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andmaybegayer · 4 years

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Long Poetry Wallowposting

One of my favourite poems is William Carlos Williams’ “Red Wheelbarrow” (or “XXII” if you’re being dipshit about it), not because it’s an exceptional poem, but because of the circumstances surrounding the first time I read it.

In 2015 I convinced two of my friends to join me for a multidisciplinary academic competition thing. One of the rounds was the independent essay, which has an interesting twist: your team of three gets all three essay topics (critique a given essay, write an essay on a topic, and analyze a poem) and you have 30 minutes to discuss and split the topics before a 90 minute solo writing period.

(I could write another extended post about the bureaucratic shenanigans I went through surrounding that competition, someone remind me to tell that story sometime.)

I don’t remember what the other two topics were, but the poem was to analyze William Carlos Williams’ “Red Wheelbarrow”, a poem which looks like this:

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens

Now, I got roped into this competition by a teacher who I did not know and who gave us no more detail other than “Get a team of 3 together and I’ll vouch for you to skip a day of school and attend this competition” so we did not know that there was actually a published list of poems, books and artpieces that you should have studied before coming to this competition, including John Campbell’s “Hero with a thousand faces” and Jeff Koons’ “Puppy”.

So we were in for this Sight Unseen, No Background. We didn’t even know who Williams was.

Fortunately for me, my friends are horrible nerds. We’re not the dead poets society but we were still the kind of people who, bored in the back of english class, would write short poems and read each other’s shitty writing and who had fun proving that the integral of e^x was e^x and we took part in OTHER competitions and would show off obscure academic skills to each other and we thought that was cool. We were not lost at sea here.

So we stare at this for a second. With zero context, what the hell does this mean. Chicken is an implicitly funny word, of course, but that’s the 2000′s talking and this must be the 1900′s sometime. The enjambment is interesting but nothing crazy here, this isn’t e.e. cummings (not a fan by the way) and so, there’s really not a lot to look at. We spent ten minutes throwing ideas back and forth before almost simultaneously coming to the conclusion. This is just a scene, being described in poetry.

We discuss this idea for a few more minutes, and we allocate the actual writing of the essay to a friend (I messaged him about this to make sure I had my story straight) and then time was up, and we turned to our individual essays.

Reader-response analysis is a school of literary theory that is, some would say, kinda garbage. It asks the reader “what did that work make you think of, what did that work make you feel” and treats that as ground truth. The reader is an active element in this, and the way the reader feels is of course very flexible, leading many people to conclude that it is useless, since the reader is an unknown quantity here. Well, reader-response analysis is not actually garbage and can be a very useful tool in your literary toolkit if used appropriately. We all found we had the same reader’s response: a clear mental image of a scene. Maybe the floor is gravel, maybe it’s grass. There is a wheelbarrow leaned up against a shed, gleaming with the last drops of rain. A chicken pecks around nearby, with more close at hand. The smell of a heavy night of rain persists, the light is the bright cold glow of a wet morning that can shine without burning off the dew just yet.

So, that’s what we found. There’s no deeper meaning here. This poem is simply conveying to you the idea. We, of course, being dweebs, took it further. Attempting to find deeper meaning in this poem demonstrates an inability to take information at face value. Sometimes the pipe is just a pipe. Sometimes the red wheelbarrow is just a red wheelbarrow.

Turns out, that analysis is correct. At the time this was written, Williams was busy doing Imagism, which means he was being economical with words and precise with meaning. The poem is short because it needn’t be long. There’s some chickens and a wheelbarrow. The Wikipedia article for this poem is hilarious, there’s a section of quotes from people who believed there was a deep hidden meaning about a dying child Williams had cared for (he was a doctor) who had a red wheelbarrow as a toy. This explanation is nonsense, and I have rarely enjoyed reading someone being wrong as much as I have enjoyed reading phrases like:

At the time, I remember being mystified by the poem. However, being properly trained in literary criticism, I wondered what the real meaning of the poem was, what it was really about. ... What is left out of Williams' poem is the fact that when he conceived that image he was sitting at the bedside of a very sick child (Williams was a medical doctor). The story goes that as he sat there, deeply concerned about the child, he looked out the window, saw that image, and penned those words.

Of course you can't figure it out by studying the text. The clues aren't there. This poem was meant to be appreciated only by a chosen literary elite, only by those who were educated, those who had learned the back story (Williams was a doctor, and he wrote the poem one morning after having treated a child who was near death. The red wheelbarrow was her toy.)

and knowing that, you’re all wrong, get fucked. It’s just a wheelbarrow. According to Williams himself, he just saw this scene in a fisherman’s backyard and wrote a poem about the scene. I looked all this up the day after the competition, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt as good about a literary analysis.

Now don’t get me wrong, the curtains are sometimes blue for a reason. But in this case, absent any information indicating otherwise, the wheelbarrow really is just red because that’s what the author saw. In some cases you can draw additional meaning out of a work but it requires just as much discipline to read deeply as to prevent yourself reading too deep. We avoided the trap.

I think about this poem infrequently, maybe once every couple months. I can still recall it from memory. It is still an influential point of reference whenever I try to write something. I tried writing some Imagist works in high school, and I had those same friends read them. They thought I might prefer realism instead. Unfortunately it turns out that most of the time, I don’t find realism to be the best fit.

XXII by William Carlos Williams is a good poem, but maybe, not for you.

#poetry #literature #the red wheelbarrow #kali's life #william carlos williams

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road2nf · 4 years

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I stopped the video and just sat there.

One of the most important aspects of my life is the way John and Hank impact my life, every day.

Without them, I would not be the person I am today. In elementary and middle school, I was the kid that, whenever a question was asked, my hand would shoot up and I’d be on the edge of my seat waiting for my teacher to call on me. I was just so excited to learn: to know the answer and to feel as if I had accomplished something. Yet, as my curiosity for learning grew, my loneliness grew. This one joy that made up a good portion of who I am was also the one thing that increased my separation from others. People didn’t understand how I could love learning.

Eventually, my classmates deemed me the nickname of Hermione. This was at the point where pop-culture wise, Hermione was still a frizzy-haired know-it-all-socially-awkward-nerd, not the badass-punch-Malfoy- in-the-face-fancy-Yule-Ball Hermione. As much as I admired her character, it became a regular thing. It stung to become a social pariah. Even though they were just dorky pre-teens, they were my peers and could diminish my self worth. I reached a point where I began to lose myself. I had to find a way to change their mind about me, like I was worth being around and funny and clever and not, God forbid, a nerd.

Slowly, I started to raise my hand less and less, I spent more time on the things my classmates were doing, my grades declined, and I even reached the point where I wouldn’t even pick up books. I hid all my novels behind the books on the shelf in my dad’s office. That way, if people spent the night, they would not see me for what I truly was…a “nerd.” I felt the urge to reassure people that I was like everybody else, just like everybody else. A false, perfect, socially acceptable image covered up the real me. Nothing I could see or do could bring me joy. I knew this was not my real self. This truth ate away at me. Yet, I had no way to escape it. I was stuck in a labyrinth of my own creation with no visible exit.

Freshman year was one of the hardest times of my life because I had to spend all my energy pretending to be something I was not. I made it through the year and it was finally summer. On July 26th, I was looking at something on Facebook; an acquaintance had posted about this documentary in process called “Life in a Day” by producer Ridely Scott. My curiosity was piqued and I looked it up on YouTube. I wanted to get a feel about what this project was so I picked the first video on the list. It had a thumbnail of a greyhound, was entitled, “Hank’s Life in a Day,” and posted by someone named Vlogbrothers. It was nothing special, just a guy talking about a summer day in Missoula, Montana. He filmed the farmers market, community garden, hanging with old friends, and water parks. It sounds like it would have been an extremely boring video but I thought it was a nice moment. It was the way he was talking about the deeper meaning in the everyday joys that struck me.

Hank, during one part of the video answered the question, “What are you most afraid of?” and said, “I most fear that the wonderful way I live my life today will ruin life for generations of people to come.” I stopped the video and just sat there staring at my computer screen. I felt as I hadn't felt for ages. I'd realized when was the last time I even took a moment to think? Did I ever look inside? I had just been floating through my life for the past couple of years hoping that if I made other people like me, I’d like myself. That being with other people and not being myself somehow felt better than being myself and being alone. I had not even spent a single moment processing something other than how people perceived me.

I kept watching and discovered this Hank had a brother named John, a novelist. During that afternoon I watched a plethora of videos and learned there were hundreds and hundreds more. They had videos about The Great Gatsby, songs about quarks, the French Revolution, the Webb Space Telescope, and even conversations with the grammatically incompetent Snooki. They were doing all of this stuff that had something to do with learning and they were proud of it. They were encouraging learning by being silly and serious, educational and entertaining. I got excited every day I knew a new video was going to be posted, and my love of learning was reignited. However, I still felt ashamed of my want for knowledge.

One day, I came across a video where John stated, “Why is being a nerd bad? Saying ‘I notice you're a nerd’ is like saying ‘Hey, I notice that you'd rather be intelligent than stupid, that you'd rather be thoughtful than vapid, that you believe there are things that matter more than the arrest record of Lindsay Lohan.’ Why is that? Hank, when people call people nerds mostly what they're saying is ‘you like stuff ’ which is just not a good insult at all, like, ‘you are too enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness.’” As I watched I noticed something about the way I was feeling: for the first time in a long time, I saw and heard and felt all sorts of things I'd missed for years... for the first time since leaving my love of learning in the dust, I felt sort of happy. Somehow, I started to get out of this funk I had been in for close to three years. There was no evangelical revelation, no intervention by my family, no self-realization, it was just watching these videos and feeling accepted and appreciated for what I do.

I have role models in my home. I have role models in my school. I have role models in my church. Yet two of the most influential people in my life are two brothers who live in Missoula, Montana and Indianapolis, Indiana that make videos for the Internet. Through their encouragement to be cerebral rather than shallow, to see myself as creative, smart, special, and worth it, I’ve become a person who is comfortable with who I am. Sometimes it still stings to get called a nerd but then I just remember the Nerdfighteria motto; “Don’t forget to be awesome.” So that’s what I’m doing now, striving for truth, wisdom, and knowledge while being awesome. What I learned from them reminds me of an e.e. cummings quote in which he writes “To be nobody but yourself in a world, which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else. That’s the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.”

Emma Pindell (@thelonelycamera)

#NFstories #nerdfighters #nerdfighteria #nerdiness #DFTBA #happy #awesome #nerd #role models #John #Hank #Vlogbrothers

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desperationandgin · 5 years

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Deep as the Road is Long (Part II, Chapter 16)

Rating: General Audiences

Also Read on: AO3

Previous Chapter

A/N: Surprise! A bonus chapter. I realize I haven't gone through and replied to anyone's comments for the last chapter that was posted. I need to and I will, but in the meantime, I wanted to offer a chapter early as my sincere and heartfelt gratitude. The feedback has been passionate all the way around regarding this story whether readers have been frustrated with Jamie, sad for him (sad for both of them) or firmly on Claire's side. I know I've said this before, but I really didn't think anyone would ever read a story with this specific subject matter; I was just writing it for me. So, I'm really touched and floored at the reception of it all. Here's hoping I stick the landing, and here's to goodbye to Part 2!

Thank you all so, so much from the bottom of my heart. Part 3 begins on Thursday.

December 2016

When the monitors began to pick up the rhythm in which they beeped, when Faith’s breathing changed, Claire knew. She’d yelled, that much she remembers, the screaming for Jamie, for someone to find him. Without thinking, she’d climbed right onto the bed with the little girl, reached out to touch her cheek, to beg her not to go, not yet. There were no life-saving measures performed; that hurdle and those signatures from Jamie to not resuscitate had been taken care of two weeks ago. And so, all Claire could do was hold Faith as she took her final breath, unable to process that it happened, that she was gone. The only sound was the single tone until Jamie thundered in, looking like a complete mad man, eyes wild as he took in the scene in front of him. Never in her life had she felt so much like nothing, trying to apologize while cradling his dead daughter.

Eventually, she’d moved so that he could take over, pulling Faith to his body and crying in a way that was so loud and so guttural Claire thought he might die, too. In the immediate days afterward, she tried telling herself she’d lost patients before, that she’d been the witness to more parents’ tears of agony than she could remember, but even with that thought, she knew this was different. Different because she’d started to fall in love with Jamie and she already loved Faith. The pain, at that time, was unmatched by anything she’d ever felt in her life. Even her husband’s death. When the police notified her of Frank’s accident she’d felt numb, felt nothing for such a long time. When it happened, she couldn’t imagine anything that would ever feel worse.

She learned after Faith’s funeral, there’s always a worse.

She’d been able to feel it, the shift between her and Jamie. Claire knew it was only a matter of time before he told her to go. To his credit, he never said that, exactly.

Your best wasna good enough.

When he said it she’d known he was right; the rest of the fight (could she even call it that?) was a blur to her, registering his words and letting them settle on her heart. After getting on the plane back home, she’d cried (her poor seatmate) until the flight attendant brought whisky minis and an extra pillow. Sleep for the duration of the flight was fitful, but once she was home she’d collapsed in bed and hadn’t moved for twelve hours. The harsh light of day only served to bring into focus what she couldn’t do anymore: treat terminally ill children. Not until Faith died in her arms did Claire realize how many devastating moments she had already been witness to, and couldn’t bear the idea of going through more. She hadn’t stopped second-guessing herself, wondering if she’d done the right thing, if the treatment had been the right course. For an entire day, she’d pored over Faith’s chart and all of her medical records; it did nothing to help, nothing to ease Claire’s mind. She should have recommended surgery or donor stem-cells; anything but what she’d done.

The doubt hadn’t left by the time she returned to work and she knew the second she stepped foot in her office that this branch of medicine wasn’t something she could physically do anymore. That was the day she spoke to her direct superior and decided to take a leave of absence at the hospital, knowing upon her return (if she returned) it wouldn’t be to that wing. All of her current patients and courses of treatment were explained and passed on to the only doctor she knew would give the same level of care - Joe Abernathy. He was a good man, and as they’d hugged, he’d kissed the side of her head, knowing (even if he didn’t know) this last death had done a number on her. With one more sweep of her office, Claire’d left, gone home, and hadn’t returned. She’d always been good with money; it was the one thing her Uncle Lamb had never worried over in regards to her well-being. She had the rest of Lamb’s money to live on for a while, everything she’d inherited when he died, along with Frank’s life insurance money. All she’d done with the latter was pay for the funeral, everything else has been in a savings account, waiting for the day it could be put to good use.

June was spent doing as little as possible, not letting herself drink anymore but not doing much else in the self-care department. Tears seemed to turn on like a switch being flipped; dinner one night was pizza ordered in, and all it’d done was make her sob for two hours before going to bed without eating a single slice.

In July, she decided she wasn’t ready, that going to work wasn’t something she could stomach yet, and so she’d turned in her phone, the phone that technically belonged to the hospital. When she’d finally made the decision to replace it she was asked if all of her contacts should be imported to her new device, if her photos should be. With hesitation, she’d finally said yes to keeping everything; photos of Faith and Jamie. Jamie’s number. She’d kept it all even though looking at the pictures did nothing but hurt.

