at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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damian: let’s have a knife fight
dick: let’s not
tim: im tired of losing the knife fights
jason: sorry that damian and i are better than you all
cass: …
jason: no you’re so right—— sorry that cass is better than all of us
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Random Headcannons
Ahem, now that the event is over, here are some of my personal Jason Todd headcannons for your consideration:
He's always going to be taller than you. Doesn't matter if you're 5'2" or 6'0". He's simply taller than you, and he's buying boots with 4" platforms to really seal the deal
Jason loves any nickname you call him. Call him Jay, Jace, or any pet name and term of endearment. It'll make his heart skip a beat, and his eyes go starry. His name never sounds so pretty than when it's falling from your lips
Serial Hand Kisser. He's kissing your knuckles, your fingertips, the back of your hand, your palm, your wrist. He doesn't even need an excuse or reason to do it. He'll just be sitting on the couch reading, and your palm is pressed to his mouth the entire time.
Drags you out into the rain with him to dance. Yes, you introduced him to the joy of spinning under the cloudy skies, but he's the one who pulls you out from under cover every time it starts to drizzle.
This happens even if you're in your apartment, when the storm starts. You have a fire escape and a roof for a reason, and you're going to use it
He has a bit of sweet tooth, and it's entirely Alfreds fault. Even if you dont like sweets, he's going to convert you. Jason will find the recipe that changes your mind to at least enjoying his baking
You'll have to actively convince him to let you backpack on his motorcycle. Bikes can be dangerous, no matter how safe he is, other drivers won't always be
If you manage to convince him, you're going to wear all the protective gear, and he's taking you onto back roads outside of Gotham to practice leaning into turns safely before he drives you anywhere near the city streets
Will fully lay on top of you when you start sharing a bed. He's a cuddler, and that's not a crime. (Sure, he won't do it every night, he likes it when you sleep on his chest, too. But he will smother sleep on you)
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i can't help seeing the concept of "coming back wrong" as reflective of the aftermath of attempted (and unsuccessful) suicide. whether you gratefully accepted death at the end, or you struggled in terror in your final moments and wished you could somehow twist out of the way of your oncoming fate, the choice to die was taken from you. you failed to achieve the inevitable. how wrong must you be, to be unable to even die properly? how horrifying - and how utterly infuriating - would it be, to have everyone around you expressing gratitude or disgust at your resurrection, while you cannot even begin to articulate the depths of your own conviction that death, the inexorable maw itself, must have decided there was something just not right about you, and spat you out?
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ink5oul would 100% be the type of person to wear those dumb (/j) little cloud/bat sunglasses that have the dangling gems. like there is zero doubt in my mind theyd wear these little shits
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i literally am inconsolable over this story what is wrong with them. phil enters the room and dan is so excited/taken aback by phil dying his hair that he jolts up so fast that he passes out and punches a lamp and phil, his partner who is aware he has hypotension*, sees this happen and is like "oh i guess dan is just twerking at me" WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU SFADUHJK
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im finally getting out of my art slump so my style is getting a lil better/ more natural again
some doodles based on my gameplay of drv3 from last night,, im at the start of chapter 2 still (i already know all the trial outcomes but its fun anyways cuz i never watched/played it fully)
if you couldnt tell i am spending all my free time events with kokichi.. hes silly please.. i gave him a hammock and he was flabberghasted
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Husk: not caring at all that Angel does sex work, flirts with people to get free stuff, having people hit on him all the time.
Angel: sees one person look a little to long at Husk. “I will stab a bitch!”
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