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    1. we now return to you a regular schedule since now it's on sync with the months. here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital,...

      we now return to you a regular schedule since now it's on sync with the months. here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.

      november threadfebruary threadmarch threadapril thread

      28 votes
    2. Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.) This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for. Might just have to...

      Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.)

      This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for.

      Might just have to re-write this idea into a completely different piece, I'm not sure. (mfw literally "felt creative idk might delete later")

      The "ball" was supposed to really be a watermelon, because we've all seen that YouTube video where they explode a watermelon with rubber bands, but I didn't leave myself enough space to develop that transition from ball to melon properly. (Brand new sentence?)

      Why am I even posting this if I feel its unfinished?

      Who knows.

      Anyway let's get to the thing here it is vvvvvvvvv

      slip.

      twist.

      smack.

      10 rubber bands on a ball

      all hold each other taut

      the inception of a toy

      that will quick be left for naught

      but brings a momentary joy - its only cause.

      .

      work.

      stoa.

      sweat.

      hustle on, man, that's your call

      you gotta love your boss.

      it's the struggle of a boy.

      that you never would be caught

      while feeling tears or overwhelm - lest you be mocked.

      .

      smack.

      stretch.

      strain.

      100 rubber bands slap

      starting slightly straining

      its appearances are coy,

      the ball slowly rolls to stop.

      picked up and bounced against the floor - it doesn't pop.

      .

      work.

      stare.

      grind.

      expectations are my all.

      you dream of taking off -

      escape makes you overjoyed

      daily grind just puts your off.

      your brain it strains against the skull - stressing nonstop.

      .

      pop

      waste

      spill

      500 rubber bands smack

      crushing and constraining

      such a carnage to enjoy

      they start rolling out the mops.

      the ball explodes onto the floor - as if a prop

      .

      rip

      slice

      tear.

      my fists crash into the walls.

      my skin, just rip it off

      rip out the bone, leave me void

      naked muscle growing moss.

      wrap rubber bands around my head until it pops.

      6 votes
    3. What a beautiful night the stars are out like tiny pinprick holes in the sky illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows as we chat about life and random fluff and the moon shines through your dress...

      What a beautiful night
      the stars are out
      like tiny pinprick holes in the sky
      illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows
      as we chat about life and random fluff
      and the moon shines through your dress
          making it
                  transparent

      Back to my car
      a night full of passion.
      Come the morning: I stop and reflect.
      What could my life have been?
      If I had missed all this,
                  this artifice and sin?
      For you are only silicone,
      your dress a splotchy sheet
      The stars are a cheap plastic disco ball
      I bought it from goodwill for 97¢.
      My car's no more than a fluorescent-stained couch.

      Alas, alas for me
      I must do better—yes, I will!
      (I steel my resolve)
      (I know what I must do)
      (my heart, it pains me so!
      For you have been so good to me, and thus I will repay you?)

       

       

       

       

       

      I did it, threw you in the trash;
      I'll hire a human whore tomorrow

      9 votes
    4. June.

      You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets. Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for...

      You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets.

      Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for poetry’s sake.

      Anyway. ‘Ere go. “June.”

      I thought your voice was music

      And your beauty - work of art.

      I found your jokes amusing,

      Ponygirl, a golden heart.

      Your company, a journey

      Which I never could depart

      I really felt I loved you,

      Well, I did once, at the start.

      .

      See, music can be different

      Some songs good, and others crap.

      Some begin melodically,

      Then get crashing in a snap.

      Starting subtle violins,

      Then it blares with metal scrap

      They lure you malevolent

      Some music is a trap.

      .

      Some artists Donatello,

      Others Jackson Pollock.

      Some art goes well with wine,

      Some turns you alcoholic.

      Some is deep and intricate,

      Some is purely bollocks

      Can’t call this a masterpiece

      I’m not sure what to call it.

      .

      Thought your lips were pure cuisine

      And your beauty - work of art.

      I never thought the kitchen

      Would have mold and rot at heart.

      The oven sent asunder

      All the counters ripped apart

      You’re a diner with one dish,

      And it’s a dry and sour tart.

      6 votes
    5. HELLO TILDES USERS. IT IS I, FELLOW HUMAN, BISHOP. As you may have read in an earlier post of mine (ok probably not it was a one-off comment, not like I reinforced the thought anywhere.) I do...

      HELLO TILDES USERS. IT IS I, FELLOW HUMAN, BISHOP.

      As you may have read in an earlier post of mine (ok probably not it was a one-off comment, not like I reinforced the thought anywhere.)

      I do indeed hold the belief that code can be, itself, art, in the right context.

      Or, rather, that code can be used for artistic purposes.

      I dunno.

      That's why I'm posting.

      What would you say is the most artistic or, at least, creatively designed website or mobile app that you've seen?

