, thank you to the Sokai: Destined Oath Discord server for introducing me to SoKai Week 2020! Special thanks to the server member Gee for acting as my Beta Reader.

Thanks for Reading!

[yourdeepestfathoms]

time to play your dead man’s hand (Day 1)

Life is Strange AU!!!! I don’t even have the first chapter done. It’s too long for Tumblr all together.

Also part one is kinda a test. I don’t know if I’ll continue this, but it people like it I will. But if this only gets, like, 10 notes then I’m not gonna slave myself over the LiS script to write this correctly.

Also also: I literally had no idea who should be Anne’s stepdad, so “Edmund” is just a filler name. If anyone knows someone who would make a good step father for her, please let me know!

One more thing- The Anne in this is Bowman!Anne! Because I like her more than Millie even though her character is supposed to be punkish

TW: Gun violence, death

——————

Part One- Chrysalis

The first flash of lightning wakes her. She cannot really recall falling asleep, but she is certainly awake now. The sky turns white again and then the rain, hard and relentless, begins. Another flash of lightning and, this time, thunder accompanies it. The massive boom shakes her to her toes and makes her feel small in comparison.

Her senses are a mess. She can hardly smell through the rain, and all she can see is the dark until the lightning intermittently burns the sky.

She’s lying face-down in the mud. The brown sludge slides down her face, slippery and grimy. It coats her clothes, but the rain is quick to wash it away and replace the drench with some of its own. She nearly slips as she’s pushing herself up to her feet, suddenly shivering.

The thunder cracks again, but this time she hears something inside of it. A shout. Several shouts, like the wail of anguished souls. She sees lightning, and then in the fading light, she sees shadows leftover.

She’s on a sloped path that has turned into a river from the rushing water. Her shoes and socks are soaked in an instant, already rubbing her feet raw and chafing blisters against her ankles. She tries to speak, but her throat is closed up in horror.

Where am I? What's happening? She thought, looking around. A storm? Why am I in a storm?

A burst of lightning torches the sky, splitting it in two in a magnificent silver slash. It illuminates the towering shape of the lighthouse just up the hill.

Wait... There's the lighthouse... I'll be safe if I can make it there... I hope...

Wind whips at her at dizzying speeds and the rain drives hard enough to push her to her knees. It is only through force of will and sheer luck that she manages not to be thrown clear as she began to stagger up the slippery path and to the cliff where the lighthouse is situated. She could scream, but the storm screams louder and its cries are deafening.

Time ceases to mean much as the storm pummels her and the world around her. She cannot see more than a hand's span in front of your face- she’s having to shield her head and squint so those subzero jerks couldn’t stab her blind. She’s exhausted by the short trek and is nearly prepared to give in to the whims of the storm and let it blow her where it will when she pulls herself up to the top of the incline.

Before her is the ocean, as dark as wine, and atop is a massive tornado. It was much too large to be real, but there it was, caged in flashing bolts of lightning and thick gales.

And it was heading right for Whitby.

Holy shit...

Suddenly, the storm whips up a large boat that had been thrashing in the waves near the beach. It was sent flying, crashing into the lighthouse and causing the top half to come crumbling down, down, down-

————

Maggie awoke with a start. Cold sweat is beaded on her brow and runs like slick snail trails down the back of her neck. She doesn’t scream, thank god, because she realizes that she’s in her art class at school. Warm rays of sun are bleeding in through the window, casting grand, golden shadows across pastel canvases and abstract parchments and colorful tapestries strung up along the walls. There was no sign of a storm in sight.

Woah, She thought. That was so weird.

A line of sweat starts to make its way down her pale face and she quickly swipes it away. Her heart is still racing, pounding painful inside of her chest. She tries to steady it and just focus on the calming voice of Mr. Tudor, the art teacher.

Okay... I'm in class...

At the table in front of her, Agnes Tylney’s pen falls on the floor and she reaches down to pick it up.

Everything's cool... I'm okay...

Catherine Aragon throws a paper ball at Joan Astley.

“Now, can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition?” Mr. Tudor is saying.

Jane Seymour’s phone vibrates.

I didn't fall asleep, and...that sure didn't feel like a dream... Weird.

“Diane Arbus.” Jane answers. Her voice is like honeyed venom- sweet but stinging. Maggie knew the potency of the poison in her words all too well.

“There you go, Jane!” Mr. Tudor praised, “Why Arbus?”

As Jane was explaining, Maggie looked down at her table. Her basic school needs-pens, pencils, journal- were scattered out on the blacktop, along with her camera and a photograph. When she picks it up, she looks upon the horrid image of her standing in front of dozens of other pictures tacked on her dorm wall.

Look at this crap! How can I show this to Mr. Tudor? I can hear the class laughing at me now.

She sighed and set it back down. Her eyes cast over to the analog camera and she carefully picked it up as if it were a baby bird. She was always so cautious with the old thing.

Her thumb grazed over the washes out yellow top portion before gently pressed a button. The camera flashes in her face, taking her by surprise.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Mr. Tudor piped up. “I believe Maggie has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Maggie...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation was not the first to use images for ‘selfie-expression.’ Sorry. I couldn't resist. The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around. Now, Maggie, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

Maggie grits her teeth and tried not to sink into the bottom of her chair and evaporate into the abyss. Eyes were boring in on her from all sides. Tiny flames light up in her ears.

“I-I did know!” She stammered. “But I kinda forgot...”

Mr. Tudor narrows his eyes. He usually looks so lax and kind, so seeing him bring out the Disappointed Look cut deep.

“You either know this or not, Maggie.” He said, frustrated, “Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?”

“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created ‘daguerreotypes’ a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Jane said, as boot-licking as always. She swivels her head around to Maggie, her eyes gleaming like a hungry tiger that just found its next meal. “Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.”

Maggie’s spine chafed painfully against the back of her chair as she hunches her shoulders in to seem smaller. Her ears were fully on fire, now- she hopes her hair is hiding them.

Just as Mr. Tudor is finishing his lecture on Jane’s answer, the bell rings. Students are instantly leaping up and scampering out of the classrooms.

“And guys,” Mr. Tudor says, “don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the "Everyday Heroes" contest. I'll fly out with the winner to London where you'll be feted by the art world in the Tate museum. It's great exposure, and it can kickstart a career in photography. So, Agnes and Maud, get it together. Catherine, don't hide. I'm still waiting for your entry, too. And yes, Maggie, I see you pretending not to see me.”

Maggie stands up slowly, unfurling her shoulders from their hunched position. As she’s waiting for the muscles to stop aching from the sudden uncoil, she sees Jane beeline to Mr. Tudor’s desk. Maggie rolls her eyes.

Jane doesn't waste a second kissing ass...

She gathers her things and heads for the door. Before she could make her escape, however, Mr. Tudor’s smooth voice rang out.

“I see you, Maggie Wyatt. Don't even think about leaving here until we talk about your entry.”

Maggie tenses and then gives in. She turns around and approaches the front desk. She does her best to avoid Jane’s drilling gaze.

“I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture.” Mr. Tudor said.

“Do I have to? I just don't think it's that big a deal.” Maggie said.

Jane snickers. Mr. Tudor has an almost-sympathetic look.

“Maggie, you're a better photographer than a liar...” He said. “Now I know it's a drag to hear some old dude lecture you... but life won't wait for you to play catch-up. You're young, the world is yours, blah blah blah, right? But you do have a gift, you have the fever to take images, to frame the world only the way you envision it. Now, all you need is the courage to share your gift with others. That's what separates the artist, from the amateur.”

Maggie can only bob her head shyly and mumbled a soft, “Yes sir.” Mr. Tudor takes it and lets her leave.

Stepping out into the hallway from the art class was like stepping into a hurricane. While the art class was serene and peaceful and illuminated by the sunshine’s warm glow, the hallway was a tiled jungle with fluorescent suns. Student were weaving every which way like colorful, talkative birds of paradise and the teachers peering out from their classrooms were the watchful jaguars. Dozens of conversations were going at once, laughing came from every direction, and the clatters of lockers were white noise for the cacophony. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing, boldly showing off their tail feathers and wings without a care in the world. Everyone except Maggie, that is. She sighed and shoved in her earbuds before she could hear Aragon from across the hall finish her statement about someone being “so fucking shy.”

Her destination was the bathroom, where she needed a serious timeout to unwind from her classroom embarrassment. She made herself as small as possible, narrowly avoiding the rushing figures of other students. Her awkward swivels and side-steps definitely earned her a few odd glances, but she tried to ignore them until she finally got into the safety of the bathroom.

Empty. Good. Nobody can see my meltdown. Except for me.

Maggie washes her face using one of the sinks, letting the chill of the tap water sink into her cheeks. She keeps her hands there for a moment before sighing and dropping them. She takes out her polaroid photo after turning the sink off.

Just relax. Stop torturing yourself. You have “a gift”.

She stared and stared and stared at the photo, but it just seemed to appear worse and worse the longer she looked.

Fuck it.

She tears apart her photo and drops it on the floor. The way the pieces fall to the ground are as delicate as the flutter of the butterfly’s wings that just flew in from an open window. Maggie blinks and follows it. It lands on a bucket behind a stall and spreads its emerald green wings into the light bleeding over it.

Holy shit. Maggie thought. Well...when a door closes, a window opens...or, something like that. She takes out her camera. Okay girl, you don't get a photo op like this everyday...

Maggie slowly approaches the butterfly and takes a photo of it. At the flash, the butterfly takes off, flapping in a blur of brilliant green that almost seems to glow in the air. As it dashed for a safe landing, the bathroom door opens and closes and a guy walks in. Maggie recognizes him as Thomas Cromwell, the richest, most pompous kid on the campus, from his slick hair and letterman jacket. He does a quick scan of the bathroom, not noticing Maggie hiding, and then began pacing. His pale, bat-like face is twisted with enraged horror. He looks like he was about to shatter at any second

“It’s cool, Thomas... Don't stress... You're okay, bro. Just count to three...” He was muttering to himself. “Don't be scared... You own this school... If I wanted, I could blow it up!” He laughed. Craziness oozed from the fractures in his voice- or maybe directly from his fragmented brain. “You're the boss.”

A moment later, the door swings open and a girl strides in. She’s a little heavier set, but carries herself with great pride and power. Her dark eyes are impish and on fire. Green is spilled out over the top of her hair, long, dyed tendrils of emerald coiling with brown locks. When she speaks, her voice comes out in a (familiar) confident growl.

“I hope you checked the perimeter, as my step-ass would say.” She said while checking the stalls. Maggie has to back up in her hiding spot- it’s a wonder neither of them have caught her, especially with how she’s peeking out to watch. “Now, let's talk bidness—”

“I got nothing for you.” Thomas said. He’s trying to keep his composure, Maggie can tell just by listening to him, but it’s about as cracked as his sanity.

“Wrong.” The girl said. “You got hella cash.”

“That's my family, not me.” Thomas grits. He’s grinding his teeth now.

The girl laughed. “Oh, boohoo, poor little rich kid!” Her tone becomes serious. She marches over to Thomas, who is hunched over the sink, bracing himself. “I know you been pumpin' drugs 'n' shit to kids around here... I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them.” She leans into his ear, “Man, I can see the headlines now—”

“Leave them out of this, bitch.” Thomas snarled.

“I can tell everybody Thomas Cromwell is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself—”

Thomas rounds on the girl. There’s now a gun in his hand, which he must have been hiding in his jacket. The girl backs up into the wall, the fire in her eyes going out in an instant, and Thomas stands in front of her, one arm against the wall beside her head and the other pointing the gun at her stomach.

“You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!” He roared.

“Where’d you get that? What are you doing?” The girl babbled. Her fearless mask has dropped in an instant at the presence of a weapon. “Come on, put that thing down!”

“Don't EVER tell me what to do! I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!” Thomas howled. Whatever was holding the crack in his brain together has broken apart at the seams and every bad thing is pouring out at a horrifying rate.

“You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs—” The girl grunts. She can feel the biting metal of the gun’s muzzle press against her stomach. She’s so rigid.

Thomas leans into her ear. His voice is curled with dark ice. “Nobody would ever even miss your ‘punk ass’ would they?”

“Get that gun away from me, psycho!!”

The girl shoved Thomas away from her and makes a break for the door. Her sudden movements jar Thomas and he pulls the trigger. Blood splatters against the wall and from the girl’s mouth as the bullet passes through her stomach.

“NO!!” Maggie screamed.

She’s running out from her hiding spot without realizing it. She stretches out her right hand, as if she thought she could actually do something to help. The gun and the girl are falling to the ground in slow motion. Maggie’s breathing picks up. Everything becomes blurry. Black and white and grey splotches haze her vision. Every nerve is filled with painless liquid fire, buzzing inside of her. Red is the only other color she can see- the dark red of hot blood. Of her blood, maybe. She can’t tell anymore, but, suddenly, awareness returns to her- intense shock fades and leaves behind wet adrenaline in its wake, soaking her to the core. She opens her eyes- when did they ever close?- and finds herself in the art class again.

Warm rays of sun are bleeding in through the window, casting grand, golden shadows across pastel canvases and abstract parchments and colorful tapestries strung up along the walls. There was no sign of a storm- of a gun- of a dead body-

Whoa! What the fuck?! Maggie’s body lurches back in her seat. A few kids glance curiously at her before focusing back on Mr. Tudor, who was giving his lecture on Alfred Hitchcock and photography. How- how— I— She looks around again. I was in the bathroom... He shot that poor girl... I held up my hand...and now I’m back here.

Agnes Tylney’s pen falls on the floor and she reaches down to pick it up.