Finally, in August, Claire knew she couldn’t avoid making an income again, and so she’d applied for and accepted a job as a general practitioner in a pediatrician’s office. Sore throats and objects stuffed in noses, healthy babies at normal checkups, that’s what she could handle. It worked out, it eased her mind, and slowly she fell into a routine again that was hardly living. She existed in the world, and it would have to be enough. She wasn’t making decisions anyone put all of their hope into, she didn’t have to watch anyone suffer because she did something wrong. Weeks passed; she went to work, saw her patients, and went home. Forgiving herself was slow going, but eventually, the pressure in her chest eased just a little.

And then Jamie called.

It was early on an October morning; Fridays the doctor’s office was closed, so she was home when his name flashed on her caller ID. Jesus H. Christ. Mostly, she’d listened after she picked up. His words registered, that he didn’t truly blame her, but the way he’d looked at her when he said it--he’d meant it then. Maybe he didn’t believe it anymore, but he had then. She heard him say she hadn’t let him down around the same time she’d started to cry. He promised to call again, and he had. He’d called the next day, then the next. Sometimes they didn’t say much, just sat on the line with static between them. Other times they spoke in circles around Faith, not saying her name, but remembering.

By the time December rolls around, they’ve spoken every single night since late October, never missing, even if the conversations are short. They FaceTime every now and again, and when her phone rings today, she can see it’s for video. Looking at herself in her phone camera she groans at hair that’s a mess piled on top of her head, the reading glasses she’s wearing and the ratty t-shirt with holes she has on. He’s caught her cleaning, but still, she accepts the call.

“Good morning,” she greets him, holding the phone out. She has to puzzle out what’s filling the screen on his end, tilting her head from side to side before giving up. “What am I looking at?”

Jamie’s face finally comes into view and he sits back. She recognizes the room he’s in, the library at Lallybroch with all of its old books and secrets. “Afternoon, technically,” he corrects for his own time zone. Then, he shows her the book she’d had an extreme close-up of. “I’ve been going through the books, trying to make some sort of catalog so we know what we have,” he explains. “And this one, well. I thought perhaps ye might like it as a gift.”

She can see the author is e.e. cummings and raises an eyebrow. “A gift for me, really?”

“Aye. Because it’s an original edition.”

That gets her full attention, and Claire frowns in disbelief. “Jamie, why would you give that to me? You should keep it. That has to be valuable, or at least mean something to your family.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I thought that, until I started to read and--” he pauses, looking down at the book in his hand now, swallowing.

“What, Jamie?”

There’s quiet for a few beats before his gaze meets the camera again. “I started to read it and everything reminded me of ye. So, I thought the book should belong to you instead.”

A lump feels lodged in her throat and when she finds her words again, they’re quietly spoken. “Which poems?”

“Och, Christ, dinna ask me that,” he says in a rare show of, well. Not quite embarrassment, even though his cheeks do turn a little pink.

“I can’t take something from your home without knowing.”

There’s a long pause before finally, he opens the book and simply begins to read. She doesn’t recognize the words, but his voice and soothing lilt make her heart, for the first time in months, unclench a bit.

“My blood approves and kisses are a better fate than wisdom. Lady, I swear by all the flowers. Don’t cry--the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids’ flutter which says we are for each other. Then laugh, leaning back in my arms. For life’s not a paragraph. And death, I think, is no parenthesis.”

By the time he finishes there are tears threatening to fall from her eyes, and she takes a deep breath, sniffling and brushing any moisture away. “Reminded you of me?” she reiterates.

“I want ye to have it. And perhaps ye could come get it.”

She isn’t sure of what he said, still too wrapped up in the poem. When it registers, she furrows her forehead. “Come and get it?”

Jamie clears his throat, quiet as he waits for it to sink it.

When it does, Claire’s eyes go wide. The last time she’d been to Scotland it changed everything she thought she knew about her life. “You want me to come there?”

“Aye, I do. But if ye canna do it, if I ruined it, if I...what I’m trying to say, Sassenach, is that I dinna want ye to be alone for Christmas. Everyone here would be glad to see ye.”

“You...you would be glad to see me?”

Jamie nods, his gaze intent. “I shouldn’t have let ye leave the first time.”

He’s apologized so many times, tried to make it right, what he’d said, what he’d done. She believes him now when he says she did her best, when he tells her that he knows there was nothing else she could have done. It doesn’t inspire her to pick up where she left off, though. She’s happier now, content to answer the questions of first-time parents and assure them they’re doing just fine. Still, even with forgiveness, she never thought Jamie would ask her back to Scotland, that they would ever share the same space again. She hears herself saying she’ll come, though as she lays in bed that night after purchasing a plane ticket, she can’t quite believe it.

She’d tried, a little more than a year ago now, to wrap her mind around her feelings for Jamie; the attraction was there, no doubt. Now as she lays in bed, she wonders if they fell into one another because he was sad and she took advantage of him as he sought some sort of anchor. If she hadn’t done exactly that, then was Faith the only link between them? Without her, and with her death leaving such a large hole in both of them, would there be anything left with Jamie to salvage? This trip, she knows, will give them both the answer either way.

When she arrives and makes it down to baggage claim she sees him right away; he’s hard to miss, giant that he is. Making her way to him, there’s a moment of not being sure whether or not to hug him before his arms wrap fully around her.

It’s the best she’s felt since February.

“It’s good to see ye, Claire. In person, I mean.”

When he pulls back she immediately feels bereft, but there’s a small smile playing on her lips. “It’s good to see you, Jamie. You look well.”

He walks with her to get her bag, turning his gaze to her. “Speaking of looking well. Were those glasses in the video last we spoke?”

Grabbing her suitcase, she raises an eyebrow. “They were. For reading. I had to bite that particular bullet in September.”

“I havena seen ye wearing them before,” he says, wracking his brain and going through every FaceTime conversation they’ve had since October.

“I never happened to be wearing them. The other day I was cleaning, going through bills and organizing paperwork.”

“Ye should do more paperwork when I call,” he teases lightly, taking her bag from her to carry.

He liked her glasses, and Claire ducks her head a little as she walks behind him a bit, letting him lead the way to his car. It’s still there, she thinks. Whatever it was, the embers are still warm. She remembers how he made her feel, what the guilt was like when he’d told her it was her fault and hers alone that Faith was gone. It doesn’t go away with smiles and conversation, but he is trying to fix it. Day by day, he tries to add another suture to the wound he made. She knows he’s trying, knows he sees a therapist twice a week. He’s trying, and rather than shut him out, her heart tells her not to give up on Jamie.

At Lallybroch, that same sense of family she felt the first time she ever stepped inside envelops her now. It makes her feel connected to something, close to people who’d treated her like family. Instead of Jenny needing to warm up to her, Jamie’s sister greets her like an old friend with a hug, Ian replicating the gesture. The children dogpile her as well; even young Michael who was so small back in May offers her grins and lets her hold him on her hip as they walk to the living room. Claire hadn’t been sure what to expect; everyone still in mourning, maybe because she felt that way for a long while. But there are so many smiles and so much lightness that a peace she’s never been able to find on her own settles against her like a blanket.

This is what healing with family does, and she suddenly, desperately, never wants to let it go.

Instead of staying in Jamie’s room, this time she has her own, and she crashes almost immediately, sleeping through until breakfast the next day. She lets the chatter of family around a table wash over her, and on a walk with Jamie afterward, confesses to him she’s never had that.

Somewhere between the house and the stables, Jamie stops walking, turning to look at her fully before lowering his head. Tentatively, his hand reaches out, index finger hooking around hers. “I ken ye’ve been alone for a verra long time, Claire. I’ve been waiting to say this, was hoping to do it face to face, but…” When he looks at her again, meets her eyes, his own look like a raging sea. “I left ye to go toe-to-toe wi’ the grief alone. I pushed ye away and sent ye home to nothing. That ye found your way out of the dark anyway is a miracle. It took Jenny and Ian both to get me there. So it leaves me to believe one thing about ye.” Raising her hand, he kisses her knuckles before finally letting her go. “You’re stronger than I am, Sassenach.”

There’s a lump in her throat that she can’t quite swallow, and she shakes her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’m still in the dark, Jamie. Or at least the shadows. I don’t know anymore.”

“And that’s my fault,” he tells her; not a question. An acceptance. “I’m no’ sure why you're even bothering to give me the time of day, truth be told. I never expected ye to answer the phone when I called, or to keep doing so after the first time we spoke. I can never do or say enough to make what I said right.”

“I changed my entire life because of what you said to me, Jamie.”

“Claire, I--”

“No. No, I need to say this. I need to talk now.” She has no idea where that comes from, but he respects it, and once he nods for her to continue, Claire clears her throat. “I changed my life. I couldn’t stop second-guessing myself, I couldn’t...stop questioning every decision I was making about treatment plans, which meant I couldn’t do my job. And that was your fault.”

His head bows but he doesn’t interrupt.

“It was also your fault that I started thinking about all of the times I might have to go through this again. In my job, the ideal, obviously, is to beat cancer, and I have before. I know I would have again. But one more loss like that...I don’t think I could do it. I don’t think I could go through it and make it to the other side a second time. So, it’s your fault I realized I need to do something different. I need to see the joys of life through a child, not fear and pain and sadness.”

Jamie steps forward when Claire stops speaking, tentatively reaching up to stroke her cheek with his thumb. It’s a light touch, hovering almost. “I hurt ye. And no matter what revelations came of it, that will no’ change. I would spend the rest of my life making it up to ye if I could. If ye’d let me.”

Claire looks at up him, bringing a hand to rest over his that’s still tucked close to her face. “Faith brought us together, Jamie.”

“Aye,” he whispers, slowly moving until his forehead can press against Claire’s. “I will no’ let her be the reason we’re apart. Stay in Scotland. Stay for a while until the darkness is gone and there are no more shadows.”

For a moment her eyes close and all she can do is breathe him in. But she feels herself nodding, nose grazing his.

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

Through the darkness to the dawn And when I looked back, you were gone. Heard your voice leading me on Through the darkness to the dawn. Love is deep as the road is long And it moves my feet to carry on. It beats my heart when you are gone. Love is deep as the road is long.

Next Chapter

#outlander fic #outlander #jamie x claire #jamie fraser #claire fraser #datril #deep as the road is long #my fic

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comicteaparty · 4 years

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July 4th-July 10th, 2020 Creator Babble Archive

The archive for the Creator Babble chat that occurred from July 4th, 2020 to July 10th, 2020. The chat focused on the following question:

What was an unexpected aspect of making webcomics you didn’t realize before making one yourself?

Krispy §[Ghost Junk Sickness]§

How much our comic and it's story we're going to change during the years of creation was the biggest and most jarring aspect for sure. There's scripts and thumbs that were all made before we ventured out to make GJS with paths completely different from what we initially thought we would take that have completely changed how we approach not only writing but reading webcomics too. Webcomics as a medium have the biggest connection to time, whether it be production or the consumption, they have this opportunity to exist and transform in the long hours it takes to enjoy and read them. It's honestly one of the biggest advantages imho. To see a story slowly unfold, listening to ur audience reactions, peer critiques, or new inspiration can make such a drastic and intense impact on a long form work- its both jaw dropping and humbling to be apart of!(edited)

Deo101 [Millennium]

For me it was the community aspect of comics. I knew a community existed on the reader side of things (comments!), but I didn't expect the creator side to be how it is! I don't know why, but for some reason I kind of always thought that all of us were sort of throwing our comics out from the void... I guess that was me looking at comics from a reader's point of view! But as soon as I started making comics, I started meeting people who made them too... and it's been incredible!

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

@deo I never really understood what an internet community or internet friends were until I started making a webcomic

Deo101 [Millennium]

Yeah, I had been in (and quickly decided to not be in 0_0) gaming communities, but nothing really as wonderful as what I've found through comics. Closest I had gotten other than that was comments on social media

Shizamura 🌟 O Sarilho

Community definitely one of the big things, much like Deo pointed. I was kinda expecting to have get connections through readers, but it's much more with other creators, which is super satisfying in it's own way. Also gonna second Krispy's comment about how time affects how you see your story's past and future. A lot of things changed in the past four years that made my comic change as well and having so much time to think each individual scene allows them to be much more complex and interesting than they would when I first thought them through. Having the time really helps. This also kinda touches the topic of personal change too, which affects how I write and what feels most important to focus on and that's interesting to think about as well

eliushi [Keyspace]

How long things will take, the longer the story goes on! I started out being able to complete a page in 2h but then I found more I wanted to try on each page (colours, layout, composition etc) and even wanted to extend certain scenes. With 500 pages planned, I definitely thought I’d be farther along by now, heading into AWT’s first year anniversary in a month. That being said, I’m also enjoying the ride and it’s all thanks to the great community here and making connections with other comics folks/readers. I never expected to get comments and so each one has been a treasure to read.

Desnik

An unexpected aspect of making webcomics is how much people respond to them. I figured I'd be creating into a void but I met so many people as a result of publishing my dinosaur comic

shadowhood {SunnyxRain}

Ditto on the webcomic community. I didn't realize how far reaching it was to have a community that supports each other. And I've enjoyed meeting so many wonderful and creative people who raised each other up. Another thing I didn't expect, however, was how invested I got into my comic.(edited)

At first I was doing it mostly for fun. But the more I delved into it, the easier it was to get sucked into my story and want to draw it out. And as a result taking it a lot more seriously.

Desnik

yeah sometimes I miss my dinosaur comic even though I had some pretty good reasons for moving on. It was created out of desperation and evolved into something that made me feel good about myself

Haruh2 (Colony Life)

How much work and time it takes to keep a weekly update going with no backlog

Deo101 [Millennium]

Yeah same

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

For me, I didn't realize how much it would affect my life to make comics, and vice versa. In a weird way, I didn't know how interrelated the two were, or how easily life could interfere with my comic, or the inverse.

eliushi [Keyspace]

Making comics became a lifestyle for me

@Haruh2 (Colony Life) When I had no backlog I was updating every two weeks with 7 pages per update; so about 14h of work. But this is with a finished script. I am also told I work fast.

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

omg

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

That's soooo much, Eli!

That's at least twice as much as I do (edited)

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

I hadn't realized how much I put myself into my comic! My friends who read it have all said that it's incredibly in my voice and reflects my opinions and worldviews Before I shared it with people I hadn't thought of it in that way at all

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

As an artist, I didn't expect how my comic production and mindset will change. Once I started comics, it brought out my ideas from thoughts to a physical form. I start to invest more time into it. Each project evolved through each chapter. How to balance script writing to a polished piece. I put alot of time and research in my works. It makes me glad to hear other creators do the same. I'm not the crazy artist who's wasting her time. One of the positive change was meeting other creators, how we give advice and receive praise.(edited)

eliushi [Keyspace]

The support has been amazing. It makes the work less lonely

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

Fish, oh for sure! I didn't realize until recently how much my characters are all just facets of myself!

eliushi [Keyspace]

(I don’t work that quickly anymore and I’m making big changes to the format soon so it’s going to be a Transition)

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

I've been in school with art students who never made comics, so when I came to CTP discord, reading comic discussions. It was comforting and fun. I enjoy the cooperation our group has, helping each other.

eliushi [Keyspace]

I like to commiserate about the unique challenges comics have

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

Hahaha, yeahhhhh

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

I agree, it's different from illustrations. Different approach(edited)

eliushi [Keyspace]

I am perpetually balancing time spent on a panel vs how much time the reader will spend on it

Vs illustration: lemme make all the details

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

Oh I agree, each panel takes longer than it takes to read it. Hence I dislike when readers call manga creators 'lazy'

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

how much time does it take to read one of my pages?

