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.
18K notes
·
View notes
Comprehensive Lexicon Guide for First-Time SW Fic Readers:
Flimsi/Flimsiplast = Paper
Flimsiwork/Datawork = Paperwork
Stylus = Pen
Datapad = Tablet
Comlink/Comm = Communication Device/Phone
Binders = Handcuffs
Chronometer = Clock
Spectacles = Eyeglasses
Chrono = Watch
Conservator = Refrigerator
Caf = Coffee
Nerfburger = Hamburger
Blue milk = Milk (literally blue)
Hubba chips = French Fries
Sweet roll = Doughnut
Flatcakes = Pancakes
Tabac = Tobacco
HoloNet = World Wide Web
Holovision/HoloTV = Television
Holodrama/Holovids = Movie/Videos
Holocamera/Holocam = Camera
Holomap = three-dimensional map
Holojournal = Newspaper
Holocube = Picture frame
Holotable = Projector
Holoscanner = X-ray machine
Holojournalist = Reporter
Flatholo/Holograph = Photograph
Sonic Damper = Active Noise Cancellation
Refresher/Fresher= Bathroom
Sonic Bath = Bath
Sanisteam/Sonic shower = Waterless Shower
Hydrospanner = Wrench
Hydro Flask = Water Bottle
Power Cell/Energy Cell = Batteries
Authorization Chip = Decryption key
Datatape = Disk
Datastick = Flash drive
(Personal) Com Code = Phone number
Datachip = SD Card
Synthflesh = Synthetic skin
Glowrod = Flashlight
Sparkstick = Match
Slugthrower = Gun
Slug = Bullet
Vibroblade = a blade that can vibrate at high frequencies, increasing its cutting power and penetrating ability (tactical knife)
Rangefinder = Rifle scope
Turbolaser = Cannon
Ion pike/Vibropike = Spear
Electro Staff = Stun baton
Blaster = Pistol/Rifle
Stun Blaster = similar to a Taser
Landspeeder/Airspeeder/Speeder = Car
Turbolift = Elevator
Slideramp = Escalator
Starfighter = Fighter jet
Rotorcraft = Helicopter
Hoverpack/Jetpack= Jet pack
Speeder Bike = Motorcycle
Skylane = Traffic lane
Railspeeder/Hovertrain = Train
Power Chair/Hoverchair= Wheelchair
Windscreen = Windshield
Podracing = Car racing
Dejarik = Chess
Sabacc = Poker and Blackjack combined
Galactic Rebels = Combat simulator
B'shingh = Dungeons and dragons
Jizz = Jazz music
Wailer = Singer (ie. Jizz Wailer)
Cantina = Bar or Pup
Para Sailing = Paragliding
Aurebesh = Alphabet
Credits = Money
Sleeping Pallet = Bedroll
Naming Day = Birthday
Youngling = Child
Galactic Basic Standard/ Basic = English
Medkit/Medpac = First aid kit
Hypo = Syringe
Medic/Healer = Doctor
Medcenter = Hospital
Bactapatch = Bandaid
Nanoweave = Fabric
Transparisteel = Glass
Plastifoam = Packing material
Durasteel = Steel
Plasteel = Plastic
Duracrete = Concrete
Slicer = Hacker (slicing = hacking)
Identikit = Passport
Minder = Therapist
Synthleather = Vinyl
Viewport = Window
Cooling Unit = Air-conditioning
Honeydarter = Bee
Slythmonger = Drugdealer
Spice = Drugs
Stimpill = Caffeine pill
Power Socket = Plug
Cutters = Scissors
Cycle = Day
Standard Cycle = 24h
Standard Week = 5 days
Standard Month = 35 standard days
Standard Year = approx. ten months
Tenday = literally ten days
Cigarras/Smokes = Cigarettes
Click = Kilometer or 'a moment'
Parsec = a unit of distance
Tweezers/Clanker/tin head/tinnie = Droid
Separatist = Seppie
Promise Ring = Wedding Ring
Body Glove = Jumpsuit
Slicksuit = Wet suit
Civvies = Civilian clothing
Carbonite = a metal alloy used to freeze a person in a state of hibernation
Hyperdrive = device that allows a starship to travel faster than lightspeed
Moisture vaporator = device that can extract water from the air, commonly used on tatooine
Glareshades = Sunglasses
Gasser = Gas Oven
Repulsorlift = technology that can create an anti-gravity field and is used for levitating heavy objects
Heating unit = Heater
Utility Droid = Roomba
Sunbonnet = a Clone trooper helmet
Bad Batcher = a defective Clone Trooper
Banthabrain = birdbrain/ a stupid person