I already heard this lecture...

Catherine Aragon throws a paper ball at Joan Astley.

Now Joan is being hassled again... And if Jane’s phone rings...this is real.

Jane Seymour’s phone vibrates. Maggie’s heart leapt in her throat and her body flinches as if her fear had taken a physical form and punched her. Her clumsy limbs scramble awkwardly and one arm knocked her camera off the desk. It breaks into pieces upon hitting the ground.

Shit! Oh my god, I cannot believe this... Okay, if I'm crazy, I might as well go all the way... Can I actually reverse time?

Maggie holds up her right hand and, like an instinct knowing when to be triggered, her vision turns grey. She feels like she’s floating, maybe vibrating, and she watches as her broken camera pieces itself together and rises up to sit in its original position. When Maggie releases the force, Mr. Tudor is just getting to his Diane Arbus question. However, Maggie can barely hear him or Jane’s know-it-all answer. She was too busy staring in awe at her hand.

Holy shit. Holy shit! I’m a human time machine! H- how— Okay, okay, don’t freak out, Maggie. Not yet.

She looked at her newly-repaired camera and picked it up. She presses the photograph button and the flash momentarily blinds her. Just like before.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Mr. Tudor pipes up, “I believe Maggie has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Maggie...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation is not the first to use images for selfie-expression. Sorry.”

The teacher’s voice is barely processing in Maggie’s mind. She just couldn’t get herself to care about what he was saying. She was too worried about the girl she had seen die.

If I can go back in time...what if that girl isn't dead yet? Can I save her?

“Now Maggie,” Mr. Tudor is rounding on her, just like he did last time. “since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

Maggie opened and closed her mouth for a moment. The words are thick at the back of her throat.

“I-” It’s hard to enunciate properly. If she wasn’t so worried about that green-haired girl, she might have been more embarrassed over her squabbling. “I'm sorry, Mr. Tudor, I feel sick. May I be excused?”

“Nice try, Maggie, but you're not gonna get away that easy. We can talk more after class.” Mr. Tudor said.

Maggie swallowed hard. As much as she loved Mr. Tudor, she really wanted to slap him right about now. She wasn’t feigning illness- she genuinely felt sick to her stomach with anxiety and fear. She was sure she was ghostly white, too. How could Mr. Tudor not see that?!

“Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?” Mr. Tudor asked.

“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes" a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Jane answered like before. And, like before, she looked at Maggie mockingly and said, “Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.”

“Very good, Jane.” Mr. Tudor praised. “The Daguerreian Process brought out fine detail in people's faces, making them extremely popular from the 1800's onward.”

It was Jane’s snide remark that snapped Maggie slightly out of her worried trance. She side-eyed the blonde and clenched her jaw. She decides to test out her new power again and ‘rewind’.

“Now Maggie,” Mr. Tudor said, marking the ability a success once again. “since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

“The Daguerreian Process.” Maggie said, practically reciting Jane. “Invented by a French painter named...Louis Daguerre. Around 1830.”

Mr. Tudor looks a little surprised, but smiled at the girl. “Somebody has been reading, as well as posing. Nice work, Maggie.”

Jane gives Maggie an annoyed look, which she can’t help but feel empowered about.

“The Daguerreian Process made portraiture hugely popular, mainly because it gave the subjects clear defined features. You can learn more when you actually finish reading the assigned chapters. Maggie is so far, way ahead of everybody.”

The bell rings. Maggie practically flies out of her seat and began collecting everyone as quick as she could.

“And, guys, don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the ‘Everyday Heroes’ Contest!” Mr. Tudor said, “I will fly out with the winner to London where you'll be feted by the art world in the Tate museum. It's great exposure and it can kickstart a career in photography. So Agnes and Maud, get it together. Catherine don't hide, I'm still waiting for your entry too. And yes Maggie, I see you pretending not to see me.”

Maggie, you are not crazy. You are not dreaming. It's time to be an everyday hero.

Instead of trying to leave, already knowing she’ll be halted, she hurries over to the front desk. Joan watches her with those lamb eyes of hers from where she’s still seated.

“Excuse me, Mr. Tudor, can I talk to you for a moment?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, excuse you.” Jane said, narrowing her eyes at Maggie.

“No, Jane, excuse us.” Mr. Tudor said. He turns to Maggie. “I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture.”

“I’m not avoiding, just...”

“Biding time, waiting for the elusive ‘right moment’?”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Tudor chuckled lightly and said, “Maggie, my dear, don't wait too long. John Lennon once said that ‘Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.’ Go on now, don't let me stop you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Maggie exits quickly and delves right into the jungle that was the hallway. She pushed through the brambles of students to get to the bathroom, making it there in record time.

Okay, Maggie, retrace every step... I washed my face- She washes her face. I shredded my photo- She shredds her photos. Then the...butterfly flew in- The butterfly flies in. And I took a photo...

The camera flashes. The butterfly leaps up from the bucket and flaps away. The bathroom door swings open. Thomas Cromwell strides in.

Maggie stays hidden behind the stall, listening. She hears Thomas mutter darkly to himself, then that girl enters. She unknowingly taunts Thomas and he soon snaps. By the sudden yell, Maggie knows the gun was out.

She began looking around as the terrified yelling rattles through the bathroom. She dreads the gunshot that was soon to come if she didn’t do something.

She notices the fire alarm on the wall. Grabbing a fallen hammer by the bucket, Maggie smashes the glass encasing the alarm and pulls it. The siren began to wail.

“No way...” She hears Thomas mutter. Then, he grunts in pain as the girl knees him in the groin and shoves him away. Maggie watches in relief.

“Don't EVER touch me again, freak!” The girl yelled before running out.

Thomas totters on his feet for a moment before picking up his fallen gun. He growled softly, noticing the photograph scraps on the floor.

“Another shitty day...” He mutters before walking out.

Maggie emerges from her hiding spot. Cold sweat is prickling on her brow, sliding into her bulging eyes. She doesn’t even bother to wipe it away.

That did not happen! This cannot be real! I just saw a girl get shot and then saved her! What the fuck is going on?

She waits a moment before exiting the bathroom. Outside, the hallway is empty, aside from a few fleeting figures of running students. And the school’s security guard.

Edmund coming at Maggie nearly startled her back into the bathroom. He’s upon her in an instant, his sharp voice tearing strips off of her before she can even think of something to say.

“Hey, do you hear that fire alarm? That means you should be outside.”

“I had to use the bathroom...” Maggie said.

“Girls always use that excuse.” Edmund rolled his eyes.

“Excuse for what?” Maggie said, slightly ruffled.

“For whatever you're up to. Your face is covered in guilt.”

“The alarm tripped me out!”

“Then trip on out of here, missy. Or are you hiding something? Huh?”

Maggie was about to consider crying to get herself out of that situation when Principal Dudley emerged from his office and called out.

“Thank you, Edmund, the situation is under control. There's no emergency here.” He said. “Leave Miss Wyatt alone and please turn off that alarm, since that's your job.”

Edmund didn’t argue, but he did give Maggie a suspicious look before lumbering away. Maggie sighs in relief and starts for the front doors to leave and evade the incessant siren, but Principal Dudley stops her.

“You look a little stressed out, Maggie.” He said. “Are you okay?”

Maggie chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I'm...I'm just a little worried about my...future.” The lie was horrid.

“You're sweating pinballs.” Principal Dudley points out. “Is that all you're thinking about? You can always be upfront with me, Maggie. Or have you done something wrong... Is that it?” He’s making Maggie even more anxious with his prodding. “Well, Maggie? Talk to me.”

Maggie clenches her jaw, then let’s the truth spill out. She had to tell- Thomas was a danger to the school!

“I just saw Thomas Cromwell waving a gun around...in the girls' room.”

Principal Dudley’s eyes go wide, but then his brows furrowed when he really processes what had been said to him.

“Thomas Cromwell. You sure?”

Maggie is shocked at his doubt. Sure, it may be normal to ask for complete sincerity, but Principal Dudley doesn’t seem very convinced at all. He must be swayed by all the money the Cromwell family has. Even then, could he not see how Thomas was breaking apart at the seams?!

“Yes!” She said. “He was in the bathroom talking to himself with a gun. I saw everything! He was babbling like crazy—”

“Okay, slow down, slow down.” Principal Dudley said. “So you saw this...without him seeing you?”

“I was hiding behind a stall.” Maggie said. Impatience and desperation are oozing into her voice. “I have the right to be there. It's the girls' room—”

“I know, I know.” Principal Dudley said. “I just want to be completely clear what happened. Mister Cromwell happens to be from the town's most distinguished family. And one of Blackwell's most honored students. So it's hard for me to see him brandishing a weapon in the girls’ bathroom. So what happened next?”

Maggie went to tell him about the girl and their conversation, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to make herself a suspect if this all blew up in her face.

“Then...then he left. I ran out here wondering what to do.” She paused. “Are you going to bust him?”

“This is a serious charge.” Principal Dudley mutters. “I'll look into the matter personally. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Maggie nodded. She wished Principal Dudley would do more than that, but she should have known. The Cromwell family practically owns Blackwell Academy. She just hopes she didn’t just throw her entire scholarship down the toilet.

She steps outside and is immediately bathed by the warm rays of the golden-orange sun. Beams of light hit the Blackwell campus in just the right way to show off how grand and pristine it was. It was a private school, after all.

As Maggie is walking down the front steps, she notices some papers scattered out on the ground. She picks one up and reads it.

MISSING- KATHERINE HOWARD

MISSING FROM: Whitby, Yorkshire

DATE MISSING: Monday, April 22, 2020

OTHER:

Age: 15 years old

Height: 5’0 Weight: 110lbs

Hair: Blonde, dyed pink Eyes: Hazel

Katherine Howard... She looks so hopeful and pretty. I wonder what happened to her...

Maggie set the paper back down and started to walk to the dorms. As she does, she gets a text from Cathy Parr, a good friend of hers. The girl was asking if she could have her flash drive back. Maggie texts back saying she will and would meet her in the parking lot. However, getting the flash drive was a lot harder than she expected, starting with the way Jane and her goons, Aragon and Jane Rochford, were lounging on the steps to the girl’s dormitory like watchful hawks. When Maggie approaches, Jane stands up with a wide smirk.

“Oh, look, it's Maggie Wyatt, the selfie ho of Blackwell. What a lame gimmick. Even Henry-” She slips for a moment, but corrects herself quickly. “Mr. Tudor—falls for your waif hipster bullshit. ‘The Daguerreian Process, sir!’ You could barely even say that. I guess you got your meds filled.” Behind her, Aragon and Rochford laugh. “Since you know all the answers, I guess you have to find another way into the dorm. We ain't moving. Oh, wait, hold that pose!” Jane snaps of photo of Maggie and sneers. “So original. Don't worry, Maggie, I'll put a vintage filter on it right before I post it all over social medias. Now, why don't you go fuck your selfie?” She sits back down on her perch.

Maggie steps back, grinding her teeth. She looks around the dorm’s courtyard, trying to find something to help her. Anthony Lee and Peter Meutas were throwing a football ball to each other, but Maggie didn’t dare approach boys in their primal sport. Maud was reading on one of the benches and Joan was sitting all alone near the shrubbery, but she didn’t want to bother them, either.

And then there’s a rattle from above.

The school’s most well-known janitor, Duke, is up on a ladder painting. The bucket of white paint he’s using is supposed to be hooked on the side of the rungs, but Maggie watches as it falls and splatters all over Jane.

“No way! No fucking way!” She screeches.

Aragon and Rochford leap up in an instant. Their eyes are wide- a look of such shock is unusual on them.

“You okay, Jane?” Aragon asked.

Jane glared at her. It’s enough of an answer.

“Hold on, hold on, we'll get some towels!” Rochford said. “We'll be right back!”

“So move your ass, before I dry!” Jane barked.

Aragon and Rochford scramble inside. Maggie waits for a moment before slowly approaching Jane- or, rather, the door, but she got dragged into a conversation anyway.

“Uh...hey, Jane...”

“What do you want, Maggie?” Jane hissed. Her eyes are narrowed in a warning.

“I’m sorry about what happened. That was an awesome coat...”

Jane blinked at the passivity of the younger girl’s comment. She loosened up a little and stopped baring her teeth like an enraged white tiger.

“It was.” She sighed. “But there will be another.”

“Well...” The conversation was actually going smoothly. Might as well keep it up and try to get on Jane’s good side so she’ll lay off. “you always seem to know how to pick the right outfits.”

“I do have some talent. Mr. Tudor told me-” Jane stops herself. Maggie is sure she’s biting her tongue.

“I've seen your pictures.” Maggie said. “You have a great eye, Richard Avedon-esque.”

“He's one of my heroes...” Jane’s eyes, usually so judgmental and cruel, scan Maggie without an ounce of mockery in their gaze. “Thanks, Maggie.” She looks over her shoulder at the doors to the dorm. “I hope those sluts get me a towel before they hang a sign on me.” She turns to Maggie again. “You deserve a better shot. Sorry about blocking you and...and the ‘go fuck your selfie’ thing.”

“That was mean...but pretty funny.” Maggie admitted, laughing slightly.

“Just one of those days, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean, Jane.” Maggie said. “I'll see you later.”

“Au revoir.”

Maggie notices that Jane offered her a small wave. She returns it with a slight smile before stepping into the dormitory.

The dorm building is about as basic as one could get- a long hallway full of doors with one branching path that led to the bathroom. Maggie walks down the corridor, glancing at the slates beside each dorm that could be written on. Hers was blank when she got to her room at the end. She didn’t think much of it and stepped inside.