20 seconds?(edited)

haha

e.e

wait is that emoji supposed to be someone rolling their eyes??

i jsut looked it up

i might've been using it wrong this whole time

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

Pacing

It's way different than in novels, and definitely came as a shock at the start

eliushi [Keyspace]

Yeah have to play to the strength of the medium. Still imagining AWT as an animated movie written from a novel, in the format of a comic

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

Haha, same kinda

Haruh2 (Colony Life)

@eliushi [Keyspace] ah haha, that makes me feel better about my update habits, but thats a good goal for me to shoot for now that im learning a new way to make long comics specifically

cAPSLOCK (Tailslide)

I completely underestimated the amount of effort that would have to go into formatting, website design and maintenance, etc. If I got to do it again, a little more research beforehand probably would’ve saved me a lot of time and hassle.

snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights)

I really overestimated the "if you build it they will come" aspect of webcomics lol. Like, you actually have to work to advertise your comic in order for people to read it. Nobody ever got hundreds of readers just from posting their comic onto some hosting site without doing major marketing work.(edited)

dako

yeah, I feel that

I've never really been an advertising type before my comic, im learning to just get used to it

Deo101 [Millennium]

I've not really done much advertising tbh, it makes me uncomfortable

dako

it feels kinda...embarrassing? might be too harsh of a word

i dunno

Deo101 [Millennium]

its just uncomfortable idk! i feel awkward doing it

dako

yeah, same ive done it a few times on reddit but i have to force myself

Haruh2 (Colony Life)

it does feel, odd..hell most of the time it just feels like i open the door to my house and toss a bunch of paper to the wind hoping someone can see it

Deo101 [Millennium]

yeah, I dont know if ive done anything other than posting updates on twitter and talking about it in groups like this

and twitter is mostly just me talkin to people who already read it...

idk talking about my work without being asked first makes me feel like im inserting myself where im not allowed

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Self promo got MUCH less intimidating for me when I started thinking of it like: "okay, so my comic is made for readers like me, people who share my tastes. That means I only need to answer one question: what can I say to get me to check out this comic? I don't need to impress anyone else. I just need to appeal to me." (since "me" is my target audience)

Deo101 [Millennium]

mhm ^^

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

But take it with a grain of salt because I'm still not really promoing

Haruh2 (Colony Life)

exactly, thats why i find it hard to tweet about it most of the time, but i get the whole if i dont care about to talk without being asked no one else will either

Deo101 [Millennium]

yeah lmao mood im like what would get me to read... hmmm... probably exactly what im doing.... I'll keep it up then :)

Haruh2 (Colony Life)

yea i get excited to draw out certain parts..but wouldnt want to just tweet about all the little tidbits of the story ruining it for others

Deo101 [Millennium]

sweats

dako

i made a whole side twitter for my comic cuz talking about it on my main intimidated me too much

it is my containment chamber

Haruh2 (Colony Life)

hm may do that, just to say i did it and to get my mind away from the thought

snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights)

yeah same

Deo101 [Millennium]

My main is just whatever I want it to be idk. Its kinda for all my comics, since my comics are all I want to talk about

snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights)

though my main is mostly just retweeting from my side twitter lol

Deo101 [Millennium]

it removes a lot of the pressure of like what if my followers dont wanna see this??

cause they wouldnt be here if they didnt wanna see it

cause its all Ive been doing the whole time

dako

thats a good point

i had my main way before my comic so most of my mutuals/followers dont follow for that

Haruh2 (Colony Life)

yea, it can feel abit disorienting when there is no interaction one way or another on anything you tweet (also if twitter has messed up and causes your tweets to not show up)

Deo101 [Millennium]

but yeah I dont really advertise cause it just makes me so uncomfortable >.<

dako

understandable

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

I'm kind of somewhere in between. I advertise my comic mostly because it is all I wanna talk about, like Deo. But I also don't think it's gotten me many readers. Most of my readers came as far as I can tell because I was making something that appealed to them. (The whole "if you build it, they will come" thing.) Although, I really don't have a big audience, I do have an audience, and I am certain most of them came from me just posting.

I think it's determined a lot by luck, and also, how big your niche's audience is to begin with (and some skill tbh).

Deo101 [Millennium]

yeah like I think "gay sci fi" is a p big niche so ive got a big amount of people I could potentially reach

which makes it much easier to draw people in

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

I'm particularly lucky, I guess, that fantasy/romance has a lot of readers (also more competition, but...)

Deo101 [Millennium]

yeah fantasy romance is a damn big one

Haruh2 (Colony Life)

eh i think im in an awkward void with my action/drama story (since im not doing romance drama)

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

I just go with the mindset: "what makes my fantasy/romance different from the rest" and go from there.

Deo101 [Millennium]

mhm

tbh I dont think my sci fi romance is doing anything special?

but im having fun so :) I dont rlly care about that hahahha

dako

having fun the most important thing

Deo101 [Millennium]

its not my goal to make somthing mindblowing ^^ truley im just here for a good time

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

I mean, LGBT+-inclusive sci-fi is pretty unique

I haven't seen a lot

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

It's clear that your characters are people, and that's special, regardless of how common/uncommon

dako

think if i didnt love my comic as much as i do id have stopped a long time ago

Deo101 [Millennium]

thats true keiiii, thank you <3

also yeah its Sad that theres not more LGBT+ sci fi cause its like youve got aliennnssssssssssssssssssss you can do whatever you waaaaaant

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

I knooowww

Deo101 [Millennium]

guess it shows what ppl want or something

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

yup

Deo101 [Millennium]

off topic

so to make it back on topic

I underestimated how much people would like gay sci fi GJKLAGJLAJLKAGJSLAKGJKL

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

One thing I learned specifically with my current comic... I did not realize how much difference the reader's cultural background would make in terms of interpreting my story.

Deo101 [Millennium]

!!!!!

I actually almost mentioned you in class once tbh keiii

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Big oversight, in retrospect

Deo101 [Millennium]

saying "someone I know makes a comic which they noticed, it's interpreted completely differently just depending on cultural backgrounds" kind of a thing

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

like I would not have made the comic any different, but I would have approached the... presentation differently. Like, talk about it differently

Deo101 [Millennium]

cause we were talking about how narratives affect rt

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

I guess another thing that was unexpected about making webcomics was... there are way more people with my exact tastes than I thought

Deo101 [Millennium]

and I was saying that I think the viewer's narrative affects art more than the artists narrative

I mean, the artists narrative obviously is what makes it so.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

In the eyes of the beholder

Deo101 [Millennium]

but interpretations and all that... yeah!!!

so. actually I might have offhandedly mentioned you I cant remember if I did or not

lemme check

I did! very like "second hand" offhandedly mentioning though ahaha

hope that doesnt make you uncomfortable GSKLGSJALGJLGK no one replied to me so e.e

in the class I mean

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I am super uncomfortable and offended !!!!!

j/k

Deo101 [Millennium]

hgjkghsjkagskajgdhsakgjhgjd

but... yeah idk starting out I truly just was making it cause I really love my characters a lot, the idea that other people would like them too is very unexpected :) in a good way

I also definitely didnt expect how important enviornments were e.e

didnt plan those well enough.

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

that relatable feel

sssfrs (JOE IS DEAD)

I really desperately advertise my comic everywhere. I don't really know how to do marketing effectively though & I don't know if its working

eliushi [Keyspace]

I find what increased readership most consistently is still the feature aspect from the hosting sites. It’s really about finding the right readers/right readers finding you

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

Same, I'm basically a rounding error away from being 100% reliant on the features for subs

sssfrs (JOE IS DEAD)

I don't think my comic has ever been featured on the hosting sites. My numbers have always been low on Tapas and maybe thast why

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

Yeah, features help a lot

I've been featured on Webtoon, but not Tapas, and you can really see the difference in readership there

Deo101 [Millennium]

Ive been featured on both, uhh in a couple of diff places, if you wanted a breakdown of how many readers i got from the diff spots and stuff ever just lmk im happy to share

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I've been featured on both. It certainly got people to check it out and even sub, but retaining those people (even if they've subbed!!!) is a different story. I think my story is just not the right type for the platforms, but eh, even if 99% of the platform users aren't into the kinda thing I'm making, 1% increase is still an increase.

Which is another thing I learned over the course of running this comic, specifically (since the internet has changed so much after my first two attempts). Just because the majority of your subs don't actually read the comic, doesn't mean your work sucks. Today's internet caters to casual users, and there's a bajillion factors affecting who's actually reading your stuff.

dako

i agree

my comic has never been featured on either, and webtoons doesnt have a guideline on what they pick but tapas does and my comic doesnt really meet their featuring requirements so i dont think either site ever will feature mine haha

so i gotta advertise on reddit and use twitter tags a lot

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Don't go too crazy with twitter tags; they can make people zone out and not look at your tweet.

dako

i try to use 5 at the most, i know too many is unpleasant to look at haha

Jib {WIP haha}

Oh huh, my rule of thumb is to use 1-2 on twitter and as many as I can on Insta but I’m no expert lol

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Yeah, IG seems to be where you want all the tags XD

varethane

Webtoon's algorithms are like turning a hose on and off lol

The difference between views and sub growth during periods of being featured vs not is stark(edited)

carcarchu

i've never been featured by webtoons but i've seen series grow from 100 followers to 10k overnight

not an exaggeration

varethane

I put my new comic on webtoon in november 2019, and in 1 month I crawled up to.... maybe 50 subs?(granted I only put up one episode and then paused for a bit)

Then in December I started updating it weekly and got placed in the new and hot section of the app

And bam, 6k subs

It last 2 weeks and then the section updated and all growth stopped, and subs went down by 10 or so over the next week

Krispy §[Ghost Junk Sickness]§

(Omg featured is like the new Daily Deviation goals from DA way back in the day!)

varethane

Until it got another feature on a different part of the website and went up another 2k. It was like playing with the handle on a faucet lol

dako

I got some pretty good growth during canvas week, but beyond that not really

I get 1-2 subs after an update if I'm lucky

varethane

I feel like their algorithms are very reliant on the regular rotation of features that staff have to do manuallt

Outside of that, discoverability is quite weak

Mostly because of the volume of comics on there

boogeymadam

same boat as vare. the only thing i know about webtoons features is they have stated a couple times one of their recquirements is consistant updating, so if u skip a week that disqualifies u for a lil while i imagine

varethane

I wonder what they count as consistent. I was doing every 2 weeks for awhile, but this month I'm gonna try weekly to see if it helps me earn more $$ from ads :U

dako

I wish there was more incentive for readers to check out the new section on webtoons and tapas

carcarchu

i have found some amazing gems in the new section

i swear i've seen stuff in featured that were not at all updated consistently

dako

I have too, there's a ton of good comics that get overlooked because they're not in the front page

some featured comics havent updated in months sometimes

varethane

I definitely would not have considered myself consistent at the time of the first feature, considering there was a gap of a month between episode 1 and 2 lpl

carcarchu

the consistently updating thing is more of a recommendation than a requirement i feel?(edited)

boogeymadam

ooohh good to know!!

varethane

I'm sure it cant be a hard rule, especially for comics that have just launched

boogeymadam

im just going off their canvas qna's from last year

dako

if it's actually a hard rule for staff to feature comics that regularly update they break that rule a lot

i also heard a bot picks up comics too

carcarchu

well i at least think the staff or bots or whatever at webtoons are doing a better job with features than tapas is

tapas is always pushing their premium comics way more than their indie stuff

boogeymadam

tapas needs to bring new comics onto the frontpage more often than it does, yeah

dako

yeah I agree

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I mean, I get why they put premium on the front page. But I feel more variety would help them because it's more interesting for the readers?

dako

I can't tell whats premium or not with tapas sometimes

boogeymadam

i do like that they've been asking stuff like this in the forums tho

carcarchu

more distinction would be helpful to me too dako

i don't think its as clear as it could be

dako

yeah, webtoons at least it's clear what is and what isnt featured or canvas

Jib {WIP haha}

Huh, anyone remember that really popular writing podcast? I forgot the name

Or have any recommendations I guess

Moral_Gutpunch

Terrible writing advice? It's sarcastic

snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights)

is this related to the topic?

Moral_Gutpunch

It's a podcast about writing, so I'm going to say yes.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I think snuffysam meant the weekly topic for the channel

Moral_Gutpunch

Just for this channel, no. I'm too new to know that.

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

Please check #rules

Moral_Gutpunch

Sound more like someone forgot context than the rules

That's why I'm hardly here. I don't know stuff people who've been here for a long time know like podcasts or older comics(edited)

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Basically each of the channels under "CTP Activities" on this server has its own topic of the week.

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

It's not a matter of being here for a long time or not. This channel is used solely for discussing the weekly topics, and such information can be found in #rules

Moral_Gutpunch

Kudos then. I came for creator babble only.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

For general webcomic creation-related advice (either seeking or giving) and such, #shop_talk usually is the place!

creator_babble is for answering the topic of the week

It's not actually for generalized "creator babble" despite the name.

dako

looks like they left

Jib {WIP haha}

Oh my bad, it’s been a while since I read the rules, I brought up the new subject

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Happens!

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

No problem, we were just reminding you all :)

Jib {WIP haha}

Ty for that then haha

dako

I think one unexpected thing for me is that no one tells you how crazy the highs and lows can be

well I guess people do but you really don't know until the highs and lows happen to you if that makes sense

Cronaj ~{Whispers of the Past}~

Oh God, that's so true

Burnout is way more dreadful than I could ever guess prior to experiencing it

Feather J. Fern

One unexpected thing for me was how many people I would meet because of my comic. It surprised me greatly that I found so many cool people through the comic community and made the friends I have made now. Love you all

rajmews

The unexpected thing for me was just how much you have to just...predict...what the market will want to read. Like even if you research a whole lot, and you draw really well, and have been doing art professionally, you can still strike out. It's a humbling experience, but being able to just let go of poorly received pages and move on and try things differently is a lot of the battle for doing a webcomic. It teaches you how to fail gracefully because...it's all a process of learning your readers better. Even if they're few at first.

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

My major unexpected thing was how much my initial ideas change as I work through a page. Everything from the expressions, dialogue, and layout can change as I look at it and 'solve' it more closely than I did in thumbnails. There are pages I look back on and realize they are ENTIRELY different than what I had first sketched. And they're better for it. Allowing myself the freedom to edit during the artwork... it's created some majorly awesome opportunities.

Deo101 [Millennium]

Yes!!!!! Me too!!!

It's exciting thoufh

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

Absolutely same

Could plan something out meticulously but then change it in the last 2 secs before uploading

Deo101 [Millennium]

Yup... I don't thumbnail much ahead of where I'm at cause of this(edited)

I thumbnail a scene at a time, and then usually I end up changing stuff halfway through ahahfjjdkskdkss

varethane

Same hat, haha. I often make changes at every stage-- even the thumbnails will often depart from the script. If anything, I wish I made even more changes-- I feel like my page layouts tend to be pretty standard, I do a lot of pages with the 3 rows of 2 panels each, and I want to break out of that more. But... well, that's a work in progress.

#ctparchive #comics #webcomics #indie comics #comic chat #comic discussion #comic tea party #ctp #creator interview #comic creator interview #creator babble

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

Text

A Pennsylvania County’s Election Day Nightmare Underscores Voting Machine Concerns https://nyti.ms/2rGZTkk

The Trump administration and Republicans have done nothing to protect our election infrastructure, except for Ivanka Trump getting a patent for election machines in China.