      I've got some creativity a-stewin' away in my head, and I need a new excuse to kill some time on frontend.

      So, fellow humans, hit me with your best shot duh-nuh-nuh-nuh fire away.

      What ya got?

      (@mods fix my tags please. Not sure what to put, but you might have a good idea. Ya boy's had a few.)

      18 votes
    6. Light it up hit the stage hit the dance floor. Fight enough start a riot there's a chance for love to grow for the hate to transform Feeling these knots in my head am I deformed? . Feel like my...

      Light it up

      hit the stage

      hit the dance floor.

      Fight enough

      start a riot

      there's a chance for

      love to grow

      for the hate

      to transform

      Feeling these

      knots in my head

      am I deformed?

      .

      Feel like my

      head, my heart,

      a rock show.

      Is this peace

      or pain, I

      do not know.

      I can't close

      my eyes and

      the clock's slow

      Pray I'll

      kill myself

      in Chicago

      .

      My head pounds

      bass drum

      memories of,

      days when you

      and I meshed

      and we made love.

      Wish that I

      went and bought you

      all your makeup.

      Maybe some money's

      all we needed

      to makeup

      .

      Feel like my

      head, my heart,

      a rock show.

      Is this peace

      or pain, I

      do not know.

      I can't close

      my eyes and

      the clock's slow

      Pray I'll

      kill myself

      in Chicago

      .

      With hate your

      voice went shrill

      you went cold.

      Who's this girl

      beside me

      don't know.

      Wake up in

      the morning pain

      or comfort?

      All your screaming

      I wanna go

      Van Gogh

      .

      Feel like my

      head, my heart,

      a rock show.

      Is this peace

      or pain, I

      do not know.

      I can't close

      my eyes and

      the clock's slow

      Pray I'll

      kill myself

      in Chicago

      8 votes
    7. Howdy folks. Had a recent interest in large-scale art projects, and I'm not sure where to start looking to find more. Anything that by nature has to exist outside of a museum. I'm looking for big...

      Howdy folks.

      Had a recent interest in large-scale art projects, and I'm not sure where to start looking to find more.

      Anything that by nature has to exist outside of a museum. I'm looking for big displays. Whether it be large scale performance art, buildings erected at the will of an artist, or things like the Dumb Starbucks event that took place out in Los Angeles.

      Installments that took any measure of great coordination, investment, or raw personal effort.

      I feel like I'm doing a right shit job of describing this - but maybe you get the idea. If anyone has links to news articles, blog posts, or whatever about these kinds of art please drop a comment!

      9 votes
    8. Hand to God

      Father God I've got a favor to ask of you. . It is said you can justify the hell I knew. . So now I raise my tired eyes to the morning blue. . God above, I've got a favor to ask of you. . If I...

      Father God

      I've got a favor

      to ask of you.

      .

      It is said

      you can justify

      the hell I knew.

      .

      So now I raise

      my tired eyes

      to the morning blue.

      .

      God above,

      I've got a favor

      to ask of you.

      .

      If I don't wake up

      dead in the morning

      could you stand by me

      if just for a moment

      give pause to the pain

      put a break to the moaning

      while I'm stuck in this mind

      and I just can't control it.

      .

      If you're gonna drag me out

      of my bed in the morning

      then I ask I wake in

      a place I feel at home and

      I can pour a little brown, light

      a green, and get to hoping

      that I'll find good work,

      good love, and consoling.

      .

      Ya Allah

      Ana mish aerif

      Ana riyeh feyn.

      .

      My head

      is clouded, dark

      and the sky is grey.

      .

      I've found

      I hate the sun,

      and dance in the rain.

      .

      And at night,

      I close my eyes,

      dream of the grave.

      .

      If you're gonna drag me out

      of my bed in the morning

      then I ask I wake in

      a place I feel at home and

      I can pour a little brown, light

      a green, and get to hoping

      that I'll find good work,

      good love, and consoling.

      8 votes
    9. Life—what's life? half a second on the edge of happiness Life—what's life? half a second on the edge, in the shadow of Death Live life for death—what's the point? it's done before begun you can't...

      Life—what's life?
              half a second on the edge of happiness
      Life—what's life?
              half a second on the edge, in the shadow of Death
      Live life for death—what's the point?
              it's done before begun
              you can't outrun
                                                      forever
      Live life without death—what's the point?
              does it matter, does it matter?
              does it matter right now?
              if it matters right now, it can matter later; later matters more, 'cause there's a lot more later than now
      Live life with death—we get no choice
              but choose you carefully to stand:
                      on his shadowy side?
                      or his sunny side?
              both are fraught with peril
                or
                  do you dare to face him?