Home, sweet home. My favorite cocoon...

Her room is a basic setup- bed in the corner near the door with a fuzzy ferret stuffy sitting atop the pillows like a duvet guardian, lanterns strung around the ceiling for lighting, a drawer with a radio at the foot of her bed, a desk, a bookshelf with a few potted plants, a small couch, a guitar, her closet, dozens of photos tacked on her wall. It was cozy, and it was home now.

While she’s searching for the flash drive, Maggie noticed a sticky note on her desk. When she picks it up, it reads, “Hey girl,”-the I has a heart instead of a dot, a little something that made Maggie’s touch-starved heart flutter-“I borrowed your drive so I can watch some flix while I study. If you need it back, just track me down! XoXo, B.”

So it’s in Bessie’s room...

Honestly, Maggie didn’t mind. Bessie Blount was nice to her and super sweet, despite having obvious baggage of her own. She was strong and smart in a way Maggie wished she could be.

As Maggie leaves her room, she sees Maria de Salinas charge out of Bessie’s dorm and lock the door. She leans against it as Bessie knocks loudly.

“You can't get out now, Bessie! So tell me the truth, or rot in there!” Maria growled.

“Let me out, Maria! This is so stupid! You are ridiculous! If you don't let me out, I will scream!”

Maggie blinked. She approaches slowly, but Maria doesn’t glare at her when she gets near.

“Hey, Maria,” Maggie said. “Is everything cool?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, Maggie. I've locked Bessie in the room because we're ‘cool’.”

“What did she do?” Maggie asked.

“What didn't she do?“ Maria’s anger bubbles up again. “Shes been sexting with my boyfriend, that’s what she did.”

“No I didn’t!!” Bessie yelled from inside the room.

Maggie winced. “Ouch. How did you find out?”

“Uh, why do you care?” Maria said. “Why are you even asking me? You never talk, just zone out with your camera.”

“That's why I'm talking to you now.”

Maria crosses her arms. “What's my last name?”

She’s being tested to her an answer. Maggie blinks.

“Maria de Salinas. Duh!”

Maria is surprised. “I'm flattered. I didn't even think you knew my name at all.”

“Of course I do. Just because I don't talk a lot doesn't mean I don't care. So, how did you find out about them?”

“According to Jane, Bessie would do anything to date a football player.” Maria explained. “She saw the sext. And William won't answer his phone. Once Bessie admits it, she can go. Straight to hell.

“Maggie, I swear I didn't do ANYTHING!” Bessie cried from behind the door. “But I bet Jane did! I know the proof is in her room!”

Knowing that she couldn’t go to Cathy without the flash drive; Maggie agrees to do a little trespassing and snuck into Jane’s room, which was about as pristine and neat as she expected.

After printing an email Jane sent to Aragon about the whole ordeal going down, Maggie returned to Maria and showed her the evidence.

“Of course...” Maria muttered. She turned and opened Bessie’s door. “I'm an asshole. I'm sorry, Bess.”

“You are, and I hope so.” Bessie’s eyes softened. “You really think I'd mess around with William?”

“No. But I get stupid jealous. I owe you dinner. Still love me?”

Bessie smiles and chuckled. “And you do my laundry.”

Maria turns back to Maggie with a relieved look. “Thanks, Maggie. You're like the Blackwell Ninja. Now let's see what William has to say about Jane...” She storms out of the dorm.

“You set me free!” Bessie laughed. “Thank you. Cathy’s flash drive is on my desk.”

Maggie retrieves it quickly and heads out to the main campus. However, she stops when she sees Edmund stalking towards a very scared-looking Joan.

“...so don't think I'm blind!” The security guard was saying. “I see everything here at Blackwell! Do you understand what I'm saying?

“No!” Joan cried. Her eyes are glistening with tears. “Leave me alone!”

“You can't fool me. I know everything about this school. I cover the waterfront. So you better figure out what side you're on...”

“Please, leave me alone!” Joan is crying, now.

Edmund is about to say something else when there’s a flash from a few feet away. He notices Maggie holding her camera and grits his teeth before storming off. Maggie instantly went to Joan’s aid, but the blonde didn’t seem to be in the mood for pity.

“Hope you enjoyed the show.” Joan grits, wiping away tears. “Thanks for nothing, Maggie.”

Maggie watches her run to the dorms with a frown.

Poor girl...

[afoolforatook]

Thank you, Wellies

So. I’ve been trying to do both class work and working on wips and just nothing is clicking. So, I thought I should go ahead and do this post, that I’ve been putting off, because.....it’s next week y’all.... So here goes. 

Here’s my original post, that explains what this comic meant to me four years ago. 

And here’s what it means to me now. (this is really long, sorry)

Man, I don’t really even know where to start this. How to start to say thank you. To Ngozi, to all of you.... It’s not possible to fully express what all of you have been for me the past four years. What this story has been for me. 

So many things have changed since I made this post almost four years ago. 

So many things haven’t. 

I’ve been way less active in the fandom since starting at SCAD, and I really was never that incredibly active to begin with, outside of my small group of friends on a discord server. 

And at times I feel bad about that. 

But it’s not because I don’t care about or need this community anymore. 

Rather it’s because this community, this story, gave me the strength to keep moving, and now I want to keep doing so, and make something that might one day even barely begin to show my gratitude. 

So until then, all I can do is say thank you over and over. I can never possibly say it enough. 

But still I wanted to thank you now, and try to explain to you what this comic about hockey and pies has meant to me, one last time before it ends. So that’s what I’ll try to do. 

It was surreal rereading this old post earlier this week. Reading 

“I think I could write a book just of our history and everything leading up to now and the details of this whole event” 

When I wrote this post four years ago, I honestly couldn’t imagine a future where I’d be anything other than incomplete.Or even a future at all. Everyday was just getting up and making myself keep breathing, keep trying to push towards something, even though I had no idea what that could ever be. 

For the first year I wrote daily journal entries, telling Emma about what happened that day, screaming at the universe for doing this, trying to help my future self remember little things, because everything was so hard to hold on to. 

Update days were always something nearly sacred to me. And really not even from a fan point of view. I don’t read them around other people. I sit somewhere quiet, by myself, and read slowly. Because they are little moments I try to share with her still. The only person I want with me when I read them that first time is her, in whatever capacity I can bring myself to imagine. 

A few months after the crash, I found one of Emma’s Spotify playlists. She made playlists for everything; birthday and Christmas presents, mood playlists, friend playlists, monthly playlists. 

This was her May 2016 playlist. Last updated May 16th. Two days before the crash. 

That playlist was literally the only thing I listened to for months on end. 38 songs.Over and over. 

And as I listened I started to think that, just maybe, some of these songs she put there for me. 

West Coast; the song me and Emma would send to each other after high school whenever we wanted to let the other know how much we missed them. 

All I Want is to Be Your Girl. I mean?? 

Slowly I found lyrics in every song that even if just in my own fantasy, were little messages from Emma, telling me to keep going, how to stay strong. 

I was always looking for stories, books, movies, songs, anything about someone grieving the kind of loss I was. Nothing I found felt like it really represented me. If it was about someone young, it was due to suicide or violence or illness. If it was a car crash, it was about a parent or child. If it somehow fit my other demographics, it was never queer. 

I felt totally alone in the exact manifestation of my grief. Like no one else could understand all the tiny details that seemed, to me, to make this all more and more cartoonishly cruel. 

(though one of the most touching moments of my life will always be when Emma’s step mom, the only person in her family who knows about us, sent me a book about grieving a spouse. I cried for hours when I opened that.)

I didn’t have outside representation, support. But I had journals. I had Emma’s songs. I had poems and a handful of inktober drawings. I had my little update moments of connection. And I had so much to say. 

Months, years, of isolation gives you a lot of time to examine your feelings, to question the meaning of things, to think about what exactly grief looked like to you and about how you wanted to live the rest of your life, as someone grieving a love. 

And slowly I began to connect those thoughts to individual lyrics from Emma’s playlist and that helped me actually write all those thoughts out, organize them. 

And that’s how The Mixtape Project started (I still hate using the word memoir. I had to find something else to call it). A book about us. About Emma. About all those thoughts I’d had so long to sit with. Structured around the songs from her playlist. 

I remember the exact moment that I realized that Check Please was going to actively change my life. I was talking to my dad about it, about why I loved the storytelling, the characters, the art, so much. 

I’d told him many times before. But it was always tied to Emma in a way, or to the reasons that I identified with Jack. It was always a little sad in some way. 

But this time. This time it was just excitement. It was just a kid who has always loved words, gushing about a story that fascinated them. 

And I realized. It was the first time I had been just happy, excited, in the months since losing Emma. I remembered all those ideas Emma helped me with in high school, how we gushed over stories like that. I remembered what it was like to just love something and want to create, just because it made you happy. 

I knew I couldn’t go back to UNCA, and none of the other creative writing programs I had looked at seemed like they would fit the new person I was. 

So, for the hell of it, looking for some idea at how to start my life over, I looked at Ngozi’s personal story. And there was SCAD. There was sequential art. 

Now. I’d never ever considered myself an artist. I went to an art high school, I knew art kids. I was never one of them. But that sequential part? That. THAT was what I wanted. That was what I could still be excited about. 

That was how I could pull the Mixtape Project together. The writing, the poems, the art, the music. Comics. Sequential art. A graphic memoir that played with the format. That was the project that kept me going. That was what I was working for. That was the first future I was able to see now that Emma was gone. 

So, for the first time since literally elementary school, I took an art class (also took a mythology class at the same time, which really helped keep my art and storytelling tied). 

I loved it. I was actually happy with my work, surprised by my work and how quickly I felt like I improved (I wouldn’t learn about aphantasia until I got to SCAD, and understand that that drawing 1 class had been so fun, and in a way, easy, because it was all direct observation, and that drawing from memory and imagination would be a much steeper learning curve for me.)

So, when the class ended I thought ‘you know, maybe some kind of art school could be a good idea.’

And then one of my life long best friends, a SCAD animation student, encouraged me to apply, to just go for it. 

And I did. It was a long shot, I was sure. We couldn’t afford it. Why would I get that in that kind of commitment, debt,  after 1 art class? It wasn’t logical. But it felt good. So I did. 

And then I got accepted, and the initial excitement soon fell away, to me and my parents knowing that it really wasn’t doable. 

But we went to admitted students day, just to see. And when we got home, both of my parents cried for a long time. The first happy cry in our house for over two years.

Because they had decided that they had to figure out a way to make it work. 

Because standing in Haymans hall was the first time they had seen me excited about the future since Emma died. It was the first time they’d seen me feel like there was somewhere I was meant to be, that there was somewhere I could fit again. 

So we made it happen. I’ll still be in debt for years, and it’s not necessarily something I’d wholeheartedly recommend to kids getting out of high school, that debt isn’t worth it for many people. 

For me it wasn’t really even worth it exactly for SCAD itself, and you’ll have plenty of professors tell you here that really what you pay for isn’t the education but the networking. 

But for me. For me it was worth it. 

Because I wasn’t wasting away in my basement. 

And I really wasn’t where I’d have liked to have been, ideally, before starting. I was a BRAND new artist. My portfolio for my application was solely my writing work. I hadn’t ever done anything more than scribbled fan comics in my sketchbook. I was coming in wayyyyy behind where most other people were. But I couldn’t wait to feel like I was good enough to be there. There was a strong chance that it was quite literally, a matter of survival. I was reaching a breaking point after nearly three years of isolation and grief with no outlet. The future debt was less of a concern than making sure I didn’t have a complete mental breakdown or worse. 

Now, of course, it hasn’t all been easy or fun or happy once I got here. I’ve doubted myself, I’ve had awful weeks, months, been stressed, unmotivated, in pain, near burnout. 

The first quarter I was absolutely miserable because I had literally no social life. 

Because I was an agoraphobic 23 yr old, living with 17/18 yr olds fresh out of high school. And if I wasn’t careful, I’d dissociate so easily. I’d let myself believe that I was still a teenager fresh from high school. That the past three years of agony hadn’t happened. That I could call Emma and it would ring again. She would answer again. And that illusion was a dangerous pit to fall into. 

And it wasn’t until this fall that my social life really started to improve, beyond one or two close friends. And even still, while it’s much better, it’s nothing like UNCA, like the tight knit family I had that made me identify with SMH and the Haus atmosphere so much. 

But I was moving forward. Agonizingly slowly sometimes. But still forward. 

And then last Spring quarter, just about a year ago, I was in Survey for SEQA. Basically comic book history class. And our final was a 4 page research comic on a comic artist we admired. So of course, I was going to do mine on Ngozi. 

The comic was due at the end of the quarter, the end of May. 

Now, that quarter was the first time I was actually in SEQA classes; Survey, and Intro. 

And those four pages would be the first fully colored, refined comic pages I had EVER done. It was intimidating. I didn’t want to mess it up. Especially because this wasn’t some big name of some far off artist you would never have any connection to. This was someone who all my professors knew. 

I ended up getting extremely lucky and had the chance to email Ngozi and ask if she’d be able to give for a quote for the project, advice for current SCAD students. 

She replied to my email the weekend of the 3rd anniversary. (I then spent hours on a thank you email - because that’s who I am, I can’t not over analyze anything I’m sending to someone important - and then I managed to save it to drafts instead of actually sending it...something I would not notice until literally months later and be absolutely mortified about my apparent rudeness of never thanking her.)

I still am not really happy with how that project came out. I still had (and have) a lot to learn, and it shows. I have, in no way, become an amazing comic artist overnight. I wasn’t expecting to.