"The snafu in Northampton County did not just expose flaws in both the election machine testing and procurement process. It also highlighted the fears, frustrations and mistrust over election security that many voters are feeling ahead of the 2020 presidential contest, given how faith in American elections has never been more fragile. The problematic machines were also used in Philadelphia and its surrounding suburbs — areas of Pennsylvania that could prove decisive next year in one of the most critical presidential swing states in the country."

A Pennsylvania County’s Election Day Nightmare Underscores Voting Machine Concerns

How “everything went wrong” in Northampton County.

By Nick Corasaniti | Published Nov. 30, 2019, 5:00 AM ET | New York Times | Posted November 30, 2019 |

EASTON, Pa. — It was a few minutes after the polls closed here on Election Day when panic began to spread through the county election offices.

Vote totals in a Northampton County judge’s race showed one candidate, Abe Kassis, a Democrat, had just 164 votes out of 55,000 ballots across more than 100 precincts. Some machines reported zero votes for him. In a county with the ability to vote for a straight-party ticket, one candidate’s zero votes was a near statistical impossibility. Something had gone quite wrong.

Lee Snover, the chairwoman of the county Republicans, said her anxiety began to pick up at 9:30 p.m. on Nov. 5. She had trouble getting someone from the election office on the phone. When she eventually got through, she said: “I’m coming down there and you better let me in.”

With clearly faulty results in at least the judge’s election, officials began counting the paper backup ballots generated by the same machines. The paper ballots showed Mr. Kassis winning narrowly, 26,142 to 25,137, over his opponent, the Republican Victor Scomillio.

“People were questioning, and even I questioned, that if some of the numbers are wrong, how do we know that there aren’t mistakes with anything else?” said Matthew Munsey, the chairman of the Northampton County Democrats, who, along with Ms. Snover, was among the observers as county officials worked through the night to feed the paper ballots by hand through scanning machines.

The snafu in Northampton County did not just expose flaws in both the election machine testing and procurement process. It also highlighted the fears, frustrations and mistrust over election security that many voters are feeling ahead of the 2020 presidential contest, given how faith in American elections has never been more fragile. The problematic machines were also used in Philadelphia and its surrounding suburbs — areas of Pennsylvania that could prove decisive next year in one of the most critical presidential swing states in the country.

In an era where some candidates and incumbents try to challenge or discredit a close loss by questioning the system, either with unfounded allegations of voter fraud or claims of a “rigged” election, the proper functioning and security of election machines have never been more crucial.

“There are concerns for 2020,” Ms. Snover said, questioning whether the paper ballots generated by the same machine that had a digital error could be trusted. “Nothing went right on Election Day. Everything went wrong. That’s a problem.”

Election Day here had been marred by complaints of long lines, glitch-prone touch screens and frustrated poll workers. Voters across the county said the experience further eroded their already shaken confidence in the election process.

“It made me sad because with everything that’s going on, you kind of worry about: Was something tampered with, or was it just a mistake,” said Michelle Broadhecker, 48, of Easton, who said her anxiety about elections began after 2016. “There’s just too much going on that you worry about those things. And you don’t want the wrong people in the wrong places.”

Though there has been no conclusive study as to what caused the machines to malfunction, as the machines are locked away for 20 days after an election according to state law, the prevailing theory is that the touch screens were plagued by a bug in the software. A senior intelligence official who focuses on election security said there were no visible signs of outside meddling by any foreign actors.

County officials who led the purchase of the machines have argued that the system actually functioned as it should: The paper ballot backup process worked. The touch screens failed, but the backups had the correct vote, so while it was inconvenient, it proved the necessity of a paper backup.

“We also need to focus on the outcome, which is that voter-verified paper ballots provided fair, accurate and legal election results, as indicated by the county’s official results reporting and successful postelection risk-limiting audit,” said Katina Granger, a spokeswoman for Election Systems & Software, the manufacturer of the machines. “The election was legal and fair.”

But for others, it underscored the fractured system for selecting voting systems. Major decisions for testing, purchasing and operating complex machines are often left to county and city officials. Federal testing standards for election machines haven’t been updated since 2005, when a large percentage of the machines were not digital.

“Not only is that a decade before the current cybersecurity threats to our elections, it is two years before the first iPhone,” said Kevin Skoglund, a senior technical adviser for the National Election Defense Coalition, a nonpartisan group that focuses on election security issues. “There is a newer 2015 standard, but the Election Assistance Commission lets voting system vendors choose which one to use.”

The machines that broke in Northampton County are called the ExpressVoteXL and are made by Election Systems & Software, a major manufacturer of election machines used across the country. The ExpressVoteXL is among their newest and most high-end machines, a luxury “one-stop” voting system that combines a 32-inch touch screen and a paper ballot printer.

To initiate a vote, a voter places a blank ballot-shaped piece of paper in the machine, makes their selections on the screen, and then presses the word “vote.” The machine prints a ballot that is protected under a plate of glass for the voter to review. The voter then clicks “cast” on the screen, the digital votes are recorded on a USB and the backup ballot is transmitted to a sealed canister in the back of the machine.

The machines began arriving in the county in August, having gone through a federal and state certification process. The only remaining testing to be done was what officials called a “logic and accuracy test,” which is a quick dry run of roughly 20 dummy ballots. But the ExpressVoteXL has an auto-test function in which the machines can simulate a full digital test, a feature that election security experts say is ill-advised.

“It doesn’t test if the touch screen or the scanner work. It doesn’t even cast votes for everyone on the ballot,” Mr. Skoglund said. “It is especially concerning that it can send made-up votes to the vote counting software without needing a real ballot. Fake ballots are a feature no voting machine should have.”

The automatic tests in Northampton proved problematic, and did not even cast a test vote for every candidate, according to test receipts shown to The New York Times. But the machines were still rolled out on Election Day.

And instantly, there were problems.

“I walked into my booth, and I knew that I was going to vote straight Democratic and I’m voting that way until we get some balance back into the government, but when I hit straight Democratic, straight Republican is what registered,” said Angela Anderson, 55, of Forks Township, who said that many of her neighbors shared similar stories. “I kind of panicked for a second. But thankfully it easily reset, and I reset my system, and that time it registered Democratic.”

Deb Hunter, a member of the county election commission, said they were actually lucky that the county judge election went so poorly because that made the problem obvious.

“What would have happened if there was a glitch there that got at a 10 percent or 20 percent undercount?” she said. “That worries me. That worries me going forward.”

Ms. Granger noted that there are nearly 6,300 ExpressVoteXL voting machines in use across the country, and none had experienced similar counting problems to those in Northampton County.

It was the way the machines were selected by Philadelphia elected officials that drew the most scrutiny over the last year. Since 2013, E.S.&S. had been courting the two city commissioners who were responsible for choosing the next voting machine, according to a report from the city comptroller.

The lobbying firm for E.S.&S. had donated $1,000 in 2013 to the campaign of Al Schmidt, one of the city commissioners, and again to a group supporting his re-election effort in 2018. They also spent more than $27,000 in direct lobbying of Mr. Schmidt.

Mr. Schmidt made a visit to only one company’s headquarters: E.S.&S.

In total, E.S.&S. spent more than $425,000 in lobbying expenses related to the City of Philadelphia.

Emails obtained by the city comptroller also found that E.S.&S. had influenced the writing of the city commissioners’ $22 million budget request for new election machines, tilting the process in favor of its machine, the ExpressVoteXL. The city eventually purchased the machines for $29 million in February.

“It showed a very, very flawed process,” said Rebecca Rhynhart, the city controller in Philadelphia. “I want to make sure, and the country should want to make sure, that our voting machines are the best they can be.”

As for Northampton, some on the county council have a new goal: new, simpler paper-ballot machines ahead of the presidential election, as well as some money back.

______

Matthew Rosenberg contributed reporting from Washington.

🍁 🦃🍂🏈🍁🦃🍂🏈🍁🦃🍂🏈🍁🦃

Mecklenburg voters to use new voting machines in 2020. Here’s why they’re changing.

BY ALISON KUZNITZ | Published NOVEMBER 20, 2019 06:01 PM ET | Charlotte Observer | Posted November 30, 2019 |

Mecklenburg County residents will likely vote starting next year on new touch-screen machines that also print out their marked ballots, part of an estimated $15 million technology reboot to ensure there’s a paper trail at the polls.

The ExpressVote universal voting system — which costs almost $3,400 apiece — is similar to the direct recording devices that have been used in the county since 2006. But voters will now be presented with a physical copy of their ballot, allowing them to verify their selections before submitting them.

If the ballot looks correct, voters will then insert the paper into a separate digital scanner and tabulator machine, called the DS200 that costs nearly $5,800. If changes are needed, voters can ask precinct workers to void the ballot and start fresh.

“Hopefully, voters can easily handle this and be able to use it,” said Michael Dickerson, the elections director for Mecklenburg County. “I think voters will be quite happy, especially the young voters.”

The Mecklenburg County Board of Elections unanimously approved the new voting technology Wednesday afternoon, deciding to purchase 350 scanners and 2,400 ExpressVote devices, said spokeswoman Kristin Mavromatis.

The next steps involve seeking approval for the purchase from the State Board of Elections and asking the county commissioners to provide the funding.

Mavromatis said the total contract price is unknown. The board still needs to consider the cost of other equipment, such as flash drives and voting booths, in addition to storage needs to accommodate the bulkier systems, she said.

The overhaul stems from a 2013 North Carolina voter law requiring paper ballots in an effort to maintain elections security and thwart potential hacking.

“We believe these are completely secure,” Dickerson said of the new voting system. “There’s no internet access to any of these things.”

Technically, the county’s old machines “always had the paper trail,” Dickerson said, in the form of a paper roll next to the electronic screen.

Yet various components on this outgoing system blurred what could be considered the ballot, including the real-time audit log and internal memory. ExpressVote clarifies the vote summary card constitutes the ballot, Mavromatis said.

The state “wanted an actual ballot,” she said. The machines were tested during the municipal election earlier this month.

Through ExpressVote, Mecklenburg residents will navigate a series of screens as they cast their ballots, receiving prompts along the way. The system, for example, will notify voters if they can select more candidates in a given race.

Voters can enlarge the text and change the color contrast on the machine. Among other accessibility features, ExpressVote comes with a headphone jack, privacy screen and detachable keypad.

Traditional pen-and-paper ballots, filled out like standardized school tests, will continue to be on hand at precincts — especially for those who vote curbside.

Dickerson said he expects the new technology will make the voting process faster in the 2020 primary and general elections.

“Instead of you sitting there filling in oval after oval, you’re touching a screen just like you do now,” Dickerson said. “It won’t let you mess up.”

🍁🦃🍂🏈🍁🦃🍂🏈🍁🦃🍂🏈🍁🦃

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pulitzerpanther · 6 years

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📦

@marsdin wanted a || care package ||

It’s not a package that crosses the president’s desk–not that overly-intimidating one in an Oval Office, but the one kept in the corner of a study, it’s an envelope. A simple, once-well-sealed sliver of paper that’s since been tampered with and checked-over a dozen times for clearance purposes, edges already open by the time Olivia might have gotten to it.

Inside are simply four pictures–three Polaroids and one printed out at a stand; A singular caramel wrapped in plastic with the handwritten stamp of Paro displayed prominently along a crinkling shine, clattering out of the envelope the moment it’s opened too far; and, after, one letter floating like a feather onto a desk.

-One (polaroid), a picture of two (much younger, not that that fact is admitted or reflected upon) girls surrounded by moving boxes, taped. One of the girls, blonde, has an arm strung across the other’s much taller neck, fingers sifting through long brown strands to string it up into what might be a bun, bobby pins sticking out of lips. Brows are dipped but both of them are smiling. There’s a cut-off body around the corner, jeans–a man, maybe–but the picture is tilted with a young thumb blocking a small portion of the corner, like this might have been taken by a child. The picture is a little blurry, but it’s clear it’s been kept for years. It looks like it might have been bent where the jean-clad body was, at one point, to be kept in a frame, showcasing the two women and a thumb, instead. In the corner, half-blurred, is a set of keys on a cheap 90′s countertop.

-Two (polaroid), a picture of a building with the same women standing in the doorway, there’s no markings on the building–as if it’s recently been stripped to be renamed–but a blonde is beaming, large sunglasses tucked on a nose, arm tucked in the crook of a brunette’s. Both of them hold up keys.

- Three (printed), a blur of a picture obviously taken with the most high-tech of options, likely a phone, tilted in its showcase of a party. Amidst a celebratory clutter of balloons and streamers is a muddled crowd of guests that look a mixture of elated (those not watching) or horrified (those who focus in on the two subjects in the middle of the picture). The same brunette and blonde, mid-motion, one hand smashing a piece of cake onto a cheek, both arms wrapping around a slender neck. Which might explain the blasphemed faces given a banner that’s half-cut-off in the corner.

“-T U L A T I O N S, M A D A M P R E S I–”

The brunette (madam presi) looks like she might laugh and the blonde looks far too pleased with herself to care about much of anything else.If squinting, it might be possible to see the blonde’s other hand, holding a necklace that showcases a key on the end of its chain and large, bold lettering stating ‘nuclear keycodes’.

– Four (polaroid), the doorway to a yurt, a still-older blonde dressed in a t-shirt but shoulders slumped, like the weight of the world isn’t quite pressing down on them, but something else might be. It’s a decidedly emptier picture, given she’s the only subject. In her hand, a singular key, eyes lingering on it like her mind is somewhere else.

The letter is written in a familiar script–a dash of a fountain pen, thoughtful in its careful strokes–and when it’s opened, it might smell of incense and woods.

Liv,

I’m growing unfortunately poetic in my old age. Oh, I don’t mean in an E.E Cummings kind of way, or even a depressing sort of drinking myself into a stupor Hemingway kind–I mean in the way I always promised myself I wouldn’t be. Retrospective. Almost regretful. A sin, I think, I would only ever admit to you after all of these years.

Oh, fuck me, I’m becoming nostalgic.

It’s funny, Bhutan is a sliver of a time-capsule–a snapshot of a world people seem to have forgotten, myself included. You should see it here, Liv. They still have polaroids, but they’re this luxury–an excess–similar to how the past might be for the best of us. There’s more colors showcased, here, than a Thomas Kincaid painting, even when everyone is surrounded by dirt. There’s so much life and I’m left wistful, here, maybe a little longing, and you know how difficult a feeling that is for me to reconcile.

Longing. I grow bitter even writing it, and yet…I know it’s true. That’s the funniest thing about truth–you spend your life chasing it, and it still surprises you.

I go to sleep staring at the stars, tracing them with my thumbs as the feeling of missing my sons settles. In the evenings I take dinner with smiling women like I’m a member of the community but there’s always a spot on the floor left beside me. In the mornings I drink tea and look to the mountains, the sun hitting that pesky little ring finger of mine that’s had more quick-changes than a Beyonce concert.

And, oh, that’s how it feels, like my life has been in reverse since I’ve gained this newfound depth of clarity–like I’ve been going through the motions backwards. I’ve spent my whole life as a writer, but I can’t find a way to describe it, yet, that’s made sense. I’m sure I’ll find a way–I always do–but there’s this phenomenon curling my tongue that tastes like the emptiest part of a bottle of whiskey. It tastes like how those empty little spots next to me feel.

It’s left me wondering how long it’s been since I’ve seen you.

For all I’ve lost here, there’s more I’ve found: a renewed purpose. A drive. A sense of understanding of the world. I was looking at these pictures of ours and understood the simplest concept that’s eluded me for years: human connection.