      12 votes
    10. it has not been about a month since the last thread, but it would probably be more convenient to just do these threads on the first day of each month instead of in the middle of the month and...

      it has not been about a month since the last thread, but it would probably be more convenient to just do these threads on the first day of each month instead of in the middle of the month and waiting for another twenty or so days to get on that track is ridiculous, so i'm going to just start this one now and then do the next one on may 1st. anyways, we're back again! here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.

      21 votes
    11. Bishop The Musician

      <Insert intro explaining the lack of an intro.> raindrop on the tongue of the parched, de- flated beach ball in the hands of the young, lit cig 'tween the fingers of a nun, one sin's never gonna... <Insert intro explaining the lack of an intro.>
      raindrop

      on the tongue

      of the parched, de-

      flated beach ball

      in the hands of the young, lit

      cig 'tween the fingers

      of a nun,

      one sin's never gonna be enough

      fuck the prose

      words will never be enough.

      the writing's on the walls

      but you can't read it

      you aren't here

      i need a sign you

      can't ignore or a call

      you're bound to hear

      .

      the words just aren't enough

      on their own

      to pull my heart strings

      i can't find peace

      without my blood

      on guitar strings.

      .

      the words are going cold

      the poetry has not a heartbeat.

      i need to take the stage

      and pray to god that they can't see me.

      7 votes
    12. Not Hungry

      Usually it's simple. You feel unhappy. And you feel hungry. There is a hole in your stomach. There is a hole in your soul. You fill the holes with burgers, and ramen, and shawarma, and fried...

      Usually it's simple. You feel unhappy. And you feel hungry. There is a hole in your stomach. There is a hole in your soul. You fill the holes with burgers, and ramen, and shawarma, and fried chicken. Then the holes are filled. Then the unhappiness turns into being not-unhappy. Being generally-content.

      You're such a good boy! You've finished everything on your plate! The plate that you've bought yourself! Using the money that you've made! Such a good boy!

      But what do you do if you are unhappy… and you don't want to eat? The realisation is horrifying. You thought that you have found a solution. A flawed solution, a patch, but a patch that always works, arteries be damned. Now it doesn't. You are unhappy. And unhungry. Oh no.

      Maybe switch from big nasty burgers to something like candy? Maybe this sweet exotic soda will help? A Japanese chewing gum? A Korean chocolate breadstick? It numbs the pain, but the pain is still there. That's when the desperation comes in. Will it ever end? Will it ever get better? Can the others help you? Can they even understand you? Are they even real people? Did they ever suffer? Do they know the pain?

      If you're lucky, then it's pretty dark already. Go home. Add way too much Mayonaise to your supper. Add too much sugar to your evening tea. Make yourself even more tired. Tired enough to sleep. Tired enough to hope, that tomorrow you'll be hungry again.

      15 votes
    13. Lakeside Property

      Not sure why I always feel the need to preface these with something. Feels weird not to. As if I'm just "Hey chump, here's a poem, read it." Y'all hear that Lil Nas X track "Old Town Road" yet?...

      Not sure why I always feel the need to preface these with something.

      Feels weird not to. As if I'm just "Hey chump, here's a poem, read it."

      Y'all hear that Lil Nas X track "Old Town Road" yet? Never knew I needed to hear Billy Ray Cyrus on a trap beat until it happened.

      If that blends your smoothie, you might also like "Like A Farmer" x Lil Tracy ft. Lil Uzi Vert

      I like this whole hickhop wave coming through. Cool to see people playing around with genre-bending.

      For all those "that's not real country" folk, here's some Cody Jinks and some Brown Bird (technically blues I think, fight me.)

      Anyway, here's the thing. Feel free to read it. If anyone here uses one of those e-reader speech things for the vision-impaired, how does this sound? Does the reader have any rhythm to it, or does it just feed you line after line?

      Alright closing out for real. Later.

      I thought something strange

      skeleton felt out the closet

      In the house, the paint

      kept peeling off the walls

      and on the bed, decay

      as the wood went rotten

      Never could build a house,

      made a life making coffins.

      .

      In the morn, I wake

      and the skies are grey and cloudy

      Turn to kiss my babe,

      is it love me or get off me

      and my head, it aches

      the anxiety is starting

      so I say fuck it all and I make me some coffee.

      .

      Lips on me -

      desire.

      Arsonist

      with a lighter.

      Feed my soul,

      make the heart burn.

      Where there's smoke

      there is fire.

      .

      An infant strand-

      ed out there in the snow

      Sh'said "Babe there's a chill,

      you'd better close the door."

      Close your rain-

      bow, there's no pot of gold.

      And there's no one to sing

      you any songs of your home.

      .

      Fill my art-

      eries with bourbon old

      Loverboy

      til I am dead and gone

      Rip off my skin

      and leave my body cold

      My son,

      the devil

      is a pretty blonde.

      .

      And I said

      Mama

      I’m tired.

      My hands shake

      My eyes burn.

      Hair’s thin

      Heart afire.

      My lovely little lover was a liar.

      .

