So little personal post today...but today makes six months since my Fiancé passed. It still doesn't feel real.
But he was the reason why I started writing again. My fiancé was the biggest supporter of my writing and encouraged me to start posting my fics again after 5 years of not writing.
So thank you so much love, for inspiring me to write again and sharing my writing with the world.
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.
What I've realized is that I believe that the matter of gender is practical and relational. It's not about who you are inside, it's more about how you would feel most comfortable in the world. It's not 'Who are you?' but 'How do you want to live?'
Had that been the discourse when I was coming up, I would have breathed a sigh of relief. I don't have to figure out who I am on the inside, I just have to figure out how I want to live.
[image description: A grayscale Trigun comic featuring Vash and Wolfwood.
Against a black background, child Vash floats in Ship 5, curled up and with his thumb pressed to his mouth. Heartbeat noises sound around him, and he looks at peace. The background shifts to white and shows adult Vash, sitting shirtless with his knees pulled up to his chest. The heartbeat sound continues only to be interrupted by knocking. Wolfwood, from outside the bathroom, asks, "Hey blondie! You fell asleep in there?"
The scene expands to reveal Vash sitting curled up in the bathtub, shower spraying on the back of his head. His clothes are left aimlessly on the bathroom counter and floor. From outside the bathroom, Wolfwood, shrugging of his jacket, continues, "… The sand steamer leaves at dawn tomorrow so don't take all night. I'm not waking you up gently if you're late." Vash's eyes continue to look downward, glazed and unfocused. Step sound effects and a yawn sound from outside the bathroom before Wolfwood says, "'m going to bed…". In the tub, Vash sits curled up against a dark background, before eventually lifting his head and unfurling himself as the background grows lighter.
He twists around to turn off the shower and then looks at the floor, going, "Ah." He sits, thinking, before calling out "Wolfwood?". A sleepy Wolfwood replies, "…yeah?" from offscreen. "I forgot my towel!" Vash exclaims. "Ugh, look under your change of clothes… Knew you'd forget so I left it there…" a grouchy Wolfwood replies. "Gee, thanks!" Vash replies, a cartoony doodle of him saying "so reliable!".
Vash, shirtless but with sleep pants on, opens the door, towel draped over his head, to see Wolfwood, reclining on the bed. Wolfwood's smoking and holding his rosary, lit by the light from the bathroom. Vash climbs into bed next to him, towel still around his shoulders, and rests his head on Wolfwood's chest. His eyes close and then open to see Wolfwood watching him. Vash exclaims, "Oh! It's speeding up!, and Wolfwood bonks him on the head before saying, "Get on here since ya wanna be so up close 'n personal!". The two tussle briefly and Vash laughs before Wolfwood tucks the blanket around them. Wolfwood continues to smoke as Vash curls up against his chest and listens to his heartbeat, the background turning black once again as he smiles, content. /end id]
i know people are good because of this: the universe often assigns me side quests. in a circular strangeness; despite my inability to locate my-own-anything, i am almost-always finding someone else's lost things. dogs, coats, phones, cash, laptops. it happens so often it's almost tiring; suddenly being looped into a tiny amount of detective work.
but when i'm with other people who are not used to this: the response is almost invariably delight. yes, maybe they are simply thrilled by the mystery. it's just... they light up so much. i think maybe more... i think they like the opportunity to do something kind.
a few weeks ago, i was at a bar and i found a wallet as soon as we stepped outside. i felt nervous to ask for help, worried i would be holding up the night. i picked it up and said go on without me, i should help this get back to its home.
instead, three people pulled out their phones - to find him on facebook, to help cancel his credit cards. two people went back into the bar to tell the bartender, two others went calling down the street. group texts, facebook posts, instagram stories. people, without even seeing what happened, start offering help to me. fifteen minutes and: someone knows someone who knows the guy. the cheer that went up - just for finding him, just for this small thing. someone gets him on the phone. strangers dance around me, hopping on their feet - are you the girl that found that wallet? good for you, that's a good thing you're doing/same thing happened to me and somebody did what you're doing and i thank god everyday for people like you/i can't believe you found him so fast this is so exciting
i gave it back to him in a parking lot. i watched his shoulders sag with relief. there was cash in it still - he checked the pocket, and then sheepishly held the money out to me. i didn't take it. i held up my hands. "it's no problem, man. i know you'd do the same for me."
i don't know him, to be honest. i don't know if he is the same kind of person i am. but he nodded at me.
and i know people are good. i know people are good, because the way this story ends isn't surprising. we wave goodbye awkwardly. my friend loops their arm around me.
"i can't believe we got it back to him," they said. "i'm going to be riding that high for weeks."