To put it simply, it’s decided: being here makes me realize just how much I miss you. It’s been too long. I still have quite the existential journey to finish–I’m doing a marvelous job re-enacting the Beatles’ jaunt to India, if my aim was a little off on the map with my dart–but when I leave here, I’m visiting you. I’ll want these back, after all, these pictures of mine. It’s like the ya-ya sisterhood version of sisterhood of the traveling pants.

I mean it, these are my pictures. You’re not taking them for good.

Prepare your staff. Maybe I’ve softened, but I’m still the same whirlwind you love and know and obviously love some more.

Until then, I hope these pictures provide you with the same peace and clarity they gave me,

Love,

Cat.

#marsdin #questions #{ тρ : ι ¢αяяу уσυя нєαят (ι ¢αяяу ιт ιη му нєαят) }#//can't even bring myself to care that it's a novel whatever

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seraphinitegames · 7 years

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[part one] Ok, so I spent a lot of time writing my question and when I was going to send it, it was too long. e.e' I'm gonna to cut in parts :) Hi! I hope everything is well with you :) I would like to say that I love your writing, the characters are so deep and lovable! I'm specially eagerly waiting for Wayhaven's books!

[part two] I read in your blog that something like having a child might be adressed at some point in the romance with one of the RO’s, and, as a long time otome game player, I always wanted this to be a part of a story somehow. My question is, assuming a scene where a female MC might think she’s pregnant and tells to the bravado father? How would be the reactions? And perhaps some reactions from the other members, assuming they are/were at some point romanticaly interested in MC.

[part three] By the way, sorry if it’s confusing, my English it’s kinda of rusty. Thank you for your dedication in your games!.~Carol

(Merged the messages :) ).

There probably will be a discussion about children at some point during the romances or friendships. Having children won’t be possible during the series (waaay too much going on for that, lol), but it’s definitely something that the MC and the love interest might talk about for their future.

Reactions to finding out the MC is pregnant? Hmm…

A - A would probably be stunned speechless for quite some time. Trying to process that information would particularly hard for them. It would probably be a few days before they could work out their feelings about it- until then they would dive into work and use it as an excuse not to deal with it!

N - N would be delighted! But would instantly turn into one of those annoying, overprotective types that makes sure the MC sits and does nothing, lol :D

F - F would think it was a joke to start with, before realisation hit and they would process it slowly but be thrilled about the idea of having an actual family of their own.

M - Ohh… a toughie :D There would probably be intense amounts of anger to start with- not directed at the MC, just general- some extreme difficulty processing it. M worries about coping with the people they already have to protect, but adding a kid to the mix would probably send them over the edge. I can’t honestly say it’s something they’d calm or happy about for a very long time.

—

If the vampires found out they were pregnant:

A - Similar reaction to finding out the MC was pregnant, to be honest. They likely wouldn’t stop being their workaholic self though, throughout the whole thing, lol.

N - Same as finding out the MC was pregnant. But, instead, they’d turn into an OTT parent and want everything to be perfect for when the baby arrived.

F - Again, same as finding out the MC was pregnant, but they’d probably have a small freak out about what to do. Most likely turn to N for advice and then be put under their watchful eye :D

M - Same as finding out about MC being pregnant. Intense, intense amounts of denial.

Thank you so much for the lovely message and the ask! :) (Your English is great!)

#The Wayhaven Chronicles #interactive fiction #asks #unit bravo #kids #pregnancy

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tvmoviechristmas · 6 years

Photo

Karen Kingsbury’s Maggie’s Christmas Miracle (Hallmark Movies & Mysteries, 2017)

Dear God,

How does snow happen? Can you read human words?

Starring: Jill Wagner, Luke MacFarlane, Lane Edwards, Lauren Guci

Plot Synopsis: Shortly after Maggie experiences her first love, her father leaves her mother at Christmas as a child. After her ex-husband leaves her family at Christmas twenty years later, Maggie forms a protective shield over her heart and her son, Jordan. Jordan, however, sees that Maggie is lonely, and writes letters to God praying for her happiness. Jordan’s prayers are answered when Maggie meets his tutor, widower Casey, and forms an instant connection that is stronger than the one she has with Tanner, the fellow divorce attorney she had been dating. When Maggie and Casey begin to fall in love, though, Maggie pulls back. After discovering a coincidental childhood connection with Casey, and reading Jordan’s letters to God, though, Maggie must decide if Christmas is the right time to open her heart to love. (x)

In My Humble Opinion: Karen Kingsbury’s Maggie’s Christmas Miracle is an incredibly stupid title. It’s way too long and there’s too many possessive apostrophes and just reading it makes me tired. Going into it, I thought it was going to be the most annoying thing about the movie, but I was very naive because the whole movie was annoying!

First of all, it’s a God movie. And not in the usual Hallmark way where characters mention going to church and you can generally assume they all celebrate some form of Christianity in their midwest small towns. No, it’s about GOD. God intervenes. God saves the day. We are talking directly to God.

And what is this crisis that God is getting directly involved in? Well, there’s this kid and his mom won’t let him buy a real Christmas tree because her heart is closed and Christmas has been tainted and she hates Christmas apparently and that needs to be fixed so this kid can finally live!

The kid legit makes it out that his life is full of suffering because his mother is so hardhearted and cynical and Christmas-hating, but then like we see their house and it’s decorated like this:

So like, really, is that kid suffering? Is his mom that much of a Scrooge that she needs a Christmas miracle to heal her heart? Does God need to get involved?

Yes, I guess God does have to get involved for plot purposes, but it doesn’t make it any less stupid that we have to get a higher power involved in making this mom love Christmas again when the only evidence against her is that she does not want to have a real Christmas tree because she thinks that it is a fire hazard (which it is, by the way, a lot of buildings can’t have the because of fire codes).

So after that, there’s a lot of sad conversations where people quote e.e. cummings poems and talk about how they haven’t been happy since they were 13 and getting their first kiss at Lake Tahoe?? (Maybe the kid should be upset because his mom apparently got no joy out his birth, that’s something I would include in my whiny letters to God about how my mother’s unhappiness is making me suffer).

And then because God is God, he fixes everything and everyone’s happy and people are kissing to “The First Noel” because Christmas is good again! Everyone gets a real tree next year!

It’s so melodramatic, but not in the fun way! It’s no Marianela, where people drop dead on the spot because there hearts are broken after they have spent a lifetime sleeping in a basket. Instead it’s melodramatic in a preachy, frustrating way.

I’m happy for Maggie that she got her Christmas miracle. I just didn’t need to know the whole story about it. But at least now I know that fake trees are the work of the devil. I’ll be happy to fend off Satan with that knowledge.

Watch If: You think bad things only happen to babies, if you dress like you’re going to the Arctic Circle when you visit your relatives, or if you have a no PDA understanding with your mother.

Skip If: You have no idea what a knife is, if you think God hates spelling errors, or if you think the grocery store is a super fun place.

Final Rating: ★ ★ ☆ ☆ ☆

If you like this blog, consider donating on my Ko-fi page!

#hallmark movies and mysteries #review #karen kingsbury's maggie's christmas miracle #2 stars

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isaksbestpillow · 7 years

Text

Stutter and Sing

Summary: Isak, Even, the mundane and the extraordinary.

Chapters: 1/?

Words: 4232

Notes: i wrote a føkkings fic???? this fic follows isak and even for one week. here is monday. there are six scenes in this chapter, i named them lemonade / i'd go anywhere / the boy who didn't have a desk / helium / micke / science. it’s mostly just fluff and gratuitous banter with some weird shit about love and the universe thrown in because of who i am as a person. a mess. the title is from the poem i have found what you are like by e.e. cummings. writing in a foreign language is hard.

also on ao3

LEMONADE

It’s Monday, the weather in Oslo is dismal, and Isak is sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice in hand, moping.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Eskild pops his head through the doorway, his voice sounding way too chirpy for this unearthly hour. Isak grunts in response, not taking his eyes off his glass. Eskild can keep his early birds and worms and the whole rest of that cuisine, and he can flush his sunshine down the toilet along with the remains of Isak’s life and that jar of moldy Old El Paso Isak keeps forgetting to throw away.

Eskild turns on the radio and hums, and Isak hears him rummage through the cupboards and chop something on the cutting board while he keeps staring down at the bubbles forming and disappearing in his juice. Suddenly the chopping stops, and Eskild clicks his tongue. “I thought we had an agreement? No sexting on school nights.”

Ugh. Isak finishes his orange juice in one loud gulp and almost slams the glass on the table, shooting Eskild a glare. He realizes he is moping, but he also thinks he has every right to feel this way. Everyone would agree with him if only they knew the details.

“I’m guessing those bags under your eyes aren’t from sexting, then. Spit it out,” Eskild says, taking a seat at the end of the table and clenching his hands in his lap. Isak glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

It’s true that the reason he is loitering in the kitchen at seven thirty in the morning like some crossword loving senior citizen when he could still be wrapped up in blankets like a sensible person is because, after some thinking, he wants to get this off his chest. And by thinking he means a night spent tossing and turning and looking at his pathetic reflection on his phone screen after his battery died from too much Clash of Clans. He wants to be asked Isak you look sad what’s wrong, and then he’d say everything’s wrong and he’s probably dying, and then maybe everything would be fixed, just like that. But there is also a part of him that is too ashamed to even utter the words.

Isak slumps on his chair. “Even hates me,” he finally blurts out, and he hears his own voice cracking.

“Really? You know, the walls have ears, and they tell me he didn’t sound too hateful last Saturday night at approximately 10:20 pm,” Eskild gives Isak a knowing glance and purses his lips together, looking awfully pleased with himself. Isak’s face flushes at the memory, so he shoves it away, wills it away with clenched fists and then curses Eskild because great, his one last good memory with Even is now forever ruined by the knowledge that they weren’t the only people in the house.

“Forget it, whatever.”

“Try me.”

“Just forget it.”

“Did you tell him you’re going to chop his dick off with a chainsaw and feed it to angry pigeons in Tøyen?” Eskild asks, taking a bite out of his toast.

“What? No.”

“Did you tell him you’ve been faking it nine times out of ten?”

“What, NO!”

“Did you tell him you’re going to make your guru sit here taking guesses all day long while his coffee goes cold?”

Isak swallows hard, grimacing. “We had a fight yesterday and I…I snapped. And I – I might’ve told him to fuck off,” he says and sinks down in his chair, shoulders bowed, his voice coming out small and strained. “I said things I didn’t mean. I… I wasn’t thinking straight,” he mutters, fixing his gaze on some breadcrumbs on the table as if they were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

It had been a stupid, stupid argument. The kind you have when you have a deadline at midnight and your laptop is acting up and you’re spilling drink all over your favorite hoodie and there’s a piece of popcorn stuck between your teeth that just won’t come out and you have a boyfriend who just happens to be there. Isak remembers Even fussing over his coffee-stained clothes with a towel and a pack of tissues, and then it had all happened very fast. You need to take that off here let me, just give me some fucking space jesus christ, okay okay okay, FUCK, look I think I’ll go home for a bit okay. The sound of a door closing very quietly, footsteps receding down the hallway, and the long and dragging hours of silence that followed afterwards.

Eskild gasps and all but drops his toast onto the plate, then presses his palm to his heart. ”Straight people and their ways, herregud,” he says before crossing his legs and leaning closer to Isak, cupping his hand to the side of his mouth and lowering his voice. “Now don’t get me wrong, I care for Noora and Linn very dearly, such bright young girls, both of them, and I respect their lifestyle – whatever gets your juices flowing, girl. But those straight people, with their ski jumping and killing wolves? Baffling, simply baffling. As your guru I am pleased to hear that you don’t think like them,” he gives Isak an approving nod before taking a sip of his coffee with a raised pinky.

Isak crushes a breadcrumb with his index finger, but he feels the corners of his mouth twitching in spite of himself. Deep down he does appreciate Eskild trying to cheer him up, and maybe it’s even working a little bit, judging from the way his nose now itches, although he would never admit it aloud because this is Eskild.

“I thought you liked ski jumping.”

“I like ski jumpers, Isak. The sport? Ridiculous. The butts? Bellissimo.”

Isak snorts, then scratches his nose and takes a deep breath. There is still that knot of guilt twinging in his stomach, that old fear, that voice at the back of his head whispering what if.

“I don’t know what to do. I fucked up.”

Eskild sighs and moves his chair closer to Isak. “Look, Isak, I’m not saying that you fucked up – or that you didn’t, for that matter. But you need to realize that sometimes it happens. Getting angry, saying things you don’t mean. Sometimes you fuck up, that’s just the way it is.”

“But –“

“And then you owe up to it. That’s what being in a relationship is about. You need to have a little faith. You’re a fantastic kid, Isak, never forget that. Even doesn’t hate you. He adores you. One fight won’t change that.”

“I guess…”

“Come on, didn’t Lemonade teach you anything?”

“What?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Huh?”

“You’re testing my guru goodwill now.”

“But like, what do I do now?”

“Besides listening to Lemonade by Queen Beyoncé, you ask? Buy him a Swarovski crystal, send him a bouquet of roses or your nudes? You tell me. You’re the one dating him, I’m sure you can figure it out,” Eskild pats him on the head and gives him an encouraging smile. “Follow your instinct” he finishes in English, waving his hand through the air as if twirling a magic wand.

“Okay… Thanks, Eskild.”

“You’re welcome. Now, go pack your school bag and apologize to your boyfriend. I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast here, and moody teenagers feeling sorry for themselves kind of ruin my appetite.”

Isak rolls his eyes and then lifts himself from the chair, and odd enough, his limbs already feel lighter, as if Eskild had just given him a very good massage (Isak shudders at the thought of that). He leaves his empty glass in the sink and retreats to his room, just not fast enough to miss the voice shouting at him from the breakfast table.

“L-E-M-O-N-A-D-E.”

****************

I'D GO ANYWHERE

Isak closes the door behind him, throws himself on the bed and runs his hand through his hair. He considers his options. He can’t afford jewelry. He also can’t afford going to prison for robbery at the tender age of seventeen, Sana would kill him for missing their presentation. So that’s off the list. A bouquet of roses? That doesn’t feel like Even. Even is more of a sunflower. Not a sunflower in a vase but one that blooms outside, wild and untamed, taller than all the others. Only it’s hard to find a wild sunflower in Oslo when it’s sleeting outside. Nudes, Eskild what the fuck.

Isak’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

Isak, I have sent you some money. Please use it to buy a desk for your room so you can study better. Hugs, Dad.

Ugh.

ok cool thanks, he sends a quick reply, then opens another chat, breathes in and out and begins to type with sweaty palms and trembling fingers.

I’m sorry I was a dick last night

I like your dick

that's now what I meant

I know

I was being stupid

I didn't mean any of it

I miss you

aren’t you mad?

what makes you think I’m mad?

you left

I'm sorry

I left so you could be alone ❤

do you want to come to ikea with me today?

dad wants me to buy a desk lmao

hold on let me check my schedule

fine I’ll take my other boyfriend then I hear he misses me

❤

You know I’d go anywhere with you.

it’s only ikea though

I’m sorry it’s a boring place

there’s a shuttle bus from Dronningens gate at 5 pm

meet me at the station 15 min prior?

can’t wait ❤

❤

you’re hot when you’re angry

Even its like 8 am

but also

eskild told me to send you nudes lol

I like Eskild

you can ask him for his nudes

he’d probably happily comply

texting him as we speak

bye

❤

Isak clutches his phone to his chest and closes his eyes.

