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Thursday, December 10, 2015

October 2015: Tinder Cats, and Other Happenings

(I haven't journaled since October? Woah. I kind of stopped journaling when I was reminded that people can see what you post online -- that was a scary thought. But hey, here we are).
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Found this poem on Tumblr:
My creative writing professor told me to stop writing about love.
I asked him why and he said
“because you have turned it over and over in your hands,
felt every angle, every fault, every inch, every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.”I spent the next 3 weeks writing about
science and space. Stars exploding. Getting sucked into a black hole. How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness without being annihilated. What an exploding star would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks under our tongue.

My creative writing professor told me that those poems weren’t what he was looking for.
He tells me to stop writing about outer space. Stop writing about science.
Again, I ask him why. Again , he says “You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother, how we are told we can’t make homes inside of other human beings, but the foreclosure sign on my mother’s empty womb tells me that women who give birth know a different, more painful truth.
My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty, a walking circus with no animals inside but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip selling popcorn in the entrance-way.
He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I don’t ask why. I pick up my books and my notepad and I leave his office with my war stories tucked under my tongue like an exploding star, like the taste of the last person I ever loved, like my mother’s baby thermometer, and I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers, the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in. We are all carrying stones in our pockets and tossing them back and forth in our hands, trying to explain the heaviness
and we will never stop writing about love, about black holes, about how quiet it must have been inside the chaos of my mother’s belly, inside the chaos of his arms, inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem I have ever written.
None of this is ruined.
Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is
my creative writng professor told me to stop writing about love | Caitlyn Siehl 
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J: "I saw a cat on Tinder. I swiped right on that!"
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R's Mom has started saying "or something" like Ben, and I love it/Rachel's Mom so much. Oh my goodness.
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People always talk about the fun things they do when they have the room to themselves, when all I do when S and C are gone is do my homework in our room and aggressively lipsynch to Tegan and Sara songs.
(I told R this story, and she was like, "The hot, gay identical twins? Yess. Them).
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This is precious! 
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Dodie Clark is precious, oh my goodness. I'm actually dying. 

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For some reason, I find this super amusing, but I find the comment that it was reblogged with even more amusing (from Liam Dryden):
I almost can’t believe this is only a day old. There’s something about it that’s like… it has the vibe of the kind of *good* content that got me into YouTube in, like, 2007?
Like there’s no exhausting “thanks for watching be sure to check out my last video here and my collab with this person here and find links to preorder my book below and leave a comment about ur mom and subscribe to join the #squad” at the end, this person isn’t pulling mad views (this is literally already their second most viewed video!); their channel is seven years old and just !!! This is just a creative person putting out content on a platform for seven years for the sake of it and has somehow let the industrialisation of YouTube completely pass them by and holy crap it must be protected at all costs
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