      Closed the door,

      the hinge broke.

      No chimney

      house filled smoke.

      Scents arose

      of burnt mold.

      A lake of blood and

      guilt can't support a home.

      9 votes
    14. For now.

      Hi everyone. Hello to all the new faces who don't know my name - (or how out of character it is that there are capital letters in this post!) This isn't really for you - or for anyone in...

      Hi everyone.

      Hello to all the new faces who don't know my name - (or how out of character it is that there are capital letters in this post!) This isn't really for you - or for anyone in particular I guess; I just wanted to write something to those who have followed my work on here.

      So, you.

      Howdy.

      It's been a minute.

      I just wanted to give you all a quick update; let you know that I'm safe. I've had a few of you reach out to me since my last post. I hope I didn't scare anybody.

      For those interested - things... aren't all that better now, hahaha. Sorry.

      But the good news is, they're trending up in a really good way.

      I've decided to stop drinking for awhile; I figured that isn't really helping my cause at this point. I'll pick that back up when there's something worth celebrating, when I'm in better company, and when I'm back in control of myself.

      I've started getting a lot more interviews for work; shouldn't be long now until I have a position landed and I'm back to being a functioning adult.

      And uh - I started therapy. Been about a month now. I like my therapist, they're very sweet, very weird in a fun/eclectic kind of way. (My kinda person.) And that's been going well.

      In fact, that's part of this.

      It's not just Tildes I abandoned.

      I've let a lot of very important people to be fall to the wayside lately - total isolation. Tonight, I started calling them back, apologizing, letting them know what was going on. And that's gone well so far.

      Now I'm here doing the same for you.

      I don't know if I'll be back on Tildes all too frequently. There's a lot on here I might just need to let rest.

      So I just wanted to say that I'm here. I love you. I'm sorry. And, bye.

      For now.


      eyes crackle open

      half past three

      stomach on fire and

      my body feels meek

      i stumble out my chair

      and here the creak in my knees

      you're only in your twenties

      and you're living ninety

      .

      my head feels funny

      and i'm tired of the numbing

      and there's too much week

      at the end of my money

      a little bumblebee lost

      wishing for his honey

      beat my head against the hive

      until the world starts buzzing

      and it falls.

      .

      and i

      set

      foot

      down

      on that unpaved road

      step

      forward like an orphan

      on a search for a home

      walk

      forward hand to God

      if he answers my call

      honey (i'll) be

      leaving for now

      hope it won't be long

      .

      soul

      full of gravel and

      a heart made of gold

      imma

      face my music and

      play my song

      send

      me down to hell

      if it rights my wrongs

      honeybee

      i'm leaving for now

      hope it won't be long.

      16 votes
    15. enikő a story written on the edge of sleep and sanity The dreams never seem to come unless they're tortured memories or painful reminders of some ill-begotten past nobody wants to remember. To...

      enikő

      a story written on the edge of sleep and sanity

      The dreams never seem to come unless they're tortured memories or painful reminders of some ill-begotten past nobody wants to remember. To sleep is to live with that reality, but there can be no sleep in such reality either, and neither can there be peace. In the reality there is Enikő, eyes strained against an all-consuming darkness, and the many fractured people that exist within.

      "No sleep," mutters Enikő into the void. There are no people around to hear that, except the many fractured people within. Enikő flashes out of existence at once and the fractured people take their spaces, dance their dances against the blackness.

      "You know," scolds Alyaza Birze, who flashes at once into existence, "you must cease to suppress me one of these days!" Probably Enikő is not truly around to hear this in the reality, for Enikő is just as nonexistent as all the other people within the darkness. Alyaza pays it no mind, for she is accustomed to such.

      "Why must you always tax yourself so, Enikő?" calls Alyaza out to the void. "You know as I that you must sleep. The nightmares are no more common than the daydreams, and neither too are the thoughts. They are not often for you. Rest at once." The void does not answer.

      Alyaza flashes back into nonexistence, and so takes her place is Natja Avidina. In some other place in some other space, it is so that Natja and Alyaza exist as roommates. In this reality though they are consigned to singular existences, never seeing one another. They are opposites, yin and yang, and in this reality yin and yang cannot be at the same time. Natja cannot exist where Alyaza does, nor can Alyaza exist where Natja does. Natja pays this no mind, for she too like Alyaza has long resigned to the void reality.

      "Why do you make yourself suffer, Enikő?" slips the quiet voice of Natja into the void. "Surely you too must be tired, even with the nightmares and the thoughts, and surely you too must realize that there is no guarantee you will even remember them if you rest?" And then Natja too snaps out of existence and is replaced by Enikő.

      "I don't want the thoughts or the nightmares or the dreams." says Enikő from reconstitution. "I have dreamed and thought like a crazy person for years and every day my sanity slips a little more because of it! Must I be consigned to suffer then like every other facet of life simply because you two demand it of me?"

