alright y’all, I’m trying to do that “regular blogging” thing again with some “~serious writing~” and whatnot
so
if you like, feel like reading that shit
it’s here
almost home
noise dept.
$LAYYYTER
Stranger Things

Andulka
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
taylor price
Peter Solarz
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

izzy's playlists!
Not today Justin

JBB: An Artblog!
Jules of Nature
🪼
ojovivo
hello vonnie
todays bird

oozey mess
styofa doing anything

roma★
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@kris-writes-things
alright y’all, I’m trying to do that “regular blogging” thing again with some “~serious writing~” and whatnot
so
if you like, feel like reading that shit
it’s here
I miss writing...
I miss writing about particular things. I miss using writing as a way to delve deeply and intellectually into anything. I still do that sometimes, I guess. It’s mostly private writing, all for myself. It’s essential to my wellbeing.
I miss writing about writing. And writing about thinking about writing about thinking about writing. I miss school, which was an excellent tool for making me write. And it also provided me with endless(ly helpful) critics and assignments and new ways to think about writing. I miss writing for an audience that isn’t myself.
At the same time, I don’t miss writing. I don’t miss being stressed out and hyped up physically on caffeine while dying inside my brain from exhaustion. I don’t miss the embarrassment of my professor’s Obliterating black marker, or the fear of having a classmate judge their worth against mine. I don’t miss being a slave to timezones to get a role-play-game contribution finished before a forum closed, or counting thread views like dollar signs to signify my self worth.
I guess I miss the discourse. I miss the camaraderie, of both other writers and the story lines I used to reel in and spin into complexities with ease.
I suppose it could be like riding a bike, I just have to get back on it.
“Icarus. The original myth had two parts. Daedalus said to his son, ‘I fashioned these wings for you. Two rules. Don’t fly too high, or the sun will melt the wax. But, more important, son, don’t fly too low. Because if you fly too low, the water and the waves will surely weigh down the wings, and you will die.’ We’ve left out the second part of the myth. We don’t say to people anymore, ‘Don’t fly too low.’ All we do from the time they are 4 years old is warn them against hubris. We have created this industrially led structure that says: How dare you.”
Seth Godin (via operationdeitas)
Attempting to replicate previous feelings of excitement and romantic joy can only end in the replication of associated heartbreak and sadness.
I smelled a smell the other day...
the nose knows mom’s cooking grandma’s house your best friend’s shampoo your lover’s favourite scent
and hangs onto this knowledge even long after the heart and the head have forgotten
so my writing prof had us do an exercise last week based off of Lorna Crozier’s Book of Marvels, which is where the thing I just posted came from. Once I’m done the last of my projects I’m hoping I’ll actually get my act together and keep this writing blog up more regularly; I want to (re)start with some of my own marvels, which I’m going to do based off of random words.
so feel free to send me some marvels to write lil things about, or you know, leave me any other writing prompts/ideas and I’ll see them after finals are done in mid-April! :3
until
you can’t pick fruit until it’s ripe or go to the grocery store until you put your shoes on. you can’t wear the dress until you lose some wight, nor walk the stage until you graduate; you can’t understand until you think about it - and you can’t run until you walk.
but you can write until the page is full, or mix pancake batter until it’s fluffy; you can laugh until you cry, and cry until it’s funny again. you can run until the send of the earth, or dance until you’re weary; you can sing until your voice gives out.
you can love until it hurts, and you can hurt until you’re loved.
most of all, you live
until
you die.
Reflections on Being a Writing Tutor
Today a girl brought her poetry into the writing centre.
She first apologized for not having the essay that her appointment booking promised, but in all honesty I didn't mind. I was sleepy, and perhaps not in the best state of mind since my midterms ended today and I'm not having much in terms of those smartypants thoughts lately.
She proceeded to show me a short story she is working on to ask for feedback. I had her read aloud, as I usually do with my clients who bring me drafts, and we started talking. I was energized as I was reminded of how my Creative Writing professor must feel whenever he sits down in class with the dozen of us every Tuesday evening.
"Unpack your clichés," I told her. "Make them more interesting instead of the same old thing."
She quickly started showing me her poetry, telling me that she was accepted recently into the Business School (a second-year transfer program), but that she had just been told by her English professor about the Creative Writing program offered by the Faculty of Arts. I delightedly told her all I know about WRITE, the WIP writing club on campus, and how she could go about applying for the programs.
I live for the look that was on her face as I told her about all the resources that are out there in the university and Edmonton communities. And I love to hear that I'm helpful in the way that she said "My friends just tell me that I'm good, but never tell me what I can improve on." I can only hope I would have done Ted proud, one creative writer to another.
Another girl, an engineer-to-be, brought me an English paper later. My specialty. We talked about breaking apart paragraphs to build them back up with stronger arguments and less fluffy filler. All I did was guide the conversation, an advisor over her shoulder. She was grinning the whole time, and picked up on her own problems quickly -- all I had to do was give her one explanation and she started fixing it all on her own.
These kinds of moments are why I want to work in some kind of higher education and maybe even grade school education later. I just wanna keep helping people learn, and keep connecting them with their own ideas and others' complimentary ones.