But that short email exchange, falling on that weekend; it felt special. It felt like some speck of proof that I was doing the right thing. That things could actually go well in my life again. That if I kept going, I might actually get somewhere that I wanted to be. That maybe I really could make The Mixtape Project happen, if I just kept at it here. 

And then I found out that in the fall, Ngozi would be the SEQA mentor. 

Unfortunately by the time I had all the details about how to apply, the quarter had started and there were only a couple of weeks before it was due, and the only pages I had even anywhere close to being portfolio ready were either my research comic or a few older Check Please fan comics, none of which I would even have considered putting in that portfolio (I’m not 100% certain it would actually have come across as sucking up but it sure felt like it would have). And despite my best efforts, it just wasn’t possible, with how slow I work and having to keep up with classwork, for me to get a portfolio ready in time. 

That hurt for a while. I felt like I had this clear sign of perfect timing. How could I pass up that chance? How could I forgive myself for not doing everything I could to earn that experience? How was I not letting Emma down if I ruined this opportunity? 

It took a while to get out of that negative thought spiral. But I did, and it’s still a bummer, but it’s okay. 

And something that really helped? 

In October, Ngozi still came to campus to give a lecture. And that would have been good enough; just sitting in on that helped me feel excited, encouraged again. But then, after the lecture (with my amazing roommate waiting patiently behind with me, to make sure I didn’t actually have a panic attack on the way home) I got to talk to her. 

We all hope to one day get to talk to the people who inspired us, whose work we love, to tell them how much they mean to us. And yes, I was a little version of starstruck. 

But that wasn’t why I was shaking. That wasn’t why I told her I was going to do my best to get this out without crying (and I did, I’m proud to say). 

It was because I had the opportunity, while at the school that had given me a chance to start my life again, to thank the woman who was in all likelihood, one of the main reasons I was even still alive. If it had not been for Check Please I wouldn’t have had that good thing to keep sharing with Emma. I wouldn’t have found sequential art, at least not for a while longer probably. I wouldn’t have been able to finally picture a future I wanted to get to. 

And I’ll be honest, I don’t remember 90% of what I actually said that night to Ngozi. 

But I told her my story. I told her about Emma. About how Check Please was the last thing we got to share. I thanked her. And she was wonderful and kind and emotional and hugged me a couple of times, and even though I don’t remember a lot of what I actually said; it was something that will be one of the most important, affirming moments of my life. 

I didn’t have a panic attack on the way home. I somehow managed to not cry until we were back to our dorm. But I was stunned. 

Not even because of the amazing moment I had been able to have with Ngozi. 

But because it hit me. 

I was doing it. I was there. I had actually made it this far. 

Somewhere that just over a year ago I never would have believed was possible. 

A time when, two years before, I hadn’t even been sure I could make it to alive. 

That weekend was my 24th birthday. And it was the first birthday since I left UNCA at 19, that I didn’t just hate the fact that I was getting older. That I was moving away from the happiest parts of my life so far. 

Yes it still hurt getting further from Emma, putting another tick on the years that I got that she didn’t. 

But I was actually finally excited at the idea of even having a future, let alone having an idea of what it could be. 

February was a difficult month for me. I have another (entirely way too long) post about why everything that happened with RWBY and Fairgame was so difficult for me, but to put it simply; my hope for the future was shaken.

I was back in the toxic negative thought spirals I had fought for years to train myself out of. 

I was seeing Emma, or her brother, or her mom, in crowds; something I hadn’t experienced since the first few months after the crash. I was in one of the biggest crisis moments I’d had since Emma’s death. 

But I was more experienced than when I was 20. 

It wasn’t fun, a lot of it probably wasn’t the ideal way to cope, but I did it. And I kept up with my work. I isolated more, but not completely. I made myself vent on snapchat or tumblr, and not worry about oversharing or annoying people, because it was either get it out or let it fester in my head.  And I couldn’t afford to let that happen. 

In mid March, I made a pitch packet for my comic scripting final. 

It was for The Mixtape Project. It was hard, and nerve-wracking, and there’s still mountains of work to be done. 

But after my initial synopsis (first of like seven versions, cause trying to put this thing in a good synopsis format is a nightmare) my professor told me that he thought my story had potential. 

That he could see it being published. He suggested, knowing that I was planning on taking his advanced scripting course this quarter (hey remember how mid march was only a few weeks ago?? Huh?? wild), that I keep working on it, and see about taking it to Editor’s day (SEQA students’ opportunity to basically pitch themselves and their ideas to publishers). 

Now, my professor is by no means an overly harsh critic, and is plenty supportive in general. 

But I also knew that that was not just something he said to students all the time. That he meant it. 

Editor’s Day (now online) is in mid May. The week of the 4th anniversary of Emma’s death, to be exact. 

Everything is a mess right now, and I’m stressed and tired and scared and heartbroken (this will be the first time since I was 9 that I have not had Merlefest; the highlight of my year, and since Emma’s death; the last big happy thing before I plunge into the nightmare that is May). 

Tuesday will come. Check Please will end. I will continue to support Ngozi and her work after Bitty’s story ends. 

But it will be sad. It won’t be easy. 

This thing that has been my tether to the most important person in my life, will still be there, but it will be over. 

It will have a concrete end. It will no longer be part of the future I am pushing towards. 

But I am a different person than the shattered kid who wrote this post four years ago. 

I’m not who I was before Emma died. I never will be. I’d never try to be. I want Emma back more than anything. But that won’t happen. And as long as this is all real, I never want to pretend this didn’t happen. 

That I didn’t shatter in a way that will never heal like people expect. 

I’m still all those shattered pieces that wrote this post. Maybe a few have had the edges dulled, maybe I’ve lost a few, glued a few together perfectly, maybe picked up a few stray pieces that didn’t come from the me from before. 

But I will be those shattered pieces for the rest of my life. 

They won’t magically fuse back together. I work every day to hold them, to keep myself in some shape that resembles a functioning person. 

Some days I fail. Some days, I am too tired to even try. Some days, I am so angry, I’d rather hurl the pieces at whatever power or fate or god or chaos decided that I got to live and she didn’t. 

But those days pass. 

And I learn how to hold the pieces better, how to avoid the sharpest edges, how to take care of the wounds when I inevitably cut myself on one, how to allow other people to help me hold them, how to accept that some pieces may feel safe and smooth and comforting but they are traps, illusions that are the easy way to do things, but not the healthy way, not the way that will help me achieve my goals.

That person, made of all those unholdable pieces, four years ago, was staying alive for everyone else but themself. 

And some days I still am. 

For my parents. For Emma. For all the other queer, mentally ill, grieving kids and young adults and just people, who are looking for the same representation I was, who feel as alone as I still do so often. 

But some days. 

On those really good days. 

I’m alive, carrying all those pieces, just because I want to be. For me. 

I want to spin around in the morning, singing along to my bluegrass spotify. I want to get excited over finally figuring out how to write that line that was giving me so much trouble, or finish that sketch that I never thought I could manage. I want to hope that despite how awful everything seems, there’s still a good future out there. It’s still possible to be happy some days. 

I want to cry because I get to see Jack and Bitty get the happy ending that me and Emma didn’t. 

And now, unlike that version of me from four years ago, when it ends, I will have things still. 

Things that I have worked everyday to reach, to deserve, to hold out to people and say

 “Hey, sometimes everything hurts and you know that things will never be what they were, and parts of you will always miss that. But there are still things you can find that hurt less, that ease the hurt, that teach you how to better hold the hurt, to stop trying to say it doesn’t exist or trying to get rid of it completely and hating yourself when you can’t. You can still be hurt, be irreparably broken in so many places, and still find the happy things. You are still worthy of love, no matter how broken you are. Your worth is not tied to how much you are able to heal.  You are worthy of so much love, just because you are still here, no matter how many tiny pieces you are in.”  

The thing is, I will still always have a future that includes Emma. Because I couldn’t tell you exactly which of my pieces are from her, but so many of them are. 

There is no version of me, from here on to the day I die, that does not have her influence embedded in every piece. 

These days I try to be a little kinder to myself. It doesn’t always work, but I try. 

Because, to Emma, I was Bitty. I radiated that “thing”. 

Whether or not I saw it in myself, doesn’t matter, because she did. 

But to me she was the one who radiated. 

And she is a part of me. She can’t radiate that “thing” herself anymore. 

But I can, at least I can try.

Because If this person I loved and trusted so immensely, saw something worth loving in me? There must be something there worth loving, right? 

And if she is a part of me for the rest of my life, how can I hate myself? How can I do anything but keep going so that, even if just in my head, a part of her gets to keep going too. 

My family and friends joke that every friend group I’ve ever had calls me something different. And really it’s not a joke. In middle school I was CB #4 (that’s a long, terribly embarrassing, story). In high school I was Pond (and many variations there of: Pondala, Pondy, Raindrop, Puddle, you get the picture). At UNCA, when I came out as nonbinary, I started going by Auden. When I went home it was back to Meagan; Meagan always felt right with my parents. 

With Emma I was always Meagan. We were Meagan and Emma. Megma. Meagan and Emma have online adventures!

After she was gone, Meagan didn’t really feel like me anymore. I loved Meagan, I missed Meagan, I wished I could still really fully be Meagan, and I’m okay still being Meagan sometimes. 

But that real Meagan. The Meagan that was Emma’s Meagan. Doesn’t exist anymore. I lost that Meagan somewhere in that first night of screaming and trying to break my hand against the wall, so I could just feel something other than the agony of Emma being gone.

When I joined a Check Please chat group, a few months after the crash, we gave each other hockey nicknames. I was Farley. 

My second quarter at SCAD, I started going by Farley. It stuck. 

That’s who this version of me is. This new artist, still figuring things out, but still going. 

I may not always stay Farley (other than ya’know artist ‘branding’. We’ll see) but that’s okay. Farley is who I need to be right now. 

Farley is who will finish The Mixtape Project. 

(because of two people mishearing both my nickname and last name I will, at least once in my career, use the pseudonym Fartley McFarmland and no one will stop me). 

I can’t imagine what, who, will come after Farley, if anything.

But Check Please will always be a part of making Farley, and every future version of me, exist. 

I could go on and on about how beautiful this story and these characters are, how inspiring Ngozi is, how genius her storytelling is, how powerful and important her work is. I could go on for days about all of that. But this is already so long, and I know that so many of you can go on about that probably way better than I could currently. 

But, as many of my professors tell us over and over, only I can tell this story. My story. Emma’s story. Our story. And it’s one I plan on telling for the rest of my life. 

And Check Please, Ngozi, will forever be the thing that made that possible.

So thank you. Those two words that are way too small to say it all. 

Thank you. 

Every fic writer

Every artist

Every rper 

Every chat friend

Every shitposter

Every theorist or meta poster

Every fan

Thank you. 

B. “Shitty” Knight. 

Larissa “Lardo” Duan

Adam “Holster” Birkholtz

Justin “Ransom” Oluransi

John Johnson

Ollie O'Meara 

Pacer Wicks

Jenny and Mandy

Nicholas and Jean-Claude

Coach Hall 

Coach Murray

Suzanne Bittle

Richard “Coach” Bittle

William “Dex” Poindexter

Derek “Nursey” Nurse

Chris “Chowder” Chow

Kent Parson

Alicia Zimmermann

“Bad” Bob Zimmermann

Tony “Tango” Tangredi

Connor “Whiskey” Whisk

Denice “Foxtrot” Ford

Fry Guy

Georgia “Georgie” Martin

Alexei “Tater” Mashkov

Sebastian “Marty” St. Martin

Dustin “Snowy” Snow

Poots

Randall “Thirdy” Robinson

Jonathan “Hops” Hopper

River “Bully” Bullard

Lukas “Louis” Landmann

(I’m almost certain I had to have missed someone)

Thank you.

Jack “Zimmboni” Laurent Zimmermann

Thank you.

Eric “Bitty” Richard Bittle

Thank you.

Ngozi Ukazu

Thank you. For everything. 

For having my back. I’ll always have yours.

Always yours, 

Farley M.

[loralee01]

A rhetorical analysis is all.

“There is freedom waiting for you, On the breezes of the sky, And you ask "What if I fall?" Oh but my darling, What if you fly?” ― Erin Hanson

I love most quotes from Erin Hanson, but this is one of my favorites.  I came across it at the thrift shop where I purchased a T-shirt which flaunted these beautiful words.  I didn’t even read the shirt or care what it said until I began getting compliments on my $3 shirt.  What was the big deal? I soon realized this shirt had more value to it than I thought it ever would.  I read the quote a few more times, pondering it. I could then see what others were complimenting - not the color or fit of the shirt at all, but a beautiful piece of word art.  Not only had the shirt’s value increased to me, but my value as well. After all, I seemed to have bought the shirt for the quote, as if I was well versed in uplifting literature.

To me, this beautiful poem-like quote suggests taking risks and taking what the world has to offer me, whether easy or not. It suggests freedom at my fingertips if I can believe in myself and be brave. It forces me to weigh the risks- how far is the fall and how likely am I to get up again, and how high could I fly and to where? I have fallen many times in my life - both literally and metaphorically (sometimes farther down than at other times) and I am still okay. But I feel that I have yet to fly as far as I would like. Therefore, from this quote, I come to the idea that possibly I need to stop fearing my chances of falling, and to keep working on the flying part.  My life is good, and that may be what flying is all about- enjoying life. I am flying now! Will I fly higher and farther at times? Yes. When I am old and nearly dead, would I have flown as high and as far as I could in this life? I hope so.