      Enikő's eyes drift, and into the void Alyaza calls back a simple "yes" before disappearing again. In the void little figures dance to the rhythm of a silent melody, one-two like so then one-two again, not figures like Alyaza or Natja but the manifestations of the thoughts and dreams and every little thing the brain conceives and conspires to employ in this god-forsaken hellspace of a reality. Fire and brimstone could never compare to the void that taunts and harasses the very depths of soul and sanity.

      Enikő's eyes drift back into the void. "I refuse," she says with conviction. Sleep will bring upon this void all the figures dancing to the invisible beat a thousand times over complimented with the worst machinations of the mind. One thousand times too many has this happened and one thousand and one will not tonight.

      Enikő gives way to another shard of a body, the one that always confronts the thoughts. The eyes of Twilight Sparkle methodically survey the void for the usual actors, the ones that seem to recur every time she is spirited to this curious place. This is not her home, nor has it ever been, and why she is here she never does seem to know. In another place she is lauded but anxious perpetually, sent against fate and time and gods themselves in the name of an abstract concept she supposes she represents. Here, she exists as a mixture of reason and reaction, and in the void it is never certain which side dominates. She has never been used to the void, but the void cares little for such things.

      "The thoughts aren't anything you haven't experienced before." she says carefully. "If it were my call, I'd take it. Better than what the rest of the mind can spit out if you stay in this void for too long."

      The manifestation of reason disappears, and reaction it seems has lost the day for once. But Enikő responds only with "I refuse" and vanishes once more into nonexistence. The Thompson-esque scene must shamble along once more, resembling more and more an acid trip gone awry with its talking purple ponies and radical socialist gryphon-kind. The void answers the call with frantic pace, the one-two double timing without a breath to spare and the void reaching with the first tendrils of abject paranoia. The void must call its call and spread until entropy overcomes its will. Sleep must one day win over void, or void must overcome all things otherwise.

      But Enikő only pops back once more to refuse. "I shall not sleep, and none shall tell me otherwise. No void shall overcome me, no matter what, and I would sooner die than feel the thoughts once more."


      Alyaza Birze has a plan. She is no strategist of course, and pays no claim to being such, but just as Enikő was the body within which all of the fractal personalities contained themselves, Alyaza was a person into which Enikő could project. And just as Enikő knew Alyaza, Alyaza must then have known Enikő.

      The one-two one-two staccato of the void grew seemingly always more and more discordant, for which Enikő would no doubt pay in short order. But the void reality was not the only reality into which all of the fractal personalities could contain themselves, and Alyaza Birze knows this. There are many vectors by which to project yourself into another reality, and this too Alyaza Birze knows, but it is a very specific reality that Alyaza Birze seeks. And so into the void, with sudden rhythm, is a familiar humming.

      Doo do, doo do do do.

      Do do do do, do do do do, do do.


      It is some indiscriminate time, in a place that is less so indiscriminate. Alyaza Birze is on a podium at the head of a sea of curious lifeforms in a reality that places her in a Thompson-like Battle of Aspen. But far from Aspen, this reality invokes some mayoral election for a town named Ponyville in a land called Equestria, in some god-forsaken reality that demands words but defies them and calls for no less than six tabs of acid. It is Birze, the uncharismatic but ever convention-defying radical speaker who raises a Gonzo fist to a species with no opposable digits and recites with conviction "All you maggot-smoking fags on Santa Monica boulevard." No explanation for these words or their significance to the Birze campaign is given, nor for the Gonzo fist, and the reality at once seems to shatter into a million ill-fitting pieces from such an illogical state of being. Birze pays none of it mind.

      Somewhere to the side of the sea of life is a Twilight Sparkle equally oblivious of the void and all too aware of it, cringing at every word spoken by Birze and no doubt trying to distance herself from every syllable that is enunciated on that grand podium. No self-respecting person would be caught dead wholeheartedly agreeing with some platform literally based in nothing in this reality (except of course for the vast masses already doing so but without saying so). But then all of this is irrelevant and Twilight knows this and it is merely pomp and circumstance to the call of the void which exists and eats away at everything like a malignant cancer even in so far away a place as this. Behind the thinly veiled, multicolored sets of this reality jolt the rhythms of the void reality, ready to expand and consume here just as it too shall consume Enikő. And so it is under that circumstance that exponentially titled future Mayor of the Reality of the Freak Power Ponyvillians Alyaza Birze and shattered personality Twilight Sparkle meet both knowing and not knowing why it is they meet.

      "To what pleasure do I owe speaking to the visit of our presumptive mayor?" asks the purple pony in the Thompson-esque scene. The void at least will not eat these words, so there is point and purpose in the intonation put on them.

