I’m working on something. Until it’s finished, here’s a list:
Cursive: “Art is Hard”
Songs with stories
Murder by Death
Hating art I’ve made
Cursive: “Art is Hard”
Art and mental illness
Writing with Asperger’s
"Art is not an escape from life" (Joyce)
Jawbreaker: “Accident Prone”
Joy Division: “New Dawn Fades”
Help, I can’t stop listening to the Smashing Pumpkins or Murder by Death. I’ve been writing all morning to “Like the Exorcist…”
Speaking of writing: when you turn your back on your favorite thing in the world, only to become depressed because of it, that might be a sign that you should get back to it. Sometimes, it just takes time.
I have three parts of a story completed (written a few years ago) that I’m planning on posting (maybe sometime this month, maybe another time.)
Why does time slow to a stop when you’re waiting for things? [(In my case, a reply to an email.) Update: “we are currently not accepting any submissions.”] Sigh. There are always other things, and they didn’t say that they were never accepting submissions, just that they weren’t currently accepting submissions. So there’s hope, yet.
I’m also going to be updating shorter character pieces in a bit. I haven’t forgotten about them, I’ve just been busy with NaNoWriMo.
“You’ve wanted to live in New York since 2005?”
Pratt undergrad application: rejection.
New School undergrad application: acceptance.
New School MFA application: rejection.
Is New York anyone else’s missing limb?
How does a fictional character feel about the label placed upon them?
Dreams as a reflection of who I am. I have horrible dreams and wake up from them not scared in the least. And that’s what scares me. That feeling of “why am I not scared?” The fact that I don’t have nightmares anymore, or that they’ve just turned into dreams…
Pieces of conversations I come back to again and again:
“I miss her so much.”
“When I was in the hospital, I…”
And so on and so forth. And I just want to help everyone, and instead, feel incapable, so I listen.
Are we trying to distract ourselves or fill a hole and replace something? Or are we trying to do something else completely?
She walks through the doors to the store and walks over to the information counter where Alec stands, smiles at him, and suddenly wants to vomit.
“Jaime, are you okay?” he asks, coming around the counter as she sinks to the ground.
“I’m so—“ she begins, trying to keep composure as his friends kneel down to look at her.
Tris. Colin. Jeremy. Marie.
Looking through the bins at Comicazi. Asking Bob how he’d been. Singing along to the Misfits on the stereo. Buying a stack of comics and going to Diesel to read them over coffee.
“—so happy to—“
Jaime, the call on the phone, Theo…he’s…he’s killed himself.
Throwing the phone across the room. Get out. Need to get out.
Running. Down the street, somewhere else, away. To Forbidden Planet, where Alec’s friends found her. Let’s go to the French Roast, Olivia had told her. Alec’s shift finishes up in a few. We’ll get food.
She looks up and tries to catch her breath.
“I’m so happy to see you guys.”
On and on, on and on, everything blurs in low light, and he can’t see where his feet are heading, but he knows he’s going somewhere familiar, lucky enough to know the store even in the dark. I need my space. What kind of decision is that? Who in their right mind would make a decision like—right, he would.
Directionless. Why not get a little more directionless in the meantime, get run over by a car or something? It wouldn’t be the worst. Before he looks up and realizes that he’s at Bergen Street Comics.
And looks through the window to see Jaime and Tom standing around, talking. Jaime, who’s doing merch for the Zero Zero show at Rockwood. He thinks about the glitter bomb that Jaime and Tom made back before the Boston show, and nobody knew until afterwards. Jaime and Theo, sitting on the blanket outside, waiting for doors. Theo, dead. He wonders how she does it, lives, when going through a breakup feels like the end of the world, when they look over and see him through the window.
“Hey!” Tom says, grinning, as he opens the door.
“We were just talking about the show at Rockwood,” says Jaime. “I’m psyched.”
After all, it goes on and on, on and on.
On the way to New York with the rest of So Violent, Jane sits in the van and remembers the house show that they played back in Boston, where they named themselves after she punched someone in the face for talking shit about her and her girlfriend. And their manager had told her that maybe she should act a little less gay, so she walked out, wondering how their manager would like that.
But a familiar fear creeps back in as she sits with Cate, Clara, and Alice. She flips through an issue of Doom Patrol and wonders if their little band from Boston is even ready to play in New York. They’re liked in Boston, and she isn’t sure if she even wants to be liked anywhere else.
She doesn’t want it to matter. She doesn’t want anything to matter but the show they’ll be playing the next day with Zero Zero, and she wonders if Tom ever feels pressured to talk about things. She wants to burn the city down. Maybe nobody would care, then.
This or that. Make us your parlor trick, token queer band, or don’t mention who we are at all, because there must not be any inbetween. She wants to be the band that doesn’t give a shit about giving a shit. Her favorite superheroes didn’t take people’s shit, she thinks, closing the comic, and they always fought back.