***************

THE BOY WHO DIDN'T HAVE A DESK

It’s still drizzling when Isak gets off the tram at Oslo Central Station. He immediately spots Even standing outside the station in his green coat and cherry red beanie, and his heart skips a beat. It’s been less than 24 hours since Isak last saw him, yet somehow it feels like the past 24 hours have only made him more beautiful. He’s a sudden rainbow in the grayness of the day, talking to a woman with a map, drawing something on the map with the pen he always keeps in his inside pocket and occasionally pointing in different directions with his arm, smiling, nodding, blooming wild and untamed. Isak considers waving his hand to catch his attention but then quickly stops himself. He likes seeing Even interact with other people. He likes watching people orbit around him, laughing at his jokes, basking in his smiles, nodding along to his rants.

Isak admits he doesn’t have many big aspirations or ambitions for himself. He’s good at school, fair enough, and he does work hard in biology, partly because he likes getting good grades but mostly because he just happens to find the subject very interesting, but he doesn’t, like, envision himself researching gorillas in some jungle in Borneo 20 years from now.

But sometimes, after a particularly good goodnight make-out session when he can still feel the ghosts of Even’s skin linger on his own like steam on a glass, Isak’s mind will begin to wander. They’re in an award ceremony, and he sees Even standing on the stage giving a speech while Isak is standing behind a curtain, watching the audience drink in Even’s every word, relishing his light. He hears the audience cheer and roar and clap their hands in unison, his heart swelling with pride, and he can feel a smug smile creep onto his lips because he knows Even, he knows his sweat and snores and burbs and moans, he knows the Even no one else knows, and he knows Even will leave the podium and return backstage and he will kiss Isak on the mouth quick but hard and say –

“Halla.”

Isak blinks, startled, only now noticing Even standing right in front of him and peering into his face.

“Halla,” he breathes out.

“Baby, you look tired,” Even says and brushes his thumb across Isak’s cheek, catching a raindrop that is steadily making its way down and towards his lips.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Isak pouts, probably sounding like a needy baby.

“You sure you don’t want to go home and have a nap instead?” Even wraps one arm around Isak’s shoulder as they stand side by side in the freezing cold drizzle waiting for the light to let them cross the street to Karl Johans gate. “I could spoon you.”

If Isak were told to make a list of his favorite things to do, napping and spooning would definitely deserve a place in his top ten, while shopping at IKEA would rank somewhere between peeling a bucketful of potatoes and listening to a round of Eskild’s blood-stopping shower medleys (or worse, duets), and even then only if Isak is feeling particularly generous and well-rested. So Isak has to fight the urge to kiss his boyfriend right there in the middle of Oslo and turn around his heels to skip back home, their arms linked and all.

However, if there’s one thing Isak deems worse than shopping at IKEA, it’s shopping at IKEA with his dad.

They have been getting along a lot better after Isak came out to himself and the rest world, and the bitterness Isak used to feel towards him is gone, most of the time. Two weeks ago Isak had genuinely freaked himself out by replying to his dad’s text with a meme, and it had taken exactly three pinches and two wet kisses from Even before he was ready to believe he wasn’t hallucinating – well, truth to be told, he was already more than convinced after the third pinch, but if an opportunity to ask for a kiss presents itself, Isak will damn right take it.

They are getting along now, that much is true, but are they close, no, they aren’t, and Isak isn’t entirely confident that they ever will be. They still run out of things to say after the three-minute mark, their phone calls consisting mostly of conversational coughing and did-you-say-somethings. Isak does not want to risk his dad getting any ideas about turning this quest for a desk into an awkward family outing.

“I just want to get this over with to get my dad off my back,” he says, absentmindedly kicking a cigarette butt on the ground.

“A desk, huh?” A spark of electricity runs down Isak’s nape as Even fixes his hood with one hand and hums.

“Apparently my dad thinks I need a desk to do my homework,” he rolls his eyes.

Even lets out a hearty laugh and shakes Isak by the shoulder like an eccentric coach in some corny American sports movie. “And your dad is right! What do all Nobel Prize winners have in common, Isak?” he looks at Isak expectantly with raised eyebrows and a smirk playing on his lips.

“They’re all geniuses,” Isak sighs, giving his best attempt to sound bored.

“Wrong! They all had a desk!” Even laughs and flashes a triumphant smile before abruptly pulling Isak closer to his chest into a clumsy half-hug, swaying them both from side to side, slush splashing under their feet.

Hands still tucked in his coat pockets Isak mumbles against Even’s scarf, the soft fabric muffling his giggle.

“You’re so lame.”

“Says the boy who didn’t have a desk.”

A moment passes before either of them notices that the light has changed to green.

***************

HELIUM

IKEA is just like Isak members it. It’s a box. A blue, over-sized box filled with too many people and too many things. It’s a hodgepodge of meatballs, carts, lost pens, rugs, cups, hangers, rocking chairs, and sweaty red reflections in Godmorgon bathroom mirrors. It’s the same as always, and then it’s not. Because the last time he was here he was with his parents, and he was bored, and grumpy, and then they were arguing, and he was hiding in a model kids’ bedroom wishing he was anywhere but here.

And now he’s here, in a model kids’ bedroom, watching his boyfriend play with stuffed animals, and his heart is like a runaway balloon, going higher and higher up, beating with pure helium.

”You should start working here, Isak! I bet you’d look cute in that yellow uniform!”

Isak snorts. “I bet I’d look like shit.”

“You’d be like a cute little duckling! The cutest little duckling in all of Oslo!” Even grins, tilting his head to the side as if to admire Isak from head to toe like a painter in Paris working on a portrait.

“In your dreams,” Isak groans and lifts his hand to knock away the stuffed pig Even is currently trying to thrust in his face, awarding a half a wink half a pout from Even.

“Maybe we should both start working here, what do you say! Think about it, we’d have matching uniforms,” Even says as he makes two stuffed pigs kiss.

“You’d look like that bird from Sesame Street.”

Even’s eyes widen. “You think I’m that hairy, Isak!? Baby, I’m an adult man! You see, us adult men, we have body hair, you know? But there’s no need for you to feel self-conscious, I’m sure yours will grow in time,” he says, his eyes lighting up like he’d just come up with the innovation of the century. “Or! You could get body hair extensions if it makes you feel better. It won’t change how I feel about you. I’ll hold your hand when you place that order online, I promise. I’ll hold your hand in my adult man hand the entire time,” he says, nodding firmly with a stuffed animal in both hands.

“You can keep your adult man hands to yourself, we’re breaking up.”

“I don’t feel like breaking up with you today,” Even smiles and moves closer to lightly ruffle what Isak imagines must be his gross hat hair, long fingers lingering on a particularly stubborn curl, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs. And Isak thinks it is the sweetest sound.

Isak isn’t an expert on love. He knows love as a story. He’s seen it unfold on screen so many times. He knows Titanic. He knows those cowboys that made him wipe off a tear onto Even’s thigh, head nestled on his lap. He even knows Richard Gere now, and that to get Even in the mood all Isak needs to do is to rest his finger on Even’s bottom lip and whisper you’re hotter than young Richard Gere in a breathy voice. But love as a feeling, its definition eludes him. All he knows is that when Even laughs, for that moment everything is illuminated.

When Even laughs, his whole face lights up. He shines, and it’s contagious. The shine finds Isak and spreads through his body like a splash of watercolors running across a paper sheet. It tingles in his fingertips like a premonition, it tickles his spine like an explosion of feathers, and even as it begins to fade, it leaves a warm glow in his stomach reminding him of late summer twilights on his mother’s porch. The shine finds Isak, and it makes his head buzz with thoughts so utterly sappy and saccharine that somewhere in a parallel universe there is probably an Isak desperately begging not to be associated with this embarrassing 17-year-old Norwegian Michael Bublé.

Isak reaches out his hand to lightly brush Even’s shoulder, as if removing a loose thread there, and a quiet little sigh of contentment escapes his lips as he imagines Even in a canary yellow IKEA t-shirt. Because yeah, who is he kidding, his boyfriend would look like an actual ray of sunshine.

“Were you saying something?”

“Hmm?” Isak blinks and turns the table lamp off and then on again, off and then on again. “I just like seeing you laugh. “

“You’re so fucking cute. I’m going to name this little piggy Isak. Your cheeks are the same color, after all.”

“Shut up notheyrenot.”

****************

MICKE

“You don’t have a lot of space so it can’t be too big.”

“This one’s pretty small.”

“Micke!? That’s a boy’s name, Isak!” Even totters backwards and smacks his palm into his forehead. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this. You with a Swedish boy desk!” he gasps, eyes twinkling like sparklers.

“Well I don’t exactly see any desks named Even here lying around!”

“If I were a desk would you buy me?” Even asks, now half sitting on the small white desk with one hand in his pocket and one hand caressing the surface of the desk.

Isak crinkles his nose. “If my dad gives me the money,” he teases, running his fingers over the price tag.

“I’d buy you, too.” Even wiggles his eyebrows and nudges Isak’s shoe with his. “In every universe.”

“I don’t think they’d sell Even desks here, though. You’d like, have to climb to the top of a mountain and beat a goblin there or something and only then you’d get it, and there’d like, be only one, it’d be so rare, and stuff –“ Isak realizes he is rambling.

Even’s hand stops its movement and his mouth opens and then closes again as if a myriad of words had fallen out unspoken and escaped, but when Isak meets his gaze, his eyes glow like iridescent clouds. For a moment Isak can’t help but wonder if Even maybe misheard him and is now under the impression that he has discovered a cure to cancer in biology class.

“All right,” Even breaks the silence, then licks his lips and gives the desk firm a pat.

“I’m fine with Micke moving in with you now.”

*****************

SCIENCE

It’s past nightfall when they finally emerge to the parking lot, but the darkness that surrounds them is not quite dark. Instead, it’s hues of blue illuminated by large flossy snowflakes swirling under streetlamps like gleaming shoals of fish.

“I bet you suck at catching snowflakes,” Even says.

“I suck at catching snowflakes!? I’m the MASTER of catching snowflakes!”

“Oh yeah? Prove it!”

“The one who catches the most is the winner.”

“On three, okay? One, two, three –“

Isak takes a step forward and sticks his tongue out. Something cold falls on top of it, a hint of metal in its taste, melting, and then it’s gone. A drop of water, then a drop of spit. The moment won’t repeat. The snowflake won’t repeat. In the blink of an eye, it’s in him, a particle of the universe. Isak spreads his arms wide, looks up to the sky that is there, somewhere, behind the veil of the weather, and he stays that way for a while, standing with his mouth open, staring into the infinite dark eye of the universe, squinting as drops of melting snow slide down his eyelashes, and the universe stares back, or so it feels like, for a flickering moment, the balloon and the snowflake and the eye of infinity, and he is expanding, the balloon is expanding, and the universe, expanding, the amount of feeling in him too immense for his body to contain.

“How many did you catch?” Even’s arms wrap around his waist and turn him around.

“At least five hundred,” Isak says, turning up his nose.

“Liar,” Even pokes Isak’s arm.

“You’re a sore loser. I know you caught less than me.”

“Let’s see, I caught five hundred and….” Even counts on his fingers, then suddenly bends down to lick the tip of Isak’s nose, “…one.”

The bus back to central Oslo is almost empty. Even leads the way to the back of the bus, letting Isak take the window seat. The snow from their shoes melts into small puddles that trickle down the floor as the bus jolts. Their coats are wet and heavy, but Isak nestles his head on Even’s shoulder anyway, humming very quietly as Even gives his hands a little rub to before lacing their fingers together. He’s cold and tired and wet and uncomfortable and so, so safe.

“I think it’s interesting how…” he murmurs in a sleepy voice, “snowflakes all look the same on the ground, right?”

“Right.”

“But when you look at them through a microscope, they’re all different, all these unlimited variations that depend on the, on the circumstances, so you can’t, like, catch the same one twice, because of the unlimited variations, so if you miss it, it won’t come back –”

“So you should appreciate every snowflake as it falls?” Even asks, drawing slow circles on the back of Isak’s hand with his thumb.

“Mmmh,” Isak smiles to himself, a sleepy, sheepish smile, his eyelids feeling heavy and drooping.

“That’s very poetic,” Even whispers into his hair, his breath cozy like hot chocolate and woolen sweaters, and Isak’s only regret is that he can’t penetrate through their coats to squish his nose against the warm silk of Even’s skin to breathe in the scent of him like he does every night before falling asleep.

“It’s science, baby,” he says, and then he dozes off, and his hand, it doesn’t let go.

#skam #skam fic #isak x even #i'm super nervous about posting this?????#i've been feeling a bit bad about myself lately so mostly i just wrote this 4k mess to cheer myself up i'm sorry #tagging all the beautiful kind people who i can't believe follow me and who showed interest in this mess without even seeing it #dahlstrom #softnorwegians #tiptopevak #monstermonstre #schembel #sanaandthesun #kardemomme-kisses #evakshalla #ok bye!!!!!#fic #mine

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plentyculture · 7 years

Photo

(This is the point where I look back and wonder if I should but this in paragraphs.Well I just type, I don’t think in paragraphs. It’s just like....)

Yeah I’m an artist but I express myself through words better, I think. Also I don’t think anyone reads my stuff cause it’s a lot. This is just a random drawing I did one day a very long time ago. I figured I would just add an image to whatever I was going to write just now. The past few days and all the crazy violence led me to come to my usual reaction of just coming to tumblr to write and not go freakin nuts. “You can write on this one” was me just making a note to write what I was feeling and I probably got too busy to get to it. But I guess I just wrote something... right now...on here. Every time I draw leaves or see leaves I think about the word not an actual leaf. It’s a word with so many definitions and it can mean so many things depending on how you use it. I remember seeing E.E Cummings’ “A Leaf Falls” poem the first time and being in freakin awe. He drew with the letters the phrase a leaf falls, just as we’ve all seen a leaf fall from a tree. The letters fall vertically, he drew with the freakin letters man. And then you see loneliness. Yo, that’s some other level stuff. The human brain should show this type of brilliant creativeness on the regular. IMO. That dude felt a leaf falling from a tree...like I felt it. He watched it the way I had seen it most of my life. In my mind I was alone in that solitary admiration of nature. Then I wasn’t alone every time the leaves fell. I felt like all the people who read that poem understood the motion and the effect. So freaking delicate and soft and quiet but artistically loud. Those half circle shapes with lines, I like to think of them as wheels that are connected together and each line in them is a day in the life of. The ones in front are still taking shape. I didn’t draw these things with these thoughts in mind...I usually just draw from whatever force it is that’s similar to the natural inclination of just being...like I just wrote that but it was the same exact way the words showed up in my brain. And I type whatever is in my mind at the moment. I basically just described a drawing that I didn’t even know... what it was I was drawing... when I drew it. Intuition?

#Intution #words #Art #doodling

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jannahill · 5 years

Text

Hold out your eyes for a Halloween treat.

Hold out your eyes and I’ll give you a little insight plus the beginning and the ending of Smoke Free.

Smoke Free is a weird little story conceived in the smoke of a brush pile. The photos below show the cover; the first photograph and the finished cover.

Smoke Free is probably the only book cover we have not changed at least a dozen times. The truth is I have never wanted to change it. I love this cover and the image of that little pumpkin smoking a cigar never fails to amuse me. (I have the husband to thank for that.)