Bantha fodder = waste of space/nonsense
Blast! = word of exclamation
Blasted! = s.o in anger or annoyance
Blaster-brained = dimwitted
Blaster fodder = cannon fodder
Blast off = Piss off
Brainless = Stupid
Bug/Bugger = used to refer to Geonosians
Forceforsaken = godforsaken
Full of Poodoo = full of shit
Poodoo = Shit
Kriff = Fuck
Jedi scum = derogatory term for jedi
Kark = derogatory expletive
Larty = LAAT/i gunship
Laserbrain = insult
Meat droid = derogatory term for Clone Troopers
Redrobes = Palpatines guard
Rookie/Shinie = newly recruited Trooper
Scum = insult to refer to bounty hunters/rebels
Sharpie = Sharp-witted
Sithspawn/Sithspit/Hellspawn! = expletive
Sleemo = Slimeball
Son of a bantha = insult
Wizard! = Cool
Spaced = dead
Hutt-spawn = Bastard
Karabast = exclamation of dismay
Stang = Crap
Buckethead/Bucketbrain = derogatory term for Stormtroopers
Bucket = Helmet
Nat-born = Natural Born
Roger Roger = affirmative/copy that
Droid poppers = EMP grenade
Sitrep = short for situation report
Backwater Planet = any planet that isn't part of the core system
Holocron = device that can project a three-dimensional image of a person/object and is used for communication or entertainment.
Kessel Run = a risky Operation. Commonly used as a metaphor in impossible situations.
Thermal Detonator= device that can create a powerful explosion like a grenade or bomb
Ray Shield/Energy Shield = creates a (protective) barrier
Rebreather = device that allows a person to breathe underwater or in toxic environments
Phrases:
Wild goose chase = wild bantha chase
That's bantha shit = that's bullshit
As slippery as a greased Dug = untrustworthy
Credit for your thoughts = penny for your thoughts
Cut the poodoo = cut the crap
to get your gills in a twist = get upset about something
Holy mother of meteors = holy mother of god
Oh my skies/ Oh my stars = exclamation of surprise
Stars' end! = exclamation of disbelief
What in the blue blazes = exclamation
When Geonosis freezes over/When it snows on tatooine = extremely unlikely
Who pissed in your power supply = who pissed you off
Blast it = damn it
By the maker = exclamation of surprise
Great karking Dragon = expression of disbelief
Lothcat got your tongue = equivalent of 'cat got your tongue?'
Sod it = expression of frustration
5K notes
·
View notes
Light on - single mom/neighbor fic
Simon Riley/female reader
Prompt: Protective Simon. For the beautiful and talented @lethalchiralium
Simon’s phone is ringing.
Price raises an eyebrow from the end of the table, pausing mid-sentence, confused. Simon’s phone never rings. It’s always on full volume, because he never gets phone calls, except for ones from the 141, and they’re all here. At this briefing.
His fingers find the ringer, ready to silence what he’s sure is a nuisance call, some telemarketer or robot, when he reads your name across the screen.
You’ve never called him before. Unease tightens across his chest, and without any explanation, he excuses himself from the room and the bewildered looks being cast his way.
“Hey, you-“
“Simon?” You sound off. Like you’re trying to be calm, but there’s something lingering on the edge of your voice, something scared. His spine goes stiff.
It’s enough to propel him into action, his fist thumping against the window of the brief room, jerking his head south. I’m leaving, the motion signifies. Emergency.
“What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing. Just… there’s this guy that’s been like, half a block behind me since I got off the train.” He closes his eyes. The fucking train. He wants you to stop taking the train. He needs you to stop taking the train.
“He followed you from the platform?”