      "Someone as smart as you surely must know why I am here and not anywhere else today. Void is void, Tevilias. It is another one of those." said Alyaza with reservation. "And certainly I am no mayor, for the record."

      "You must forgive me," Twilight strings together with lackadaisical attitude, "but what would 'one of those' mean?" There is an air of resignation in the words, like the inevitable weight of a hundred-million realities is about to crash down on this reality and consign it to some bad acid trip where it belongs.

      "Well you know as I, Tevilias, that in twenty-odd hours I shoot all of you to that beat and tune, that bullshit line of "All you maggot-smoking faggots" in this strange smoke and mirrors bullshit reality that exists. That is where the thoughts go, that is what the void calls, and it is you who will die there too in agony a hundred times any other. And no doubt you know that I have no desire to do that. We've been through this a hundred times, haven't we? And we know what happens if we do that."

      "Sure." The resignation is enviable.

      "And so we will not let that happen, will we? Because it's not like I want to murder. And you know what will happen if we do." The three-headed cerberus that inhabits the void makes itself known then.

      "I WILL MURDER YOU ALL IN COLD BLOOD" bays the first head. The second nods solemnly as though carried along for a ride it never asked. The third head is manic, bearing no mind to anything but the vast and acid-like surroundings and teetering back and forth on the cusp of some far off reality from here. All of them are Alyazas, stuck in a body that never represented them in a world that never cared for them, or so it seems. No one head ever seems to dominate, except when it surfaces and becomes The Alyaza Birze, the one that people know. And never is there a time when one knows which one is The Alyaza Birze or if none of them are The Alyaza Birze, the one that everybody interacts with. Perhaps twenty-odd hours from now it will be the first that will do the killing.

      "So perhaps," says Alyaza Birze, the cerberus disappearing at once, "we should make this quick then." And Twilight Sparkle can merely nod as one of the fragmented personalities once in her own reality and soon to again no longer be.


      The void cannot pace itself any longer, and the discordant harmonies cease at once to contain themselves. The thoughts grow darker and drearier as they always do and the figures in the void give way to the schizophrenic happenings of the night. The shadow figures that once were become again and reanimate against the pitch black, the vividness ever greater. Sleep is enviable, but the void shall not overcome. The thoughts shall not overcome, not the dreams of dying or doing the death dealing nor the inenviable and inevitable thoughts of wanton mutilation. "The void will not overcome me, and I shall not sleep." says Enikő, and the void surges its tendrils once more.

      Alyaza Birze and Twilight Sparkle and all her friends and all the other fractal personalities but Natja Avidina constitute themselves in the void once more, humming the refrains to a song which they all care to know as fractal personalities to a person. What a thing to be a witness to the sunshine! What a dream to just be walking on the ground! Into the void must strum the beat to something more cheery, something to at least dispel the thoughts and the agonies and the void for awhile, something that isn't so depressive and destructive. Don't get so upset, the refrain cries, the world was never fair--but there are ways yet to get through the day and so too perhaps the night. None of the fractal personalities sing, for singing is never quite their tempo. In some other, non-void reality perhaps this is so, but here they simply drown in the thoughts. And the thoughts are drowned, slowly, but inexorably, by the feelings of the music.

      The void begins to slow, and entropy takes its course as does inevitably for all things. Soon the dreams are gone and so too go the thoughts with them, and at once there is a true void where the nightmares and the thoughts frolic no longer.

      "Well that was not so hard." says Alyaza Birze. "A work done well by everybody, I suppose." Twilight merely scoffs, and says nothing of it before she is reconstituted into her own reality, to perhaps be shot again sometime in not-so-far-gone future. So too out of existence and into their own blink her other friends, ever present in this void from time to time as she but never quite players in its major doings. One day in the not-so-far-gone future it is they too who may die at the hands of some Alyaza Birze. But tonight they are merely fractal personalities in a large symphony of them, called upon ever and remembered never.

      Into the night Alyaza Birze skitters onto paper a little testimony she picked up on a day she can no longer remember but which sticks into her mind evermore.

      It reads:

      In my own country I am in a far-off land
      I am strong but have no force or power
      I win all yet remain a loser
      At break of day I say goodnight
      When I lie down I have a great fear
      Of falling.

      And then she too blinks into nonexistence, perhaps in some not-so-far-flung future destined to be as she was this night to kill, perhaps destined to rewrite the words of testimony, but ever destined to repeat the cycle of doing and being and defusing crises on this night and all others a million times over now and forever more.

      And for the first time in a long while, Enikő is at peace and sleeps.

      7 votes
    16. I am considering to start an educative podcast in a couple months (just considering, nothing certain). I want to monetise it with a freemium model where the most elementary thing---the audio---is...