This quote happened to be on a T-shirt designed for women written by a woman. I am a woman. I am also a woman who has experienced oppression, lack of freedom and rights, just as many other people have experienced. I fled from my oppressor with this quote held in my heart along with several other pieces of literature and inspirational words that helped to validate my reasonings and to empower my bravery. I took big leaps into the abyss with confidence and happiness knowing that I could never fly otherwise. What if I never had the opportunity to hear or read encouraging words? Where would I be and what would I do? The answer would be, nowhere and nothing. Do the lost and depressed and hopeless really need only a positive piece of literature and someone to believe in them? I say YES. Friendship and encouragement can’t hurt anyone and can always help. This is what life is about- positive and loving communication.

Why did Erin Hanson write this quote? Is she intentionally trying to motivate others towards a better life? Or is she teaching a flight lesson where the matter really is life or death? Maybe she is talking about accepting death and not being afraid of Hell because we may end up in Heaven. There may also be the slim possibility Erin is a drug lord and is convincing people to take drugs to get high and to “fly” regardless of whether or not the drug kills them. I don’t know the specific reasons Erin thought up this quote and then decided to share it with the world. I’ll research her reasonings at another time if I decide I really want to know. But I’m glad she did it anyway. I believe everyone can use this quote at different times in their lives and can have it be applicable in some way.

I know a story of a man named James “The Great Dane” Poulsen who came to America from Denmark seeking religious freedom. On the ship, he lost all his 3 children and his wife to sickness. In the depths of despair and in his darkest hour, he nearly jumped overboard and blamed God. Why wouldn’t he? He chose to Follow God, and then God took his family from him in an awful way. It was at his worst and saddest time ever that a good woman (who had also lost loved ones) saw his immense suffering and said these few words to him in his native language, “You lived”. Just these two words changed his life forever. Why did he live and not so many others? Why was this suffering to be his and nobody else’s? What was his mission? What could he do for the world because of what he went through? He found courage and strength almost instantly upon hearing these words. He continued the voyage. He was very physically strong- and having decided to survive such sorrow he became very spiritually strong as well. James helped many families cross the United States with the Mormon Pioneers. He married again and again and again (he had a few wives) and he had so many children he felt he was “the most blessed man in the world.” I can imagine him on the other side now with the family he lost as well as with the family he gained. Thanks to God’s all-knowing and loving ways and thanks to two very simple words.

Words matter. Otherwise, how could two words change a person’s life? This is one reason Erin chose to write this piece. How can this quote from Erin Hanson change our lives? Will we brush it off as I did upon first glance? Or will we try to let her and others’ efforts to improve the world, in? Several of Erin’s poems and quotes refer to selflessness, love, starting over, sacrifice, and finding happiness. Some emanate sorrow, and others radiate happiness. Her life is seen in her words and can easily be likened to our own lives. I feel it is very important for everyone to write about their lives in some way. Maybe poems or stories or journal entries could someday change the world or could simply help someone to not feel alone. The good thing about writings is they last a long time and can be copied, held onto, and cherished, and they can be perceived in many different ways. But even good, positive words in everyday speaking with others can be very important. I hang on to stories from my dad’s travels all over the world and I tell happy stories to my children before they drift into sleep. Words matter.

This quote from Erin Hanson certainly invokes good. Erin calls us “darling” showing that she cares for us as her readers. Because of this one term of endearment, I believe the freedom, to which she is suggesting we partake of, is good. She’s not afraid for us falling because she believes we are strong and will be fine if we fall. She is confident that we will reach freedom, and she invites us to leap for it. Erin doesn’t need to know us personally for us see that she genuinely cares for the welfare of humankind. She has seen these words work in her life and in the lives of others. She simply wants to give us something good to think about and maybe something good to hold onto if ever we find we need it.

[terri-does-gods-work]

the promposal (a tyrus oneshot i wrote for no reason other than “i need fluff”)

apparently i’m too much of a lesbian to describe boys so please bare with me

Word count: 980 words

[this is an entry from cyrus’ journal (because i feel like his parents probably make him keep one)]

It’s been like a week since TJ came out to me and it’s been three days since I told him I was gay and that I liked him. He said he liked me, too, which is what shocked me the most. I never would’ve expected that in my wildest dreams!

Anyway, the ever so elusive prom is coming up next week and I don’t have a date! Shocking! I kind of hoped TJ would ask me since we had that whole ~moment~ the other day, but I guess not. I don’t think I’d ever have the courage to ask him myself, either. Man, I wish he could just read my thoughts so he’d know. Actually, skip that. Maybe that’s not SUCH a great idea.

Buffy and Andi have been bugging me to tell them who I want to go with. Buffy’s going with Marty and Andi was on the decorating committee so she’s not planning on bringing anyone. Amber will probably tag along, though.

After an hour of incessant whining from the two I told them. I don’t know why I wanted to hide it in the first place, honestly. But, yes, TJ is the “lucky guy”. Is he, though? He’s beyond gorgeous. Inside AND out. Those darn green eyes complement his smile so gracefully and his whole face just goes perfectly with his warm laugh (and he smells like strawberries?!). Sometimes (okay, all the time), I want to hug him forever.

Okay, I’m getting off track. TJ’s promposal (I can’t believe I said “promposal”):

So, I learnt how to “shoot hoops” from Buffy (I should say “shoot hoop” because I only got one in the basket). I stole my dad’s CD marker (from his CD burning phase) and wrote, “will you go to prom with me” on an old basketball I found rotting in the garage.

I texted TJ and asked him if he wanted to play some one-on-one. He said, and I quote, “Who are you and what have you done with Cyrus?” (Real sweetheart, isn’t he?)

Regardless, we met at the court in the park and boy, was he shocked to see me carrying my own ball. He came with a large bag, which I assumed was filled with sports... paraphernalia. He set down the bag and said, “Okay, Cyrus, I’ll take it easy on you, don’t worry. Take the ball.” Oh gosh, my heart must have been beating a mile a minute! I was so scared my nervous, sweaty palms would smudge the ink on the ball, even though I KNEW they wouldn’t. Feelings, huh?

He didn’t even TRY to take the ball from me. He just let me shoot! I was hoping he’d take the ball and see what was written on it but he is just as oblivious as he was that day on the swings. I needed to get him to see it SOMEHOW, so after I made the basket (which TJ was IMMENSELY impressed by, btw- it made my heart shiver... in a good way), I said, “Loser takes it out,” (I think I’d heard Buffy say that? I’m probably wrong)

He said, “Hey, someone’s been learning from Buffy!” with that darned smirk of his. Ugh, he’s so cute!

My heart was still beating like a hummingbird as he walked out of the court, but it was now or never (unintentional High School Musical 3 reference, I’m so funny). When he stopped and turned around, ready to play, I said, “Teej, wait! Look at the ball,” (I was just hyperventilating at this point.) He looked down and his eyes got so wide I thought he was going to pass out from the shock! Then, he started RUNNING AWAY (to the bench). Me, being me, shouted something like, “Wait, TJ, I just thought that since we said all that stuff to each other the other day maybe you’d want to go with me! I shouldn’t have jumped the gun, I’m so sorry!” Meanwhile, TJ is still rummaging through his sports bag, trying to find who-knows-what. He shouts back, “No, Cyrus, wait!” still searching his bag.

AND THEN! He pulls out a chocolate chocolate chip muffin (he knows that’s my favourite) wrapped in cling film, and a sort of crumpled up poster (which he’s still trying to unfold). I was extremely confused at this point because I never, in a MILLION YEARS, thought the poster would say, “Muffin would make me happier than going to the prom with you”, while TJ stands there, looking RIGHT into my eyes.

Obviously, I’m a bit dumb and was, as the kids say, shook. I also chose this incredible moment to let my impishness get the better of me. I took the muffin and unwrapped it, not saying a word. I even took a BITE out of the muffin before saying, “I’ll have to think about it,” Honestly, it took ALL my (two) brain cells to stop myself from grinning like a crazy person. But apparently, I’m not as dumb as I thought I was because TJ thought I was being serious when I said that, and started rolling up his poster, looking like he was about to CRY! He started muttering something like, “Oh, yeah! That’s cool, take your time, no problem!”

He had stuffed half the poster in his bag before I could grab his wrist and say, “Teej, I’m joking. I literally learnt how to throw the ball in the thing for this. I want to go with you.”

TJ stared at me for a few seconds and said, “Oh,” smiling like the adorable idiot he is.

And, yeah! So, I guess I’m going to the prom with TJ! Oh, no, what am I going to wear? I hope I don’t smell bad. TJ smells like HEAVEN, I don’t want to smell like garbage in front of HIM! Whatever, that’s a problem for another day.

[juliaisabellphoto]

July 6, 2019 - My Farewell Love Letter to Santiago, Chile

It has taken me a while to put this post up on my blog. I’m not sure if this is due to my crazy busy schedule now that I am home or due to being in denial about the fact that I’m no longer abroad, but it seems to be six of one and half a dozen of the other. 

The week before we started packing our bags, Lisi and I retraced our steps back to all of the spots that turned Santiago into home for us and I photographed her in them on film. I wanted to capture the tumultuous feeling of being alone in a big new place and the growth that came with finding ourselves in it. This country gave me more than I ever could have expected. Below are the pictures from the project, accompanied by the journal entry I wrote on the plane ride home. 

So, the day has come. I am sitting on my flight home from Chile, using the pen of the sweet woman next to me, listening to the playlists I made at the beginning, middle, and end of this grand adventure, and reading new Rebecca Solnit words (The Faraway Nearby) to celebrate and understand this beautiful journey. I’m not quite sure how to put it into words, but I suppose I will start by describing what I’ve learned and (as usual) the song and/or Rebecca Solnit quote that solidified it for me. Here is my love letter to the me that I have become here in Chile. 

A quote from “The Faraway Nearby” by Rebecca Solnit that summarizes my feelings about Chile’s impact on me is a great place to start: 

“I talked about places, about the ways that we often talk about love of place, by which we mean our love for places, but seldom of how the places love us back, of what they give us. They give us continuity, something to return to, and offer a familiarity that allows some portion of our lives to remain connected and coherent... And distant places give us refuge in territories where our own histories aren't so deeply entrenched and we can imagine other stories, other selves, or just drink up quiet and respite. The bigness of the world is redemption. Despair compresses you into a small space and a depression is literally a hollow in the ground. To dig deeper into the self, to go underground, is sometimes necessary, but so is the other route of getting out of yourself, into the larger world, into the openness in which you need not clutch your story and your troubles so tightly to your chest. Being able to travel both ways matters, and sometimes the way back into the heart of the question begins by going outward and beyond. This is the expansiveness that sometimes comes literally in a landscape or that tugs you out of yourself into a story.” 

I deeply feel this quote. She perfectly put into words why I not only wanted but needed to come to Chile. 

Times/places this feeling was most present: 

- looking out my window at the cordillera my first morning and the fresh new feeling 

- laying in the sand of the Atacama with Tori, Josh, Lucas, and Eliza watching the clearest stars I had ever seen 

- in the metro surrounded by strangers

- the first day I sat in Cafe Colmado and felt as though I had found home again 

- walking in the rain at the end of the W trek in Torres del Paine 

- staring up at Mount Aconcagua in Argentina

- watching the sunset in the Concon Dunes with Chris while “Inside Out” by Spoon played

- staring down from Huayna Picchu at Machu Piccu

- staring down into Devil’s Throat in Iguazu 

- petting the labrador on the beach in Rapa Nui 

- watching the solar eclipse from the Elqui Valley 

What I learned here in Chile: 

1. I am strong beyond measure. I have such a deep sense of self now and I am deeply proud to be who I am. I’m happy with the me that developed here. I think this may be the first time I can say that I unabashedly love myself. 

2. Change and new environments are good. They are critical to growth. 

3. Every moment of my past life was crucial in getting me to where I am now. This includes the things that used to make me bitter. I have no bitterness left in my body. Only love and hope for the future. 

4. Not everything is easy. But everything can be overcome. 

5. You will find new kinds of love in every person you meet. Every moment of this love is worth it. 

6. You could die in a plane crash or fall off of a mountain at any moment. There is no productivity in regret. 

Songs of Chile: 

Sisters of the Moon by Fleetwood Mac: I developed a much deeper love for the sun and moon and stars and their influence on the natural order of things here in Chile. These ideas now ground me in a very special way. 

Drops of Jupiter by Train: This song is an embodiment of my journey. I feel as though I am the woman being described and that the feelings expressed are now what I expect from those I love. I want to walk across the sun and surround myself with people who encourage me to do so. 

No Plan by Hozier: This song makes me think of the first bus I took to Valparaiso. The idea that this semester would take whatever path it found and that I was absolutely okay with that exists in this song. 

World on Fire by NOAH: This was a lesson that the songs you need to hear can come from the most unexpected people, as it was sent to me randomly by an acquaintance on instagram. A symbol of my world that is beautifully on fire, and that those that join must burn with me. 

Wide Open Spaces by the Dixie Chicks: The exact sentiment of the Rebecca Solnit quote. I needed the physical movement and new hardship and distance to finalize my process of moving on beyond an old me. 

Dog Days Are Over by Florence and the Machine: Happiness hit me and it still can and still does all the time. 

Back in My Body by Maggie Rogers: You can lose yourself, but sometimes you just need a certain spark to find yourself again. My spark was Chile. 

I am deeply happy with these past six months. I feel that this experience helped me grow in such a necessary way. I am ready to return to normal Michigan life. I got the mental health reset and adventure break I needed, and I’m ready to return to an intense pursuit of my dreams. 

I am who I am. I’m proud of that. I’ll take me as I am. They’ll take me as I am. If they don’t, I leave. I’ll never turn down an adventure like this ever again without a really good reason. 