I had never heard of Irwin Smutter before that day and he (like the cigar smoking pumpkin) still amuses me with his absolute weirdness; him and the bizarre world he resides in.

Okay, here you go.

In the beginning…

Irwin marched down the stark white hallway with the impudence of a man on a mission. At the end of corridor, a glass door awaited with the words FREE YOUR SELF painted in large gold letters. He raised a curled fist to knock but decided against it. Easing the door open he called out, “Yoo-hoo. Is anyone home?” when no one responded he grudgingly entered the room and scanned its contents.

The room appeared empty other than an oversized sofa. Irwin reposed himself against the frigid vinyl, crossed his feet and sighed. A lively timbered scene covered the wall opposite the door, designed in such a way it almost looked like a window. Beyond the dull sheen of the pretend window was a forest where rays of sunshine cut through a smoky haze. The remaining walls were un-textured, pale and bare. The room smelled of sandalwood and acetone, a bizarre sweetness that sickened and comforted him at the same time. Irwin shifted nervously on the stiff upholstery in search of a warm spot. There was none.

The faux leather, the lifeless walls, the fake window – it was all too unsettling. Nothing is real, he thought, stretching his arms until his hands met above his head. Fads! The world has been reduced to kooks, phonies, and fads. Reassured by his own summation, Irwin interlaced his fingers and stretched further. When the joints in his entwined hands refused to pop, he rested them at the base of his neck.

Smoking cessation. Yeah, right. It was not Irwin’s idea. Irwin enjoyed smoking. The pungent smell of a fresh-lit cigarette made bitter coffee sweet. Smoking was one of the few things he looked forward to each day. A good smoke, a little booze, a lot of caffeine and Evie.

His wife, Evie was a non-smoker and she did not mind, she had never complained, but again, Evie never complained about anything. Evie was a saint.

So what am I doing here? Peer pressure. That was the only logical explanation. All of his friends had stopped smoking months ago. There is nothing more annoying than an ex-smoker. Irwin’s mind zigzagged trying to connect the dots, the trail of crumbs that had lead him here to this place where he was expected to free himself.

Evenings at the local tavern were not the same, instead of cheers and jokes the gang sat around bellyaching about a handful of smokers in the far corner. It wasn’t fun anymore. Irwin thought as he strained to recall the last time he had hung out with any of them, the last time he had stopped by the saloon on the way home. He could not remember. A few of his buddies had dropped by the house for a beer once or twice a week but then…

It occurred to Irwin he had been isolated for some time; cut off from society. Who needs them? Not me, I don’t have time for chewing the fat. He dug his heels into the armrest, tensed his abdominal muscles and forced a few halfhearted sit-ups. I’m healthy, a hell of a lot healthier than those slobs. Heck, Frank can’t see his ding-a-ling without a mirror. Irwin laughed aloud at the image of his friend groping for his penis. Poor bastard, he groaned, starring up at the flat alabaster ceiling, Frank’s a good guy. The kindest, most nonjudgmental man I have ever met… hey! Irwin bolted upright, Frank is my best friend.

When the sparkle abated from the realization, Irwin flopped back into a prone position and began a set of leg-lifts. Good ole Frank. Poor bastard. Dean and Will, now there is a couple of bonafide jerks! Irwin scoffed to himself, holding his un-embellished feet at heart level, Health fanatics! You can smell Dean a mile away— wreaking of curry and cumin. And Will, with his dead man farts –methane poison. Both of them—with their stained yellow skin.

Irwin snickered at the memory of Frank again, the last memory of the saloon he could clearly recall. Dean and Will who were frequently referred to as Mutt and Jeff, and the sight of their jaundiced eyes–unwavering. Long, lanky Dean slumped over his mug of warm Bud, squatty Will knocking back shots of cheap Vodka and the rank cloud of gas that always followed them.

“Dang! What are you two eating?” Frank had asked. When neither answered he pressed on, “It smells like you’re on the verge of shittin’ a dead man. What are you little tree huggers eatin’? Are y’all eatin’ people?” Irwin recalled Frank’s hearty laugh at his joke and smiled, until he remembered the response. Dean– shivering but never looking up. Will with that cocky glare, wriggling his thin eyebrows and slamming his glass down on the table for effect, grinning through pink jagged teeth. “No one under the age of eighteen.”

“Screw it.” Irwin said aloud as he swung himself into a sitting position. He grabbed the package of Camels from his shirt pocket. Despite the shaking, he managed to free a cigarette without breaking it. He tapped the filter against his palm a few times and gently set it between his lips. His right hand habitually swept the pocket of his 501 jeans to retrieve the Zippo. Irwin studied the chrome lighter, rubbing his thumb across the engraving. “I loved your heart too Evie.” He whispered. Within the sound of two clicks, a beautiful orange flame emerged. Irwin closed his eyes and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. The hissing crackle of dried tobacco had always eased his trembling. The feel of his Zippo, a gift from Evie, had always soothed his mind. I LOVE YOUR HEART was barely visible after years of stroking. He exhaled and imagined the writings of e.e. cummings. i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart). He fantasized about Evie, her soft white breasts against his back as she convinced him to be more accepting of lowercase letters and lower class people. Perfect breasts that now–

Just before The End…

Irwin and Evie spent their days and nights exploring endless trails. Time meant nothing to them now. Irwin was not sure how long he had been in this place, but it had been long enough to learn a few things. One: the sun never goes down. Two: there is no need for sleep and three: sometimes the boils come on slowly. He consoles himself with knowing Evie never minded his smoking.

Happy Halloween!

Available wherever e-books are sold.

Smoke Free narrated by Troy McElfresh

Happy Halloweenie Ghouls and Boils ( #TBT ) Hold out your eyes for a Halloween treat. Hold out your eyes and I'll give you a little insight plus the beginning and the ending of Smoke Free.

#Art #book covers #books #fiction #fun #Halloween #horror #Irwin Smutter #Janna Hill #making book covers #Smoke Free #surreal #weird #work

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limejuicer1862 · 5 years

Text

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Julene Tripp Weaver

is a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle. She has three poetry books: truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, No Father Can Save Her, and a chapbook, Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails Her Blues.

She is widely published in journals and anthologies. A few online sites where her work can be found include: Riverbabble, River & South Review, The Seattle Review of Books, HIV Here & Now, Mad Swirl, Anti-Heroin Chic, Writing in a Woman’s Voice and in the Stonewall Legacy Anthology.

Find her online at http://www.julenetrippweaver.com/

or Twitter @trippweavepoet.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

After my father’s death, before I turned twelve, I started to record my dreams and write in a journal. Writing helped during this difficult time, I was bereft. In my fantasy life poets were cool and I longed to be around people who were different. After my mother moved us to the city, I signed up for an evening poetry class at a local college in Queens. I was barely a teenager, and had to depend on my uncle to drive me. He had a bias against poets, the whole way there he yelled about beatniks sitting on floors, saying he worked hard to provide chairs for his family to sit on. I had a poem in my pocket and was terrified. The adult poets talked about poets I didn’t know. I felt like an outsider and realized I needed to understand more. Because of the lack of support, I didn’t go back to that group. Getting back to poetry took a long time, I had to move away from my family and become financially independent.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

When I was finally living on my own, I started investigating the writing world. Living in Manhattan I found classes at the Y and signed up. I read Peter Elbow’s books on writing. Finding other writers was helpful, I joined a group of women poets for feedback. Then I joined a local chapter of the Feminist Writers’ Guild; we brought in May Sarton to read, and they sponsored me to travel to a conference in Chicago where I gave my first public reading. Judy Grahn’s poetry inspired me, I wanted to write feminist poetry to change the world. Audre Lorde was well known and I learned she taught at Hunter College. I applied to CUNY so I could study with her and got a Bachelor degree with a double major of Creative Writing and Women’s Studies. I’d say Judy Grahn’s book, The Work of a Common Woman, had the most influence, she was such a strong lesbian feminist and I was in that community.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

When I started my journey as a poet I was unaware of the cannon. Audre started us out with an e.e. cummings poem, but she didn’t teach the older poets. She had us writing and workshopping our poems, reading and going to readings and journaling our impressions. I’ve done much catch-up. A few of the older male poets I admire include William Carlos Williams, William Stafford, Charles Simic, James Tate, Russell Edison, Richard Hugo. A generation in between when poetry was already moving away from rhyme to free verse. And with some of these it is their books about writing poetry that I love. I’ve read Gerard Manley Hopkins, Shakespeare sonnets, and some of the older poets, but I’m not drawn to their work.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I do not have a routine. Writing means a lot of things; writing new work, editing work, sending out work, composing collections, writing about the work (as in this interview), taking time to do nothing, applying to programs, residencies, grants. There is so much it’s overwhelming. And I easily get overwhelmed. So I’ve learned to be not too hard on myself for what I could be doing at any given moment. I spend far too much time on social media. But I keep a journal that I then cull work from. Plus, I write other genres: memoir and essays, for a few years I wrote articles for a health corner column in a newsletter.

5. What motivates you to write?

It’s a drive to the page, there were periods I did not have that drive and I just existed, lived life, worked and had fun with friends or a partner. Then there are periods where my writing ramps up: I take a class, begin to focus on a particular project, get excited about a call or networking. The newest thing I’ve done with a friend is to start a reading series at a local café once a month. It’s been more stressful than I anticipated. When my last poetry book was published I dedicated over three years to promote it.

6. What is your work ethic?

My first career as a laboratory technician lasted fourteen years; I worked at one lab for over eight years. Then I went back to school and had odd jobs that included my own business cleaning apartments in New York City. After that I did secretarial work, moved to Seattle and went back to school for a Masters in counselling. With that degree I worked for twenty-one years in AIDS services, eighteen of those years for the same agency in different capacities. I work hard and steady. I write hard, too, when I write. Semi-retired now, I have a small private therapy practice and my goal is to devote more time to writing, but I’m also the president of my condo Board. Responsibility and service are a big part of my work ethic, as is doing work from love, which I did working in AIDS services for twenty-one years. When I worked where they had a union I was a rep, and I’ve been part of two union negotiations.

7. How did the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

This is impossible to answer because I’m not sure how the books I loved as a child influenced my writing today. I read Heidi eight times, and all the Nancy Drew mystery novels.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

There are so many excellent authors! I have to say two I’ve worked with: Louise DeSalvo, I found her when I started Hunter College. She taught a different literature class each semester and I took every class of hers I could. She was a brilliant Virginia Wolf scholar with a PhD in the Deconstruction of Literature. Generous and supportive of her students she bestowed confidence. She constantly had new books coming out in different genres,. Two of her books I keep ready at my fingertips: Writing as a Way of Healing : How Telling Our Stories Transforms our Lives, and The Art of Slow Writing: Reflections on Time, Craft, and Creativity. She also has several memoirs, academic books, fiction and an anthology she edited of Italian American women. She died in October 2018. The other writer is Tom Spanbauer, he trademarked Dangerous Writing. I love his book The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon, so when I heard he was in Portland teaching Dangerous Writing workshops I wanted to study with him. For a year I went back and forth to Portland for several workshops and love his way of teaching. He is open and vulnerable, providing a safe space to write dangerous things that are hard to get onto the page. I’ve read each of his novels, and from him learned even though I am not a fiction writer, what I write has value. There are many other excellent poets and writers I admire.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

Well I consider myself an artist, and have called myself a health artist. Of all the arts, writing is what I’ve spent the most time to develop. I’ve taken art classes and I practice movement work. I discovered Continuum in 1988 and it has changed my life several times. For ten years, from 1997 to 2007, I ran workshops that combined Continuum movement and writing after taking Emilie Conrad and Rebecca Mark’s Poetry in Motion Intensive. Emilie was the founder of Continuum Movement, she died in 2014. In my workshop we experimented with breath, audible breath and movement that perturbed our interior world, then listened and allowed hand-to-page exploration. From my first Poetry in Motion I started what became a large body of writing about my work in HIV/AIDS.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

The best advice is to read a lot of poetry. There is so much good poetry available and you learn by the process of reading a wide range. Also, take classes and find a group where you get together and read your work out loud, then exchange feedback. Or find a group where you use a prompt, write for a timed period then go around and read what was written, either with no feedback or only positive. You’ll begin to get more fluid putting pen to page. It’s best to read it right away without worrying or thinking about it too much. If you have good mentors along the way and the right support I don’t think an MFA is so important.

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I’m working on a hybrid memoir and searching for publishers that will answer directly to an author as a first step. As a hybrid form it includes journal excerpts and dreams. I hope to have a my early health essays included in an addendum.

On my to-do list is to develop my next poetry manuscript and start sending it out. But first I need to form an arc from my many poems written in the past several years. Each book birth takes a lot of energy and my last book promotion has been slowly winding down; although I will be on a panel at AWP2020 in San Antonio related to that book reading my poetry.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Julene Tripp Weaver Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

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cstunna-blog1 · 6 years

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1,277 pearls. Of Wisdom. Stemming from 1,277 days spent in this place that quickly became home : The EDGE Internship.

We never dwell in the beginning on how we will change from point A to point B as we turn to write the first capital letter to a new chapter in our lives. But this next few posts will be a declaration of the lessons I have learned throughout my three years as an intern, (away from the textbooks and scrubbing toilets). A dedication to stunning individuals. A memoir to becoming unique. A love story with a place, people and precious pearls of wisdom. A love tale that took 1,277 days to write but would take a thousand more lifetimes to ever forget the moral.

It is hard to believe that now, the EDGE will no longer fit into the center of my world. Three years ago, I never anticipated making this place anything more than a program, never mind a home. EDGE was stamped on the matte black T-shirt that I got at orientation, not on my heart. Whether I admitted it or not, I was looking to become someone here, someone apart from a girl who didn’t believe in herself although she firmly believed it was silly to dream beyond her own backyard.

My time here is not one illustrated by laughter and love at all times. It was not always easy. Mine is one of digging, through the past, to the present and proceeding to the future. It is one of tears and unhappiness at times, filled by long stares in the mirror at a stranger holding broken dreams. It is one at times that I did not write myself. There were days when I passed the pen off, my hand too weak to write, my soul uninspired to engage in a search. There are entire paragraphs in my story that I know when I look back on them I won’t pay attention to the words I wrote. I will only look to what has been written in the margins by others, scripted finely in a familiar ink called “friendship.” These people came from everywhere, bringing with them lessons of knowledge, courage and heart. “They,” “them,” and “these” people are the reason that I have a story to tell.

They are the ones who saw to it that I was never alone when the world took advantage of me or when my faith was rattled. They have been sprinkled so purposefully and precariously in my life that it is hard for me to classify them as just people. Just faces or characters alongside me in a story. That won’t do.  That won’t do. They are my guides. My center. My sanity. My carriers. My pushes. My pulls. My gratitude. My grace. My beginnings. My ends. My braided in-betweens. They are how I fill a conversation. They are who I yearn to tell others about. They are stars in a brilliant night sky, the kind of display that makes us catch our breath as we lie on our backs and try to take in the illuminated landscape. And just like the stars when they are out by the millions, these individuals have made me question my purpose in this life. They have made me wonder how someone so little as me could fit into this big, big world. And I owe them the same big world for never leaving me to figure it out all on my own.

I make a decision, today and tomorrow, to carry these people in my heart no matter where I go; be it down the street to get a Pumpkin Spice coffee or on a back field, sifting hay. E.E. Cummings sends a message to these individuals better than I, “And this is the wonder that keeps the stars apart / i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart).”

