Stu: So uhhh... my question is: my friend keeps on going into the pantry and grabbing handfuls of fettuccine... uncooked...
Sidney: I would hope they're not grabbing handfuls of cooked fettuccine!
Tatum: In your pantry!
Stu: Yeah... and eating them raw, and they keep calling them 'chips'. ... How do I make them stop?
Sidney: Is your friend here?
Stu, motioning to Billy: Yeah.
Sidney, to Billy: You're a monster! Words MEAN things! >:(
Randy: Does anybody remember- I haven't been to Olive Garden in many moons- but they DO have a like- fettuccine bottle that you can just- grab em out of and chew-
Randy: HOLD ON. WAS THIS A PRANK YOU GUYS PULLED ON ME WHEN WE WENT TO OLIVE GARDEN AS KIDS?!
Randy: NO, STOP. EVERYBODY SHUT UP. DO THEY GIVE YOU RAW FETTUCCINE TO CHEW ON IN THE LOBBY OF THE OLIVE GARDEN
Everyone else: No.
Randy, to Sidney and Tatum: YOU FUCKIN BASTARDS
Sidney: YAAAAAAAAY!
Tatum: THE PRESTIGE!
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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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why does watered down root-beer taste kinda like bubblegum?
either that or it leaves the same texture in my mouth
i dunno-
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i'm sorry but i cannot stop thinking about it for reallll imagine you're richer than god and never had to face consequences for anything and you have so much money you don't even know what to do with it so you toss a quarter million at the stupidest tourism option on earth. and you see that the paper you have to sign tells you you could die and you look at the flimsy metal tube you're going to be plummeting into the ocean in and it doesn't even phase you because bad things don't happen to people like you. imagine some hours into the journey you realise something is wrong. maybe not you but somehow the knowledge that there was a fuckup becomes known to the 5 of you trapped in there. and you know you can't get out from the inside and you know you have no food and no bathroom and not even the room to ever stand up again. when does the realisation that your wealth cannot protect you from your inevitable mortality set in. how does someone like that reconcile with both death and the fact that it's 100% their own doing? can someone like this even come to terms with that or will they be fighting to find someone to blame until the last second? when does it reach you that all 5 of you are going to die one by one and there's nothing you can do? does the fact that 5 of you have enough air until thursday but one of you could have enough air until at least next week ever cross anyone's mind.
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putting my prediction on record now that the coming decade is going to see the rise of viral-marketed fancy at-home water filtration systems, driving and driven by a drastic reduction in the quality of U.S. tap water (given that we are in a 'replacement era' where our current infrastructure is reaching the end of its lifespan--but isn't being replaced). also guessing that by the 2030s access to drinkable tap water will be a mainstream class issue, with low-income & unstably housed people increasingly forced to rely on expensive bottled water when they can't afford the up-front cost of at-home filtration--and with this being portrayed in media as a "moral failing" and short-sighted "choice," rather than a basic failure of our political & economic systems. really hope i'm just being alarmist, but plenty of this already happens in other countries, and the U.S. is in a state of decline, so. here's praying this post ages into irrelevance. timestamped April 2023
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