[writingsofalyricalheart]

Labels (journal entry)

I used to not get why people said they hated labels.

How I used to see it was, labels had the power to make you feel understood. They had the power to give you a sense of belonging, and give an answer to the endless search in discovering who we are.

The thing is, much like anything else in life, the excitement in the newness of something can only last for so long before it fades. Like discovering a new TV show. Or a new album. Or a new book. Or a new toy. Or a new makeup product. Or a new gadget. Or a new instrument. Or a new relationship. Or literally anything. Over time, the things we think will solve us will become as boring and futile as anything else in this world.

While the newness and excitement of things can help fill a need and distract for a while, it's shelf life is short.

(Which also raises the question of if we are bound to grow bored of things, will we always be chained to the want and search for something more, or is that human nature and more of a blessing to keep evolving and revolving? Question for another day I suppose.)

And I know, I know, that’s a very pessimistic take on things.

But it’s true.

Recently I’ve been chasing down the “now that I have money, let’s buy things to help make me feel whole" train, and it really doesn’t solve any of my problems. I live in a tiny room in my parents house, and while I love the life I’ve been provided, and am so thankful for it all, I feel so unaccomplished.

I'm reminded each time I buy something. It adds to the pile of "things I wish I had time for, and the kind of person I wis I could be for a little while, just to try it".

I look at my coworkers and see they are working hard towards goals that will produce fruit later on in time. They aren’t looking for temporary vices to fill them until they find what they’re searching for like I am.

I am so uncomfortable with the idea of sitting with my own self, my own failures, my own mistakes, glaring back in my face like a giant neon sign, blinking and pointing and taunting. It’s hard to look at after a while. The letters spell out who I’ve been, and I want to ask them to stop, but I’m not worthy of asking that.

I’ve made decisions about who I am recently. I’ve tried on new labels like a fashion trend. Leaned into things I’ve always felt but wanted to explore a bit. But it still doesn’t feel right. If I lean too much one way, I’m seen as one thing, and vice versa.

In the past two years, I’ve decided to start labeling myself as bisexual. At first, the label fit about how a size too big t-shirt would on a growing child. “I’ll grow into it, I’m sure”, I would tell myself. Well now I’m into it, and I have an entire friend group who not only knows about it, not only supports it, but feels the same way, and I feel trapped.

I’ve always leaned towards dating guys on the spectrum, but I’ve also absolutely felt things for girls as well. Not always in the same way, either. My heart is the same at the core, but different traits behave differently around different genders, and it makes me question who I am.

Could I ever find a love, or a partner in this life, who could love the complete version of me? The one who’s heart is in all places at once? Is there a part of me I’ll be forced to tame, or a part I’ll need to choose over another in order to be with someone? Can I not be myself?

Am I better off single if I feel this way? I used to think yes. But even the Bible states “it is not good for man to be alone”.

I often wonder if I’m a good person.

For years I’ve gone in and out of churches wondering if I’ll ever be enough to be there. I know Christianity is based around forgiveness and love and letting go of the past, but I’ve always felt this pressure to keep up a certain level of perfection. Like if I’m washed clean, I must stay clean. And each time I falter, it’s another tally mark against me. And I know that’s not the salvation Christianity offers. It’s not something you can lose.

But if I’m dabbling in things even good Christians say is wrong, where does that leave me?

I’ve always been attracted to men, and women. I don’t know how or why. Men have been more socially acceptable, so I’ve leaned into it more. Women have not been, but more like a private, personal secret that I’ve been able to indulge in like a stash of secret candy in a locked away drawer, and only I’ve been holding the keys.

But now some people know. I worry if all know, they'll think I was lying to them. And I wasn't, I just wasn't sure until now. Or, wasn't sure it was alright to feel this way until now.

When I came out to my friends, I did it because I was sick of being shoved in boxes. I was sick of being told I’d find my fairytale ending, as they imagined, not me. If I only worked hard enough for a Christ centered marriage, if I only read my bible and studied the word I’d fall more in love with Jesus, if I only served more, etc.

And just like that, the very place I’d found solitude in, became a contest for how good of a Christian I can be. Like the only successes worth celebrating were if I were “on fire for the Lord”. But I still have a personality, you know? I’m still me.

I’ve had friends recently ask me if I wanted to join their church, and honestly all of it feels like a club where I’ll never measure up if I’m known, and though I want to feel whole, I’ve felt more accepted in a friends basement drinking and playing games and talking about poetry than I have in a bible study. Maybe Jesus accepts me, but I’m not squeaky clean enough to sit quietly in a church function and behave like a “good Christian girl”.

I do believe in God, but I don't believe in holding your breath to love a person; I don't believe in waiting until they are enough like you to be there for them. And oddly enough, I've seen a lot of that, and I don't like it.

I’ve got a mouth like a sailor sometimes (a lot of the time), I make dirty jokes (honestly sometimes) and puns (my friends like them, and I like making them laugh), and I feel like if I can at least let all of that out and let my guards down, the real me will have a chance to take a step outside and relax. Mind you, what’s at my core are not completely these things. These are social things I’ve learned to make friends and get along, and express who I am. They're my reflection, pieces of my heart, but not the full spectrum.

Who I am is both sensitive and loving, and also passionate as fuck. I don’t always have all the facts. I don’t always know everything about everything. Sometimes I fight vigorously without knowing the full reason why except I know by some feeling deep inside me that it’s right, whatever it may be. Logic and boxes drive me crazy, as I spill out of them constantly.

It’s like trying to control a volcano. You never will. My heart is full and I am ready. I don’t aim to harm, I aim to improve and fix things. Shake people out of comfort zones into the unknown, but into the possibility of a better future and existence, individually and as a whole.

That is who I am. This is who I am.

I’ve had a million different people give me titles to hold on to, to hold up picket signs for, to scream and claw my way out of traditional rules and boundaries for.

But it’s not who I am. I know what I believe when it’s tested. I don’t always flaunt it or flex it, but I know it. It’s not always explainable, or easy to remember/make a bullet point list of. But when it’s threatened, when it's time, you’ll know.

Labels can help you feel like the puzzle pieces life has given each of us have images, like they have a face. They can help us understand where we belong to ourselves and in the greater picture. But sometimes the laundry list of expectations and stereotypes associated with the labels we hope will help us feel more understood are too much to bear.

Who can stand a weight that heavy on their shoulders?

So though I know who I am and how I’d like to label myself, sometimes I’d rather be nothing because I want to be seen as I truly am, not a boulevard of light up signs screaming for your attention. I’d rather be a small coffee shop hidden amongst the chaos and madness (and I’ve used this metaphor before, but I like it a lot) run by a nice old lady who is equal parts caring and passionate, who sweeps her shop to pass the time, humming and twirling along like Rose did in Sleeping Beauty (the Disney movie adaption, not the grim Brothers version), but would also beat you with her broom if you threatened her plane of existence, including anyone she loves and cares for.

I want to sweep the corners of my mind free of any complicated tasks that have been given to me by people who are trying to solve me like a riddle. Maybe sometimes we don’t need to solve each other, but just fucking accept it. Maybe I wonder and worry and feel selfish often for choosing to be the person I am. But I hope the people dearest and nearest to me can see my soul is a well full of life, and sometimes the water gets poisoned by pain and hurt and anger, but I’m trying to keep my surrounding gardens well and thriving as best as I can. I want to be a wild, untamed garden, who is also deeply cared for.

As we all do, I want to be loved.

All I want and have ever wanted is to be loved.

---------

-Samiiiiiiiiiiii 💖

[nightterrorsblog]

GLOBOPHOBIA - PATIENT RECORD HB198610D

Patient Name: Harrison, Brenda

Age: 32

Sex: Female

Diagnosis: Globophobia, fear of balloons

The following journal entries were retrieved from the patient’s home on 02/07/2018 by Agent 14.

9/24/2017

My therapist wants me to document my “attacks”, so here I am.

I went bowling with Kevin today. There was a kid’s birthday party happening when we got there. I used my breathing exercises and tried to ignore the balloons they had tied everyfuckingwhere so that I could relax with my boyfriend and have some fun. It worked for a while, but when the party ended and the adults were cleaning up their mess, a yellow balloon came loose and floated up to the ceiling. No one could reach it and I guess it hit some air flow from a vent or something, and it floated right down to my lane.

I swear to God, the fucking thing stopped dead right above me and started to sink down like I was wearing a magnet for it or some shit. I ran into the bathroom and stayed there until Kevin helped one of the employees get it down and came and got me. He says he understands, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he thinks I’m being stupid.

9/27/2017

Went to the store today. They decided to decorate for football season, apparently. Black and yellow balloons are tied to every damn register. I remembered the birthday party shit and walked out. I guess I’m ordering pizza tonight.

10/3/2017

Fuck that clown. Kevin says he was just being nice, but I swear to God that bastard was mocking me. “Take a balloon, ma’am, they’re free! No strings attached, I promise! Except the ones that keep them from flying away! HONK HONK I promise they don’t bite!” Get bent, you Pennywise looking asshole.

Kevin says I overreacted and that I embarrassed him. We got into a big fight and he left. Now he won’t answer my phone calls. Guess that’s over.

10/10/2017

Started a new medication today. Maybe this will work better than the hypnotherapy and other meds did. It fucking better. I hate needles.

10/14/2017

Got home from work today to find a yellow balloon tied to the doorknob on my front door. It had an angry face with sharp teeth drawn on it.

I went in through the back door and called my neighbor, but he wasn’t home. I could see the balloon through the window on the door. It had turned so that the face was looking at me. I barricaded myself in my bedroom and hid under my blankets, but I could still feel the fucking thing watching me.

My neighbor called me when he got home a couple of hours later, but he said there wasn’t a balloon on my door when he checked. Whoever put it there must have cleaned up the evidence.

It had to have been Kevin. Fuck you, Kevin.

11/16/2017

I was doing so well! I was able to go back to the store with the football decorations the other day and actually buy something. Sure, I had a panic attack in my car afterward, but it was progress! I thought the medicine might have been helping, but how much can anything help when someone decides to torment you?

There was another yellow balloon with a face drawn on it tied to my TV remote today. This face looked angrier and meaner than the last one. I ran outside and called the cops when I found it. It was gone when they got there. They looked all over the place to see if whoever left it was still in the house, but nope. They also didn’t find any clues pointing to how he got in.

This is so fucked up. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE.

11/25/2017

Had an emergency appointment with my therapist today. I keep having nightmares about the fucking balloons. I can’t sleep. Everytime I close my eyes, I dream about angry yellow balloons chasing me, watching me, hurting me. Last night I dreamt that a bunch of them tied me down with ribbon and ate me alive. I can still hear the sounds of the balloons rubbing together while they fought for space to take bites. Ugh.

I’m afraid to leave my house and give that asshole another opportunity to fuck with me.

The therapist encouraged me to stay on my new meds and call the cops when I don’t feel safe. What if I never feel safe?

11/30/2017

Woke up this morning and went to make myself some breakfast. When I opened the refrigerator to grab the eggs, a yellow balloon flew out at me. The face on it was really twisted this time, and it kept coming toward me no matter what I did. I started throwing stuff at it, but it kept coming. I passed out at some point.

I guess my neighbor heard the commotion and called the cops. They were there when I woke up. The balloon wasn’t.

12/5/2017

Went to the hospital today. I went out to grab my mail and when I turned around to walk back into the house, I spotted a yellow balloon with a fanged smiley face drawn on it floating in my living room window. I guess I stumbled backward and stepped off of the curb, right into the path of a dude riding his bike down the street.

I have a concussion and some nasty bruises, but I’ll be alright, I guess. I saw the doctor who gives me my shots on my way out. He was super focused on reading something in a blue notebook, so I didn’t bother him.

Surprise, surprise. The balloon wasn’t there when I got home. I thought about reporting it to the police again, but at this point the only thing that’s gonna get me is a nice vacation in a padded room. The cops that came last time were thinking about it, I could tell.

I’m not crazy. I just want this to stop. I don’t think I can take much more.

12/9/2017

I’ve seen angry yellow balloons literally everywhere I go. Doctor is worried that my concussion is worse than they thought. MRIs are loud and uncomfortable.

12/20/2017

My therapist thought it would be a good idea to bring a yellow balloon out during my session today. Stupid bitch. “You need to face your fears, Brenda.” Fuck that shit. I bet she set up the camera so she could laugh at my reaction later with her buddies. “Clinical study” my ass.

I tried. I really did. Then Satan’s party favor started coming at me and I started screaming and crying like a fucking baby. Bitchface let it push me into a corner before she took it away. She said something about static electricity making it attracted to me, but I could tell she was making shit up to placate me. She seemed more interested in scribbling notes about the incident than actually convincing me that it was totally normal. I’m not stupid.

1/2/2018

Another one popped out of my closet this morning and rushed at me when I opened the door. Its eyes were colored red and its fangs were so big that it took up half of the balloon. I grabbed my softball bat and swung at it. When I made contact, it burst and this black goo sprayed everywhere. It got all over my arm and burned my skin. I wiped the goo off and went to the hospital.

I’m not crazy. The 2nd degree burns under the bandage on my arm tell me so.

So where the hell did the balloon corpse and all the black goo go?

1/9/2018

My arm isn’t healing. The burn is this gross brownish color. I think it’s infected. The balloons keep appearing, but they’re keeping their distance. Like they’re watching me, waiting for something.

1/14/2018

I swear to God the fucking burn is spreading and it’s turning yellow. My therapist says it looks the same to her as it did last week. Useless bitch.