      I am considering to start an educative podcast in a couple months (just considering, nothing certain). I want to monetise it with a freemium model where the most elementary thing---the audio---is free or very cheap (e.g. $1 on Patreon), but handouts (non-essential but very useful) are slightly more expensive. It will probably be weekly to begin with, and I mgiht add some extra material if it will be viable financially. I can't really afford pro or prosumer gear at this point, so I'd like to avoid that if possible.

      My question is, what are your tips for a totally beginner podcaster like me? Either my case directly, or a more general newbie with little funds tobdedicate to this in the beginning.

      16 votes
    17. April is National Poetry Month. It's also National/Global Poetry Writing Month, where participants write a poem a day for every day in April. I'm doing it this year, and was wondering if any other...

      April is National Poetry Month. It's also National/Global Poetry Writing Month, where participants write a poem a day for every day in April. I'm doing it this year, and was wondering if any other tilderiños were as well. I'm a little late on the post, but there's still time to catch up!

      10 votes
    18. it's been a month since the last thread, so i think it's time for a new one of these. here you can share some of the projects that you're working on (of any kind, be they digital, physical, or...

      it's been a month since the last thread, so i think it's time for a new one of these. here you can share some of the projects that you're working on (of any kind, be they digital, physical, or whatever) that wouldn't really work as its own post.

      13 votes
    19. #19 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti So rent a museum and see yourself in mirrors- In every room an exposition of a different phase in your life with all your figures and faces and pictures of all the...
                                                    #19 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
      

      So rent a museum
      and see yourself in mirrors-
      In every room an exposition
      of a different phase in your life
      with all your figures and faces
      and pictures of all the people who
      passed through you
      and all the scenes
      you passed through
      all the landscapes of living
      and longing and desiring
      and spending and getting
      and doing and dying
      and sighing and laughing and crying
      (what antic gesturing!)
      And walking through the house of yourself
      you climb again to all
      the rooms of youself
      full of the other lives & selves
      who passed through them
      Rooms rooms rooms
      piled up haphazard
      in the architecture of time
      And all the bodies clinging to each other
      or rushing to windows
      to break out of the room
      which they boxed themselves into
      All the people of your life
      in one house in the night
      all lights lit
      like a cruise ship at sea
      And you run up and down
      knocking on all the doors
      through which you hear
      all the once-familiar voices
      laughing or sobbing or singing
      And you run to the roof
      and look up to the mute night sky
      And in the wheeling template of stars
      see the faces of the figures
      of the lovely lovers who
      had once made time stand still
      now all fixed
      in their constellated relations
      motionless in time

      So that
      some day
      as time bends around
      to its beginning again
      you find them all again
      and yourself

      4 votes
    20. So, a little background, my profession is technical writing. I want to write a novel but I'm struggling a little with getting the creative side of my brain going. Technical writing seems to...

      So, a little background, my profession is technical writing. I want to write a novel but I'm struggling a little with getting the creative side of my brain going. Technical writing seems to further inhibit my creativity with all its rules.

      I'm looking into local writers' workshops but they're all full at the moment. In the meantime, I was wondering if anyone here has any advice for exercises or things I could do to stimulate my creativity and free my mind from all the rules of technical writing. Thoughts?

      7 votes
    21. Hey everyone, thanks to you who posted in the original Workshop Wednesday; I think it went really well! Here we are for week 2 (sorry it took me til noon, I was busy this morning!) Some questions:...

      Hey everyone, thanks to you who posted in the original Workshop Wednesday; I think it went really well! Here we are for week 2 (sorry it took me til noon, I was busy this morning!)

      Some questions:

      • do we need a new topic every week? Or will one be enough?
      • any other comments/suggestions?

      Please begin your comment with [META] to discuss these. Otherwise, I'll copy and paste the guidelines from last week.


      What's a workshop?

      Basically, a workshop is when you have a bunch of people with poems or stories they've written, and everyone gets together, reads everyone's work, and comments on it, sharing what they got out of it and what the author could do to improve the work for publication. I used to do a lot of them in college, and I've missed the dynamic since graduating. I thought others might also be interested, so here goes nothing.

      How this'll work (for now, anyway)

      Each week, I'll post a "Workshop Wednesday" post. If you have a poem or (short) story you'd like workshopped, post that as a top comment. Then, read others' top comments and reply with what works/doesn't work/questions you have/ideas you have for the piece that could make it better. If you post some writing, try to comment on at least two other people's pieces as well -- we're here to help each other improve.

      11 votes
    22. Man of the Train

      Another story. The narrator is not well and slips into periods of "extended daydreaming" where they image they're someone else or that the context of their life is otherwise different. I thought...

      Another story. The narrator is not well and slips into periods of "extended daydreaming" where they image they're someone else or that the context of their life is otherwise different. I thought about coloring the text differently for those moments but couldn't figure out a way to do it well.