Hi, so I was scrolling aimlessly through the running tag and I came across your piece on running- you have put my own feelings about running into words. I found it really moving. Thanks x
omg thank you! that's really nice to hear. :) I actually wrote that years ago and posted it on my personal blog, but i haven't updated this one nearly as much as I should be doing, so i figured re-publishing some old stuff is good in the meantime. i'm glad to have made you feel something. :3 ganginterrobang
Running
There was nothing more that I wanted to do than just to run away.
Or perhaps to just run, because running was something that I could actually wrap my head around. Running was the simple – relatively speaking – act of moving one’s legs in long strides in order to carry oneself somewhere.
Well, usually that’s what it was.
Right now a treadmill would be, at the very least, nice. At the very least. Right now I didn’t care if I had to run on a track in circles, as long as I would be able to feel the movement of air and that mock-feeling of going someplace would be preferable. Because it wasn’t as if there was actually anywhere to go in the first place. This place was so bloody small, it was amazing that there was even a circuit that I could take to go running at all.
The point was that there was nowhere else for me to go. No one seemed to want me around or anything, and it wasn’t as if I was going to hassle them with my damn presence if they were going to be so un-subtle about it in the first place. I didn’t want to be anyone’s burden. But at the same time, I wished that I could be – be someone’s something to worry the hell about. I wanted to snuggle up into bed and just disappear; but at the same time my own pride wouldn’t let me just give up the things I had worked hard on, even if it wasn’t really that much.
I was trapped between loving and hating my own damn mediocrity.
That was where the running came in. Running was simple, running was animalistic, running was freedom in the form of a pair of shoes. Not even. Running across sand was better – harder, required more effort and more balance and more self-awareness – but it was better, and especially in bare feet. It didn’t exactly help that I was landlocked now, but that didn’t matter. At the very least I had a pair of runners and a I had a makeshift track to run on, and so, like any other day when things were just going to shit, that was where I headed, running my way there, just so I could keep running there, in circles, in circles, in circles.
My heart thudding in my ears as I reached the track, which was really just a scarcely used, probably abandoned considering the state of the goalposts, old soccer field, I didn’t oblige my screaming muscles, or acknowledge the burning in my lower joints in my hips, knees, ankles. My feet were hot and sweaty and starting to get uncomfortable, but I ignored it all. My throat was dry, but despite the fact that there was water available in a bottle in the bag that I had dropped at the goalposts now on the far side of the field, I didn’t go for it. It was probably warm anyway.
It was just a feeling of falling, falling, falling, that had started in the base of my skull, worked its way down my neck, fixed itself into my throat, making it seize. From there it had slipped down to my stomach like ice, making me frozen at my core; giving me a feeling of nausea that didn’t quite amount to me actually vomiting – but enough to make me feel that stubborn finger that stabbed at me from the inside that made me feel weak even though I knew I wasn’t.
Except then it overcame me, and a stopped running, my legs buckling, slowing the pace of the run to a walk, til I finally just collapsed onto the ground, falling onto my knees, rolling over onto my back, laying spread-eagled on the dried gray grass like the victim of a drive-by shooting, staring at the sky as clouds lazily crawled through the bright azure abyss. I was going to pay for this later – like anything else in the world, the hard running of laps came at the price of sore, burning muscles the day after.
But damn, this felt good.
Adrenaline pumping, I let my heartbeat slow down a bit – let my breathing rate return to somewhat normal, and took a few more moments after this before I got up again. Thighs and calves already starting to ache in protest, I picked up the jog again before the clouds could catch up to me. Not the real ones – the ones that hovered over my head whenever I happened to stop. Things like school. Like work. Like balancing that, friends, family, and all the pressures and expectations that came along with all of those, too.
-February 4, 2010
Things You Don't Text To Your Exes
"I still have blog post drafts of the things you said to me with bright lights in your eyes that gave me butterflies."
"Anytime I hear the songs that played the first time we hooked up in the backseat of your car, I start to feel tremendously turned on… until I start to feel tremendously sad."
"I visited the place where you broke my heart again today, thinking it’d gone back to being just a spot. It’s not."
"I sometimes miss dating you for the fact that your bathtub is big enough to be a hiding place from my feelings."
"Everything still reminds me of you. I break my heart on thoughts of you every day even knowing that you probably don't even think of me anymore. I'm still hoping that you do."
how many times will i contemplate asking you if you're okay before you understand I just wanna be your friend?
I got so damn close-- and then the part of my brain that decides the film reel of my dreams signed a contract with the part of my heart that still misses you.
Everything was puppies and hand holding (literally) and while I was asleep I was the happiest I've been in awhile until I woke up with a balled-up blanket, not you, in my arms.
And it's back to the drawing board for the rest of me now. Until I get that damn close again -- who knows?
What I Said: Hi I miss your face and it sucks
What I Meant: Missing you is agony and I'm afraid that seeing you will be worse, but I don't know if I can keep going on without closure that I don't think I can stop wanting either please send help
this blog has really just become a place where i complain about missing my ex even though it's been twice as long since we broke up than we dated so why the FUCK does everything still hurt this much