1/20/2018

I’m writing this from my bed, hiding under the covers like a fucking child. There are like 10 yellow balloons floating in my bedroom. Every single one of them has this creepy smile drawn on. I tried to call the cops, but my phone is dead. I could have sworn I plugged it in last night.

I can hear them laughing at me through the covers. My arm burns. I think it’s swollen too.

I don’t know how long I’ve been under here. I keep dozing in and out. I’m starving, but those fucking things are still there. I tried to get out of my bedroom, but they swarmed me and I dove back under my covers.

I took the bandage off of my arm. It’s not even covering the wound anymore. The burn itself takes up my entire forearm, and my whole arm is yellow like an old bruise and so swollen that I can’t even bend it. It smells as badly as it burns.

I heard someone knocking. My whole body is so swollen that I can barely move. It took all of my energy just to roll onto my stomach so I could write. I don’t know if the balloons took away my blanket or if I kicked it off at some point. They are on top of me now. I can feel them covering my back and legs. They’re so warm.

I think I’ll die here. Maybe the balloons will float me away.

To the offices of Dr. Verland,

First, I’d like to thank you.

I was skeptical when you insisted that your serum would make me better. I realize now that it was working even when I thought it was making things worse. My mind and body had to break before they could become stronger. I know that now.

I thought the balloons were threatening. I thought they were terrifying. I know now that they were watching, waiting not for the time to strike, but the time to act.

While my body swelled, stretching further than I thought possible, I prayed for mercy. I prayed for the strength to get me through pain worse than I had ever felt. I didn’t realize until I began to deflate that I was granted both.

I barely recognize myself in the mirror. My malleable yellow skin and razor sharp teeth are rather unsettling to look at, but my transformation will prove quite useful.

You see, my floating friends didn’t just give me physical gifts.

I know who you really are. I know what you’re doing. Your whole foundation will fall faster than a popped balloon.

[aliciaofearth]

Revisiting My Old Journals

In a recent article, I wrote about my goals for journaling and how I want to keep a more consistent personal journal going forward.

One of the best things about keeping journals, to me, is that old journals become a gift to your future-self. A window into days of old. It’s so much fun to look back at the things you chose to document at a younger age, in part because you’ll definitely encounter things you had completely forgotten if you hadn’t written about them.

I mention re-reading my old journals in the post, but I wasn’t able to dive into what I found in them … so I wanted to put that here! In addition to being sort of a time-machine into my memories, my childhood journals are also often highly entertaining. For me, at least. I found a lot of gems.

Come with me on a journey through journals-past, will you? (With photos!)

My First Journal  – early childhood

Age when used: 5-7 (approx)

Received: Probably as a gift around the time I had first learned to write.

Memorable excerpts: Short entries and little drawings (mostly cat-related) are sporadically scattered throughout. One of my favorite pages simply says “Luke” above “Star Wars” which were clearly things I wanted to remember. It’s funny to look back at this journal and notice little details I’d forgotten about the cover, since I stared at it so long as a kid.

 Fancy Locking Journal - elementary school

Age when used: 10-13 (approx) (used for several years despite it being labeled “one year diary”)

Received: After I specifically requested it, because I was SO excited about the lock and key (the locking strap has since been removed).

Memorable excerpts: Hot goss abounds. The very first page starts with “Hi, I’m Alicia and my best friend is [NAME]. She is cool.” But in another pen color below, I’ve added “NOT ANYMORE” with an arrow pointing at the name. DRAMA, am I right? (Also, in defense of my 11-year-old self, that friend was regularly pretty mean to me.) There are also multiple pages where I went in and redacted portions of old entries with a paint marker. The whole thing is a mess, really. And since I wasn’t letting that lock go to waste, I made sure to write all my crushes’ names multiple times. One page just says “Mermaids are da bomb! I <3 [crush],” so at least we know I’m still keeping it real all these years later.

 Fairy Journal – high school

Age when used: 15-17ish

Received: This pretty journal (featuring Amy Brown art) was a gift from my mom, and I’d be willing to bet she found it at Hot Topic back in the early 2000s. Ah, high school.

Memorable excerpts: It starts out with a page of new year resolutions, which includes items like “I will not freak out when I get a very important assignment @ school” and “I will learn more about video games.” That second one did not happen. One video game-loving friend even bribed me with spoonfuls of ice cream as I played a game at her house (she was literally feeding me and coaching me on how to play), but I was too distracted by the delicious snack and kept dying in the game. Ice Cream 4 lyfe.

In typical teenager fashion, this journal also has its fair share of Deep Thoughts throughout, usually related to ~drama~ with friends or boys. One of my fav gems: “Silence is golden… But gold hurts when you smash it over someone’s head.” *cue opening bars of Vindicated*

Flower Petals Journal – college/post-college

(page view rotated to fit side-by-side more easily)

Age when used: 17-25ish

Received: I found this one on a family vacation in Colorado, when I stopped in a random local bookstore during our short stop in Durango. I could not resist those pages!!! I’m a sucker for handmade paper, and those are real flower petals mixed in, people! This was my favorite journal for a long time.

Memorable excerpts: *long sigh* This journal starts out strong, with entries about my vacation and ideas for original fiction I was working on, plus the occasional song lyric or random thought. (Including, “I need to read more sci-fi,” which is an eternal mood.) But then college happens, and I used this journal primarily to write/vent about a certain relationship during those years that started out positively and slowly became pretty toxic. It’s interesting to look back and see how I genuinely lied to myself in the journal, making excuses for that person and convincing myself I felt a certain way about things I was struggling to forgive/accept. Eventually, the journal becomes brutally honest, but it also becomes meta, since I start entries with things like, “Wow, it’s so weird to go back and read all my old entries in here! I can’t believe I wrote blah blah.” That’s the main reason I decided it was time to retire this journal, even though it isn’t full: Writing new entries feels like a footnote in the journal’s main purpose now, which was being my outlet for those years. I’ll never throw out this journal, because it is important to me, but it was time to move on.

  Purple leather journal – present!

Age when used: 31 (now)

Received: Like my previous journal, I found this one on a Colorado family vacation back in August. Something about being surrounded by fresh mountain air gives me a journaling vibe, maybe. I was visiting a super cool and quirky gift shop called the Aspen Emporium and Flying Circus, and I spotted a table full of handmade leather journals—no two were alike. I knew I had to have one, and narrowing it down honestly wasn’t that difficult when I spotted this purple one! Like I explain in my article, I’m embracing new journaling habits for this year, and so far, it’s going well. And starting with a blank slate in a beautiful journal is so nice—I had almost forgotten how nice! I’m committed to filling all the pages, too. Send me good journaling vibes!

Also: I fully encourage others to use this idea and make posts about your own history of journals!

[jeepersjeeves]

Sketchbook Excavation Tour 1/??

(Future Note): I'm fortunate enough to still do this! Came back home after spending time out of town, only to get displaced for a month. My sketchbooks somehow survived, though, so I guess I'll just tear through them with a bit less fanfare than this one. There have been bigger fish to fry.

Also, I spent way too much time trying to explain myself, worried that I'd come off as preachy and not really knowing what I'm talking about, and now, the iron is ice cold, and the thoughts shared in this entry are no longer fresh on my mind. So, I'm just going to post this and move on.

Here's the first of many sketchbooks. This one is from high school. A classmate of mine gave it to me, because she didn't like the paper quality, if I recall correctly.

I vividly remember the feel of drawing in this sketchbook. The pages felt super grainy, like nothing would stick and would just immediately smudge. So, half of the sketchbook is still blank haha

I did this thing where I wanted to journal while traveling, and this page was supposed to be where I kept track of finances.

I rather liked the idea of anthropomorphic(?)finances(?), and I liked their contrasting fashion sense, one being more relaxed than the other, so I thought I'd give these designs some more attention.

I wanted to emphasize that visual contrast between the two, so I focused on giving them a more obvious shape language, as seen in the first two images.

Retrospectively, after I had drawn everything, I revisited the above image and took notes of what I wanted to keep and what I felt should be further developed or adjusted.

These are things like keeping the contrasting silhouettes of the boots, getting rid of the glasses on the left deign, and putting more thought into the design of the hair. Some of this is reflected in the final image of this post.

I still feel a bit sheepish about this page of sketches, but, I scribbled some forms to get an overall feel of the design, and how the clothing would look from different angles and poses. Also tried to hash out what I wanted the sleeves to look like.

Around this point, I started to visualize them more as bankers, so I thought of their outfits more as uniforms.

Once I had a series of design elements that I felt I liked, I drafted up these designs to see how they'd come together. I was also pretty excited about color, so I added color too, just to see how it would look.

So this is where I'm at right now. I think there could stand to be a bit more variation. Guy on the left also looks a tad too similar to another design I worked on not too long ago, so I might give this another pass.

Either way, though, it was fun, and I like them well enough. Gotta come up with names.

Extended ramblings under the cut.

Clothing Variations

I still have some thoughts, like, while drawing the guy on the left, I kept Persona 3’s Akihiko Sanada in mind, particularly Sarah Kipin’s rendition of him. In keeping with the round silhouette, I thought of adding round and broad shoulders, which would lead downwards into round fists, making me think of an old-fashioned boxer. And because of this round silhouette, I opted to give him a sweater vest instead of a regular* (?) vest.

The material of a sweater vest is soft, you see, which I thought would help with creating a more round silhouette, and I thought that'd contrast nicely with the sharper feel of a more traditional vest with coattails, but because I wanted to give them a uniform, those two articles of clothing felt too different from each other. I'll have to spend more time with it and do some research, maybe on uniform variations or something. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking about, like, a three-piece suit, but it didn't quite come out that way, I think because I was so set on the vest idea, and was trying to depict two different types of vests, rather than a vest-jacket combo. Mixing up the latter (wearing just a vest, just a jacket, both, etc.) has more cohesion than two types of vests, I would think.

Something Something Visual Tropes

That thing with Akihiko is what I want to refer to as visual tropes. I read it once in the comments section of a video art tutorial, and I think it‘s applicable here. Though I guess “visual signifyer” might be more appropriate. Still, I think ”tropes” gives it that nuance of “design elements that are commonly or repeatedly used to convey certain ideas”.

So, when someone says that a drawing looks like [famous anime character], I think that it’s an interesting way to examine what design elements it might have in common, and even to see where those design elements might trace back to.

I think it’s worthwhile enough for me to start doing more often, so I’ll try it and report back

Design Process

A previous venture in character design led me down a similar mode of thinking while drawing these two, and now I've scrounged together a sort of thought process when it comes to designing characters. I'd distill this down to "ideation then research". Can I say that? Ideation?

Basically, get all the ideas out there first, and then ask questions about what you drew (why did I draw this? what led me to this?) and to research elements that you're not quite familiar with (what does this actually look like/how does it function?). I mean, it all sort of remains in the abstract, but feeling my way around along these parameters really helped me to get the ball rolling, got me excited and curious, and helped me to feel a bit more intentional about what I was designing. I tend to put the cart before the horse, when it comes to both drawing and storytelling, wanting to create something that falls into place on the first try, but I've found more value in working with your gut reaction. You have a more active voice that way, there's more problem solving, you arrive at the result in the literal sense.

Application

So yeah (this is the last thing), I wanted to make them NPCs for a western-themed game idea (will explain later) that I had about a summer ago. The combination of banking uniforms and western-like accessories (the bolero tie, sleeve garters, and boots) had me thinking about, well, westerns.

So that's that! :v

*I did a google search and it seems like most vests were made out of silk. Bless Wikipedia. At a glance, it reminded me of details like single and double-breasted coats, as well as U and V necks. There’s a lot of potential here, and opens up more design options for a vest alone.

[artdjgblog]

Innerview: David Hudnall / The Pitch

August 2011​

Photo:​ NA / Posters: DJG Design

Note: Featured news article.