And I suppose that is all I ever needed to find here. I could boil it down to pursuing ministry or a concentration, to finding a mentor or getting community outreach opportunities. I could say I came here to find a job upon graduation. But I know it isn’t about these things. I came here and found the people who led me to my heart’s desire.

But if that’s it, if that’s what I found then I can finally click my imaginary heels together three times and just go home. So long Edge Internship, it was great to be around you for four years. If that is the true story then I am missing the ending.

You know, Oz was wrong when he told the Tin Man that “hearts would never be made practical until they could be made unbreakable.” Because I am driving I-20 East, broken-hearted, and though I hate to feel my own heart break over the gesture that is “goodbye” it seems pretty practical to me. In fact, it’s perfect.

My heart did the hardest part for me, breaking into a hundred little pieces so that I could extend the pieces to the ones who played a part in stretching and filling that very same heart.

To this place and to these people, I am forever indebted. Because of them I finally have a story.

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kevinmoyer · 7 years

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Intimate Daytime Wedding in New York City :: Christine & David

Whenever a couple chooses to marry in a way that is exactly right for them, it shows in the pictures. Christine & David look so giddy in just about every shot! I really love that they chose a wedding that would have been considered the norm in the ’50s – midweek, ten guests, and an intimate luncheon with champagne toasts. (And PS: any bride who orders a cheeseburger for her wedding meal has a very special place in my heart!)

Christine decided to get ready with her bridesmaid, and not to see David before the wedding. She told us “I know we didn’t have a super traditional wedding, but I still felt strongly about spending the night before the wedding apart and not seeing each other until I ‘walked down the aisle’ — or in our case, stepped into the law library.”

What inspired you when you were planning your wedding? To be honest, I was mostly inspired by the simple post-World War II wedding of my grandparents. They had a very fuss-free ceremony and weren’t worried about any of the so-called requirements of weddings in 2017: nothing needed to be Pinterest-worthy! I just wanted to have a wedding that celebrated us and didn’t unnecessarily stress me out. And since it was a semi-elopement in New York City, I also wanted things to be city chic – I wanted a short dress with pockets, shoes that I could walk in, and the backdrop of Manhattan.

The Ceremony

Why did you choose this location for your ceremony? Although we originally planned on a City Hall elopement, a family friend who is a federal judge offered to married us in the law library at the United States Court of International Trade. It’s located right across the street from City Hall, so in a way we had the simple, straightforward, non-religious ceremony we wanted — but with the added benefit of a slightly more personal ceremony and a scheduled time. And as a bibliophile, I was thrilled to get married in a library!

Your ceremony in three words. Simple, semi-elopement, city chic.

Who officiated your ceremony? How did you choose him/her? A family friend who was a federal judge officiated our ceremony. When David’s dad mentioned to him that we were getting married at City Hall, he kindly offered to marry us instead. He was great about keeping City Hall elements that we wanted, but also infused the ceremony with more of our personal history.

How did you go about planning your ceremony? We had an initial meeting with the judge where we talked about our relationship and what was important to us in a ceremony. Although we wanted to keep things simple and we weren’t interested in writing our own vows (“if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!” was my general attitude), we did have a couple of readings we wanted included. The judge sent us two the transcripts of two ceremonies he had officiated before, and we mixed and matched until we got something that felt right to us. Having a template or a past example to refer to was very helpful!

You can see Christine & David’s full ceremony script right here!

What were your ceremony readings? I’m not an overly sentimental or romantic person, so I didn’t want anything too sappy! One was i carry your heart, a lovely poem by e.e. cummings., and another was Union, a reading that I found ages ago and summed up what I thought a wedding should be: less about the wedding day, and more about the foundation of the relationship and the marriage ahead.

What were your vows like? Our vows were straightforward and non-religious. Neither of us had any interest in writing our own vows: as a writer, I felt like it would be too much pressure and add a lot of stress leading up to the day. David felt like he would get too overwhelmed with emotion if he had to read anything more personal. And if it ain’t broke, why fix it! Although I’ve heard wonderful personal vows at my friends’ weddings, I’m really glad we stuck to the script.

What was your favorite thing about your wedding ceremony? It was very intimate: just us, our parents, David’s sister and her now-husband, my best friend and David’s best friend. I didn’t feel any pressure to make it Pinterest-worthy or an “event”, which freed me to just enjoy the moment and the day. One funny memory is that Chris, David’s best friend and one of our witnesses, actually dropped the rings during the ceremony: it made everyone laugh and brought a bit of levity to the day! David says that he’s grateful for it because he was on the brink of (happy) tears, and this lightened things up and helped keep his emotions in check.

Is there anything else that you’d like to share about your wedding ceremony? It felt really joyful! We were both really happy to be there, and I think it showed.

Did you include any traditions in your ceremony? We had a “City Hall” wedding, so we didn’t have many traditions from bigger weddings. We did have my stepdad walk me into the room and give me away, which was something important to my parents. And we had a champagne toast in the judge’s chambers immediately following the ceremony as we signed all of the official paperwork!

What was the best advice you received as a bride? I’m very grateful that none of our family pressured us to have a wedding different than the one we wanted. We had so many older friends and family who applauded our decision to have a smaller wedding, and in doing so save more money for a down payment (or a honeymoon!) My best advice would be to do what feels right for you, not because that’s what a blog or Pinterest or a well-meaning aunt says a wedding must be.

What advice do you have for other couples in the midst of planning a wedding? Don’t be afraid to do something small! Semi-eloping can be a fantastic way to keep the focus on the two of you and eliminate a lot of the stress and cost of wedding planning.

Please tell us about any other special details or moments from your day. We took portraits on the streets of New York City on our way from the ceremony to the reception. Our pug puppy named Gertrude joined us, which was my favorite part of the day! The best part about a New York City ceremony: the energy of the city is just incredible, and the hospitality of strangers really pours out for newlyweds!

If you had it to do over again, is there anything you would do differently? We only told our immediate family and witnesses that we were getting married, so it was a surprise elopement to the rest of our family and friends! We had a few friends over to our hotel suite later that evening to celebrate with drinks, but I would have loved to have been able to include more of our close city friends. It’s tough to balance the surprise element of an elopement with not wanting to offend good friends!

Christine told us “we did portraits in a few locations near City Hall between our ceremony and our luncheon, and I especially love the candid outtakes as our little crew made our way around the city.”

The Reception

How would you describe your reception? After our ceremony, we had a lovely and intimate lunch at Tiny’s and the Bar Upstairs in Tribeca. We only had ten guests (plus our wedding photographer, Mat Rick, who is a close friend of ours!) for a long lunch with plenty of champagne toasts.

Why did you choose this location for your reception? We wanted something close to the courthouse that would be easily for our families to walk to. I love the cocktails at Tiny’s, and it’s such a cute little pink façade in the middle of all the gray skyscrapers in the city. When I found out they had a private upstairs room, I knew it would be perfect for our group!

Did you have a signature cocktail? We served champagne, Old Fashioneds and West 12ths (a refreshing mix of vodka, mint and lemon).

What was your favorite moment or part of the reception? It’s hard to pick a favorite moment – it was just so wonderful to be with our most important people in the same room. My husband’s parents, his sister, and both of our witnesses all made such moving toasts, the champagne was flowing, the food was delicious, and we were married!

What was your wedding menu? Tiny’s and the Bar Upstairs features family-style starters, and then everyone was able to choose their own main. Without a doubt, I think everyone loved the burrata the most! I had a cheeseburger, which felt surprisingly decadent and like a really fun wedding day choice.

Is there anything else that helps tell the story of your wedding? We opted to semi-elope on our fourth anniversary, even though it fell on a Wednesday in March! I always had dreams of eloping, but we did want our parents and best friends present. This was a nice compromise, and I love that we will always have the one anniversary.

What type of cake or dessert did you serve? We had a carrot cake! It’s David’s favorite type of cake, and we had it simply done with all-white icing. It was delicious and easy – his sister and her husband pick it up from the bakery on the way from the ceremony to the luncheon – and it only cost $45.

Do you have any budget tips for other brides? We ended up spending about $5K on the day. The main things we spent on: our attire, the photographer and the luncheon. Even without buying much that was specifically ‘bridal’, we still spent a decent amount on what we wore. David invested in a custom-fitted suit (that he’s since worn several times) and I bought a new dress, a pair of nude heels and veil for the occasion (which altogether cost less than $1000). One of our good friends photographed our proposal (as a complete surprise!), and we were thrilled to hire him to photograph our wedding day. Even though he offered us a generous friends and family discount, it was still a major portion of our budget but definitely money well-spent. He did a wonderful job of capturing candid moments and plenty of portraits of us, along with our friends and family. Lunch at Tiny’s & the Bar Upstairs was in a warm and cozy wood-paneled private room. Although they don’t charge any venue fees, there is a $1000 minimum spend, and the set menu was $40 per person (not including drinks).

The post Intimate Daytime Wedding in New York City :: Christine & David appeared first on Snippet & Ink.

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: E.E. Cummings’s Long-Forgotten Artist’s Book

E.E. Cummings, “portrait-self,” from CIOPW (all images courtesy of Michael Webster)

Early in 1931, in his 37th year, Edward Estlin Cummings published an extraordinary book. No writer of note had ever done anything like it before (and few have since). Titled CIOPW, it collected between a single set of hardcovers 99 examples of his visual art in charcoal, ink, oil, pencil, and watercolor — thus accounting for the acronymic title. Nine inches wide and 12 inches high, CIOPW was printed on thick opaque paper in an edition limited to 391 copies, each of which he signed “Cgs,” not with a pen but with a brush, in green paint in my copy. The book’s cover bears a replica of this stylish signature. Meriden Gravure did the reproductions only in black and white, though some of the originals had additional colors.

CIOPW, cover

Notwithstanding Cummings’s growing reputation as an innovative poet, CIOPW was not reviewed and did not sell out upon publication, perhaps because its price of $20 was too high at the outset of the Great Depression. The most visible benefit of the book was an exhibition in August 1931 at the Kokoon Club in Cleveland of 162 works, including the originals of most of CIOPW. His latest biographer, Christopher Sawyer-Lauçanno, notes in E.E. Cummings: A Biography that “not one picture was sold,” not even to the local collector who paid for the shipping and advertising. Many of these artworks were exhibited again at the end of that year, then once more at the Painters and Sculptors Gallery in New York, where some works on paper did sell. Exactly when the publisher, Covici-Friede, sold all 391 copies of the book cannot be ascertained now, but it must have happened eventually, because nowadays a copy of CIOPW costs several hundred dollars, even with a binding that has, decades later, disintegrated.

E.E. Cummings, “Dial—S.T.,” from CIOPW

CIOPW epitomizes the genre now known as an artist’s book, or book-art, in which the author selects images, sequences them optimally, and then finds a printer. The subjects here are mostly people important to Cummings — stars such as Charlie Chaplin, as well as his personal friends James Sibley Watson, Scofield Thayer, S.A. Jacobs, Gilbert Seldes, Joe Gould — and also landscapes, nudes (only female), Coney Island, still-lifes, etc. Few of the individual pieces survive as great; but as with any major artist’s book, the whole realizes more than the sum of its parts.

From the beginning of his career, Cummings identified himself as a “painter and poet.” He participated in Manhattan group exhibitions; he befriended visual artists such as Gaston Lachaise. He hustled the Downtown art world, which was a much smaller scene then than it is now. He obviously had enough respect for his visual work to produce a book containing only that. Instead of hiring a critic to introduce CIOPW, as would be customarily nowadays, Cummings wrote his own single-page preface, concluding with this pregnant phrase, all in lower-case type: “persanly poem printer predicated picturebook.”

The great misfortune of Cummings’s professional career was that his visual art was not as successful as his poetry. Though he reportedly reserved his daytimes for painting and drawing, writing his poems mostly after sundown, and thus perhaps spent more of his working time on visual art than writing, his art had little success in the marketplace and even less with reviewers. To the art critic Henry McBride (1867–1962), the most distinguished exhibition-reviewer in his time, Cummings’s visual work was “thin, uncertain, and separated by some curious wall of inhibition.”

E.E. Cummings, “Chocoura:sunset,” from CIOPW

To my eye, too much of Cummings’s later art is not just inhibited but undistinguished to a degree that his poems are not, even visually. It lacks the signature of his poetry — the stylistic marks that make it recognizable as his and no one else’s. In a New York literary institution, I recently saw a few of his later paintings, which had been given to Poets House founder Betty Kray, who had arranged poetry readings for Cummings during her tenure at the Academy of American Poets, and upon her death they went to this salon. Out of fear that uninsured paintings by someone so famous might be stolen, they have been displayed without any attributions. No matter: No one would recognize them as “original E.E. Cummings”; indeed, few ever notice them at all, because they simply lack the presence of his writing.

E.E. Cummings, “Sugar Cane,” from CIOPW

Exhibitions of Cummings’s art were scarce, reviews negligible, and collectors few. The most persistent was his principal patron James Sibley Watson, initially known to him as the publisher of The Dial magazine, later an experimental filmmaker and a physician/medical school professor in his native Rochester. Nonetheless, Cummings didn’t give up visual art or trying to exhibit it, often complaining that his eminence as a poet inhibited the career of his visual art. Put simply, he was a painter who didn’t sell.

In his 59th year, he had a one-man exhibition to which he contributed a biting preface that opens:

Why do you paint?

For exactly the same reason I breathe.

That’s not an answer.

How long hasn’t there been any answer?

As long as I can remember.

And how long have you written?

As long as I can remember.

I mean poetry.

So do I.

Tell me, doesn’t your painting interfere with your writing?

Quite the contrary: they love each other dearly.

They’re very different.

Very: one is painting and one is writing.

When Cummings died, the bulk of his visual art went to Harvard’s Houghton Library, which reportedly has hundreds of his paintings and drawings. Another cache was donated by Marion Morehouse to a summer camp, which in turn sold it in the 1990s to a Massachusetts bookseller who continues to have an inventory. When I gave a presentation on Cummings in the spring of 2005, mostly about his visual art, at the New York Studio School at 8 West Eighth Street, only a few hundred feet from where he resided in Patchin Place, even sophisticated people asked both my host and myself, “What paintings?” We then showed images that few had seen before, even there in the heart of Greenwich Village.

E.E. Cummings, “Day,” from CIOPW

What’s missing from the self-designed retrospective CIOPW are Cummings’s more visual poems, which would have benefited from appearing in larger typography. He clearly regarded poetry and painting as distinctly separate domains, rather than two stops on a continuum, as I tend to do. (This accounts for why words rarely appear in his visual fields — in contrast, say, to some paintings by his contemporary Stuart Davis.)

E.E. Cummings, “knockout,” from CIOPW

CIOPW also lacks the abstract paintings, except for “Noise Number 13” (1925) that Cummings produced prior to 1925, most of them in color. To those more predisposed to abstract art, such as myself, these remain his strongest visual works. The odd paradox is that as his poetry earned him greater recognition for its rigorous innovations, his visual art became less distinctive, if not altogether flaccid.

With this impressive compendium, Cummings was implicitly announcing a turn in his visual art away from innovative modernism, which I now think was unfortunate. While he continued to produce experimental poems for his entire life (most of them collected in my 1998 anthology AnOther E.E. Cummings), the most innovative period in his visual art career concluded not in 1925, as others have suggested, but with the publication of his book-art masterpiece, CIOPW.

The post E.E. Cummings’s Long-Forgotten Artist’s Book appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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