“Well, he could be walking this way too…”
“Where are you?” His keys are already in his hand, and he’s running down the hallway, past bewildered administrative staff and everyone else, bursting through the back door and into the truck. His phone chimes with multiple text messages, Price, Johnny, Gaz. All wondering where the hell he ran off to. Only Johnny’s text scratches the surface: Is it your neighbor? He waits another second in silence, hoping you’re trying to get your bearings. “Sweetheart?”
“I’m… I think we’re coming up on seventh and Warsail. ‘m not too sure. I’ve kind been walking in a roundabout way.” We’re coming up on seventh… we.
The baby is with you.
His foot slams the accelerator onto the floor, counting his breaths as he maneuvers each turn in the road. Do you have the stroller? Are you carrying her? Did this guy peg you as an easy target because he knows what Simon knows, that women are more likely to go along with instruction if their child is threatened? That you’d never leave Emmaline behind? That you’d do anything to protect her?
He feels sick.
“Are there other people around?” He’s calm on the phone, trying to visualize the street, the buildings, the alleys. Easy spots where cars could reach the highway in seconds, and then be gone. Cramped alleys that connect to others like tangled webs, able to swallow a human being easy, disappear them into the darkness. It makes his stomach turn over. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel so hard; it hurts.
“Yeah, it’s close to the end of the day, so-“
“Stay where others can see you. Are you sure you’re on seventh and Warsail?”
“Yeah. We’re in that park. I-I… wanted to take Emma to see the ducks.” Your voice wavers. “Simon he’s still behind us.” He’s turning the corner now, a block from your cross streets, and instead of yielding for oncoming traffic like he should, he floors it through an intersection, abandoning the truck still on, half parked in an empty street spot.
“Stay where you are, sweetheart. Okay? I’m coming.”
“You… wait, what? You’re what?” He doesn’t hang up, but keeps the phone against his ear, and takes off down the street in a sprint, fully subscribed to the worst-case scenarios that have been building in his mind, images of you and Emmaline bloody and bruised, or worse. He gets them confused for a moment, memories mixing with the present, two things swirling together until they become indistinguishable, noise and panic roaring too loudly in his head.
It all comes screeching to a stop.
He spots you in the park. You do have the stroller, and you’re by the little pond, headphones in, Emmaline in your arms, her little beanie pulled down over her ears. You’re glancing around, nervous, saying his name into the mic. He scans the rest of the faces, passing over anyone who doesn’t strike him as a creepy git, until he finds his target: a skinny, younger guy lurking on the edge of the fence line, watching you. He hangs up the phone and moves across the park involuntarily, rolling his shoulders, and he vaguely sees you from the corner of his eye, mouth dropped open in shock, faintly calling his name.
“Hey, mate. C’mere.” He shouts, half the people in the vicinity startling in his direction. Everyone seems to move away, like a magnetic force, pulsing outwards as he overtakes the guy with an easy grab to his upper arm. “You like stalking women with babies?” He hisses in his ear, voice low with barely contained rage. The guy is younger than him, but rail thin, and coked out. Probably looking for money. Simon jerks him closer, and he actually yells for help, like he’s a victim. It’s enough to ground the situation, making Simon realize he has an audience, and he grits out a final warning before shoving him away. “I ever see you around my girls again… I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Piss off.”
“What did he say?” You’re frantic, rubbing Emmaline’s back in a circular pattern, over and over like you’re trying to calm her, even though she’s perfectly content. It’s you who needs soothing, he realizes, and he takes your hand without questioning it, letting his instincts guide him in regard to you without overthinking it.
“He was high, love. Looking for money.” He doesn’t want to scare you but… he doesn’t despise the idea of instilling some hypervigilance. Maybe this will convince you not to take the train.
“Oh my god.”
“Think I scared him off for good though.” He looks around, and then slips off his mask, wide thumb stroking a soft touch on Emma’s cheek before giving you a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright now.” You visibly relax, but don’t let go of his hand, tilting your face up to his, all bright and beautiful, still coming down from the adrenaline of your fear with a whisper on your lips, meant for only him to hear.
“Our hero.”
4K notes
·
View notes