Danny Gibson’s Quiet Contributions

Forty hours of Danny Gibson’s week are occupied by a data-entry job, but when he’s not at work, he’s often putting together an art project of some kind in the basement of his house, which sits south of 39th Street in the shadow of the old Loretto Academy building. Gibson is a collector of things — gloves, old toys, obsolete technology, office paper, corn husks, helicopter leaves — and he stores his prized finds in this colorful subterranean lair. That he is an artist who uses much of what he collects in his work cushions him from the label of the collector’s less endearing alter ego: the hoarder. But a case could be made. Gibson is best known for DJG Design, the name under which he has been designing poster art for local and national bands for the past decade. Starting September 2, he’s displaying somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 original pieces of work in an exhibition, Quietly Contributing, at 1819 Central Gallery. None of them are for sale. After the show concludes at the end of the month, he’ll haul them all back to his cave. “I’ve only sold a few originals,” Gibson says, sorting through a dusty stack of notes, sketches and old prints. “A lot of this stuff I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of. They mean too much to me.” Nosing around Gibson’s basement is like flipping through an old yearbook of the Kansas City and Lawrence music scenes. Anvil Chorus, In the Pines, the Stella Link, Namelessnumberheadman, Doris Henson, the Afterparty, and about a hundred other local bands’ names — many defunct and mostly forgotten — are inventively fashioned onto show posters. In this way, the 1819 Central show isn’t just a celebration of Gibson’s work. It also serves as a kind of retrospective of the past 10 years in our local music scene. “There’s a sort of timeline or history involved with these posters,” he says. “Lots of stories, lots of other people’s bands. Promoters, venues. Posters have such a short life span, and then they’re kind of forgotten. So it’ll be neat to line it all up.” This winter, Gibson made the decision to retire DJG Design in order to focus more fully on visual art, which also makes the show a bit of a memorial. “I had been wrestling with the design thing for several years. I’ve always been more into visual art than design,” Gibson says. “And I’ve been kind of moving out of the music scene in some ways. A lot of my friends in bands have grown up and moved away. I don’t get out as much as I used to. I woke up one morning in February and was like, ‘I’m done.’ It felt good.” Gibson grew up on a farm in north-central Missouri — barnyard imagery is a recurring theme in his work — then studied art and design at Missouri State University in Springfield. After four years, he dropped out and relocated to Kansas City, where he moved into a house (“a rathole by where Costco is now”) with some Elevator Division band members, whom he knew from Springfield. The house became a sort of revolving door for local musicians, and Gibson converted the basement, used by a previous tenant as a photography studio, into his own art studio. He started making posters for Elevator Division shows, which led to work with other bands. “A lot of people knew Elevator Division, so people would see my stuff and come to me and be like, ‘Hey, will you make us a poster?’ ” he says. “I got paid a lot of times in cheeseburgers. There’s no real money in making poster art for your friends’ bands. But it was exactly what I wanted to do. Make art, mix it with music. I had a really great time with it.” Working for design and advertising firms was never appealing to Gibson, partially because of his aversion to computers. (He has a very old-looking desktop in his basement that contains a version of Photoshop’s 1999 5.5 version, which he uses sparingly.) For many of his DJG years, Gibson was employed as a janitor at the Kansas City Board of Trade, an occupation that allowed both his collector’s instincts and his artist’s instincts to run wild. He once intercepted 15,000 sheets of office paper headed for the Dumpster and took them home. Plant clippings he discovered in a trash can were repurposed as the font for a Billions poster. “I’m big on process, and being a janitor allowed me to work out a lot of my daily thoughts and ideas,” Gibson says. “I’d end up writing and sketching things on paper towels. Sometimes I’d put the paper towels, or whatever I was writing on, into the final posters. I love midcentury Polish poster art and folk art. The hands-on, cut-and-paste approach. I like including my notes or even my e-mails on posters. It gives it a more human element that I think is missing in a lot of computer design stuff these days.” Gibson’s imaginative worldview makes it easy for him to artfully convert cat hair into lettering, but self-promotion comes less naturally. I spoke to a number of people who consider Gibson one of the most talented artists in the city. But Gibson largely lacks ties to the local art establishment. “I like to sort of exist in my own little world, I guess,” he says. “In some ways I don’t think I really understand the adult world. I can survive in it. But I prefer to be down here in the basement, working on my stuff.” Lately, though, some friends who believe strongly in Gibson’s work have emerged to assist him in getting his name and work further out into the public sphere. Some of them, not surprisingly, are musicians. Coinciding with Quietly Contributing is DJG Was Here, a 35-song compilation album (downloadable for free at noisetrade.com/djgwashere) featuring music from many of the musicians for whom Gibson has designed posters over the years: Darling at Sea, Max Justus, Sam Billen, the ACBs, Thom Hoskins, David Seume. “Danny puts sweat into everything he makes,” says Bryan Lamanno, whose band, the Tambourine Club, appears on the compilation. “He’s not just sitting at a computer. I always just let him do whatever he wants when he designs stuff because he always comes up with something fun and interesting and intricate.” Though Gibson is a collector, he also likes to share and is eager for others to see what he’s put together for Quietly Contributing. “There’s some great moments that I’m excited for people to see,” Gibson says. “Sometimes I look at these posters and I’m like, ‘What was I doing? How did that happen?’ There’s something much bigger to it all that I can’t really explain.”

We asked Gibson to pick a few of his favorite posters and talk about the process and ideas behind them.

001) Darling at Sea, Anvil Chorus (New Year’s Eve at the Brick) New Year’s Eve being such a big night, I wanted to shoot for an epic poster. I had an idea of the post-party: the contents of an insane partygoer’s stomach or the contents on the floor the morning of January 1. So, I set a rule for myself and just grabbed whatever I could at arm’s length around me at my studio desk. I threw it all on the scanner and created a sea of strange things swimming. The posters were printed in black on Wall Street Journals I saved from my day job, and I hit them up with a red heart rubber stamp. I’m pleased with the typography on these, especially for a computer font, which I’ve used very sparingly over the years. 002) Violet Burning, the Billions, Gabriel Yard I was working as a janitor, wondering to myself about a unique, springlike concept for a poster for this show. I had been away from my cart cleaning something and came back to it and found plant clippings and prunings anonymously placed in it. I instantly saw this poster. I pushed my cart down to my little dungeon desk, decided to go on break, and started making the typography. 003) Onward Crispin Glover, the People, Elevator Division At the time I made this image (2002), I was more aggressive about incorporating political-social messages into my work. It was my early 20s, and I guess it was the post-art-school political-poster-making in me talking? I think the news at the time had some major headlines about American importing and exporting. So, I have a backwards American monster eating a ship. The image was made in ink, and the boat was cut from a very old book. I ran this through an old fax machine to get the dirty look and then printed it on old green-and-white-striped computer paper. Notice this show was at the Pub, which is now the Brick. I always forget that. It’s interesting to see a bit of history in something as short-lived as a concert poster. 004) Flattery Leads to Ruins, James Dean Trio, Roosevelt I had a ton of fun with this one in a pop-art kind of way, I guess. I also enjoy a chance to throw celebrities or notable people into art. I was literal with playing off the band names James Dean Trio and Roosevelt. But the other, Flattery Leads to Ruins, came out of the headlines at the time. Martha Stewart was on trial, and I would watch CNN every day while cleaning a lunch area at my day job. This is a great example of taking visual liberty with a batch of bands on a concert bill. With the printing I made black-and-white photocopies and then ran them back through an oversized printer to get the color. 005) Atom and His Package, Brazil, Pixel Panda, Mail Order Midgets This is one of my personal favorites. I love a good visual pun, and I like to spin ideas off of band names. Here we have a guy named Atom carrying a package of Mail Order Midgets and a Pixel Panda (the panda is based from my childhood drawings of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). The original art will be on display at my poster exhibition, and it’s fairly big compared to the small print the final poster ended up as. I’d love to revisit these characters; there’s a good road-trip story there. I’ve always had visions of being cursed or challenged to journey cross-country carrying specific heavy things in my arms along the way. I think about that with this poster. Poor Atom.  

[uglymanchronicles]

UMC:R Chapter 5: Compiling

A lazy first-person ‘journal entry’ chapter.  Merry Christmas.  There’ll probably be one more chapter before the prequel arc is done.

Uh, okay, testing. Test. Tes-tiiiing. Alright. Uh, this is Evan Abrams and it’s… May 18th. So it’s been a week since I, uh, ‘woke up’, and I think I’ve got my head wrapped around this whole situation. I’m recording this as a kind of way to, you know, make sure everything’s in order, that I’ve got my plans together, all that. Plus, if I suffer another, uh, memory loss or something, I want an easy summary on hand. I don’t want to have to spend another week playing catch-up with my own life.

So, to summarize, a week ago today I found myself in a bar in Arizona with no memory of how I got there. I eventually figured out that I’d basically erased about three months of my memory through some hideous DIY surgery. I’m still not sure exactly why I did this to myself, and I seem to have sanitized the notes I kept from those missing months to keep myself from figuring it out.

Shit, I’m not doing this very well. The big picture is, I apparently discovered that the… supernatural? Is real. That word sounds wrong for describing this type of thing. But there’s magic, and monsters, and people with special abilities… I have so many notes about all kinds of things, I’m honestly amazed by the sheer volume of data I was able to gather.  I did it really well, too, really professional, I…

Okay, don’t get caught up in sucking your own dick, Evan. Oh yeah, that reminds me—sometime during the missing time I got really fucked up. Like, physically. My face looks like an old steak. Not sure how that happened. A few serious wounds on the rest of my body, too, but here’s the good news. Remember how I mentioned special powers? Apparently I’ve had one my whole life, but something ramped it up recently. I heal very quickly. The process leaves some serious scars, it seems, but the internal healing seems flawless. I have no residual pain from what I’m pretty sure are gunshot wounds.  Even if it’s been three months, that shouldn’t be possible. I hit my head really bad a few days ago and minutes later there was no sign of any injury. No pain, no mark, no blood except what got in my hair. According to my notes, my body can recover from near-mortal injuries in hours, if not minutes. Apparently it ‘focuses’, if you can assign some kind of intent to a biological process, on making me functional and mobile as soon as possible, so it rushes the skin repair. Keep me from losing too much blood, prevent infection, make sure it doesn’t get worse. I guess it scars up so bad because of that, but I think that’s a fair price to pay for being extremely durable.

This all kinda brings me back around to what my plan is going forward. I really hit the weights hard these past few months and I’m fucking huge now. My pre-brain erasure self got into a pretty serious exercise routine—at least two hours a day. I was worried it’d be a pain in the ass, but my body seems to remember the movements. It feels good. I’m so strong now, and I’ve been doing yoga and a bunch of really tough stretches and, well, I feel amazing. I feel like I could be sexy. Except for the face, I mean. Oh, uh, and I checked, it didn’t heal old injuries, so no improvement below the belt.  Oh well. Maybe there’s a possibility out there.

Okay… enough about that. I keep getting distracted. There’s just so much to take in. The reason I’ve been bulking up and did all this is because I decided to do something about… well, the intersection of the ‘normal’ world and this new one. Not go out hunting monsters or magic-users or whatever, but… just protect people who can’t defend themselves from things like that. Be an equalizing factor. Give people some protection from things they don’t even know they need protection from. Maybe keeping some of the bad things at bay will let things really improve for the world, you know?

But I can’t do that just by being buff and unkillable, though it certainly helps.  I can’t help people just by throwing myself into this metaphorical meat grinder. So I somehow got my hands on something called The Book of Fate, which is the lynchpin to some kind of magic ritual that will make me, if my notes and the translations are correct, an “Agent of Karma”. Apparently the people who devised this thing—over literal millennia, mind you—believed that the universe, reality, everything, whatever, actually wants to be a just place, but it can’t directly intervene in its own self. Like how we can’t actually directly fight our own diseases, we have to trust in our body’s internal systems to deal with them. Anyway, these people believed that the moral arc of the universe actually does bend towards justice, and all this research, experimentation, and sacrifice they did was to give someone the power to actually do what needs done. To make sure good things happen to good people, bad things to bad people, mercy and justice metered out appropriately, all that jazz. Apparently it’s supposed to allow the… user? To develop great supernatural abilities as they act in accordance with “the will of the Universe” or something like that.

That sounds amazing and everything, but a lot of it’s pretty vague on the kind of powers you get or how you’ll even know what constitutes “the will of the Universe”. There are some mentions of being granted extraordinary senses or awareness, but again, vague. I don’t like the idea of playing judge, jury, and executioner… if I have to fight people or things to make things right, I’ll do it, but… just enough to handle the things that are outside of existing systems. I don’t want to make people think that society is obsolete and can’t protect them. I’ll just… you know, handle the things that the normal world isn’t equipped to handle.

God, I hope I don’t have to kill anyone.

Uh, anyway, one thing the research made clear is that I won’t have any difficulty finding trouble, at least. My earlier self wrote about a concept called an “entropy sink”, which is apparently what I’ll become in addition to being an “agent of Karma”. Apparently, by fighting bad shit I’ll be soaking up that entropy, that chaos and evil created by said bad shit, which in turn will make more bad shit tend to happen to me. That sounds miserable, but better it happens to the big strong guy with super-healing than to some poor kid playing in their back yard, right?

I’m not worried about that part. The more good I do, the more bad I find, but the stronger I get. Sounds like a fair deal to me.

So, uh… most of my ‘normal’ work has been automated by this point. My Amalgorithms (note to self, check on the progress on that trademark applications) seem to have been improved a bit recently, so past me wasn’t just focusing on the superhero stuff. They can probably handle any projects that come my way, but I think I’m going to stop putting out so many feelers for now. Might need to start working on the Blaccat project again, though; I may need to take some extra-legal measures sometime in the future, depending on which way this goes. I’m sure there will be times when I need some information that’s not, uh, public.

So I keep finding little hide-aways I apparently carved out of some of the empty spaces in the RV. I’ve found a couple of serious guns, a lot of ammo, and a lot of… pharmaceutical.  I am committing so many felonies just by knowing about this car.  But I apparently also built several, well, let’s call them tools.  Like a suit of low-profile body armor I 3D-printed and wired together.  I have no idea if that works or not and I’m not keen to find out, but the old me’s notes seem sound.  I guess I’ll find out if somebody shoots me and I wind up with a wound full of weird plastic discs.  

I think I’ve said all I need to say.  Most of the ingredients for the Book’s ritual are gathered, and I’ve already rented a cabin out in the middle of nowhere to perform this thing.  Apparently the moon needs to be a waxing crescent for this to work, so I’m going to have to wait a couple weeks to actually perform it, but I’m going to get everything set up in the meantime.  The only thing I really have reservations about is that the ritual needs a ‘focus’, and it apparently has to be something with great emotional significance to me.  The obvious answer is Mr. Nex, but… I don’t know if the focus survives the process. All the other ingredients get used up, apparently, but nothing says anything about the focus… do you think it’s what he’d want?  If he was actually alive and knew all he would know about me, having been by my side my entire life?  God, listen to me.  I’m 27 years old and I’m having a crisis over a stuffed giraffe.  But… I guess he wouldn’t be of great emotional significance if the thought of giving him up was easy.  I’ll either figure something out or suck it up.  There are greater things at stake here than my feelings.

God, I’m gonna have to kill someone, aren’t I.