      No one walks out to this place. Why would they? It’s too far for children to be playing or for teenagers to sneak away to, there’s no beauty or interesting landscapes or scenery for hikers, and God knows it’s worthless for development. I walked out here because I knew I couldn’t stay at home and I kept walking because I knew I had nothing to go back to. Then, brooding, thinking that I would just continue walking until I died of exposure (which would have taken a while in that day’s mild weather), I stumbled across this place. I stopped to explore it of course, how often does one’s life yield such a whimsical sight?

      I started daydreaming as I walked through the trains. They looked ancient, the cars were buried up to their wheels in the dirt and huge patches had lost their paint and rusted over. The interiors were stripped, but I spotted some kind of hatch in the roof (by the pile of leaves and other debris below it) and clambered up. Then I was standing astride the car looking down at the whole scene. Two neat little rows, five cars in one and four in the other, with the only sign tracks used to run here being a small corridor where the trees were shorter.

      I loved it. It was a sort of post-industrial twist on the railway bum, you know? They would hitch rides on trains and travel all over the country, seeing everything it had to offer and adventuring everywhere they went. I had, in the past, been disappointed I didn’t live in a time where the vagabond could thrive, and was delighted to imagine the 21st century equivalent. Sitting in a rusted old abandoned train car, the Seeker (I always name my characters like that) sat by his gas fire watching the rain pour down and spatter across the corrugated walls. It was lovely. I felt much better and after playing around a bit more headed back home with a smile, all the while dreaming of the Seeker. The evening passed comfortably and I slid into sleep imagining I was the man sleeping out by the trains.

      I pulled my blanket closer, clutching it around myself. I had found something, and tonight II was able to rest peacefully because of it. The night breeze flowed over me in soft, regular breaths. It was sweet and pleasantly cool, and carried memories of cheery days. All else faded always as I walked into them, leaving behind the blanket and the breeze and the night itself.

      When I got up the next morning though the levity had vanished. I dragged myself through the morning and lacking anything real to do and completely out of distractions for the afternoon I headed out for another wander in the woods. Alone with just the half-leafless trees to speak to I very quickly fell into my thoughts and my world of pasts, real or imagined. I don’t know how long I walked, just that after a while my breath was coming out in ragged bursts and that I was approaching the top of a hill. Attaining it I realized with gloomy resignation that I was somewhat lost, and that the cup of tea I was desiring now more than most anything would be a while yet. As I started back in the direction I more or less thought town was I imagined how the Seeker had trudged through the same damp leaves and browning grass. Autumn would quickly change from the mild early days to the coldness that marked the start of winter, and this landscape would be unrecognizable. Even this escape would not last. Just like them. More gloominess. Pushing through a thicket of young trees I was surprised to be face to face with the train wrecks from yesterday, and, after briefly marveling at the occurrence started back home. I was throwing off my shoes and starting the kettle in just over an hour.

      At home I picked, for some foolish reason, the blue teapot (of memories) and was soon sitting at the table and warming my hands on a steaming cup. I was shivering. Sometimes I don’t realize how cold I am until I’m back inside. I need to dress warmer. For a while I could pretend to be content sipping at my tea and feeling myself thaw out a little, but after a few cups I started thinking about what I would do for the rest of the day. That’s why I had gone out in the first place wasn’t it, that I had nothing here? I didn’t feel warm anymore. And since I had picked this pot (it was three years ago, why should I care?) my thoughts slid further and further back until I was recalling the conversation we had over it. And how I had laughed and taken your picture holding it and you had smiled as the wind whipped your hair back and I couldn’t stand sitting there and looking at it anymore. I fled to the couch and fell face first down into it.

      What was I doing? I couldn’t sit here for another eight hours waiting to go to bed and dream, I was gripped with sinking panic just at the thought. No, I couldn’t stay. And I didn’t have to. If I could tell myself a story about it, I could do it myself, right? I could just leave. I could make it real. Go to another town, or sleep in a car, or, go camping. Yes, I could camp for the night. I did tell people I was an outdoorsman after all, even if for the past few years I hadn’t done anything more than day hikes to run from my reality. I had all the gear, I knew what I was doing.

      Twenty minutes later I was out the door, heading back the woods for the second time today, this time with my pack slung across my shoulders. As I walked I thought about how unpleasant this would probably be and I was pleased. At least it would be because of something else. Something immediate. I went to the trains because where else would I go and also because I knew they were isolated and I wanted to be sure no one would be out harassing me over lighting a fire or being a vagrant. It was perfect.

      And as evening fell the fire was lit. I had set camp in between the two rows of derelict cars to provide some shelter from the wind.

      The heat from the flames sank into the metal siding of the cars and soon they were radiating back a friendly warmth. Touching it felt almost like being warmed by the sun. I leaned back against one now and stared at the fire. It was a comfortable scene, even if the ground was cold and hard and all I had to do was sit and think and brood. It was basically what I would have done at home anyway, but now I was not drawn into despair. No, out here all these feelings were beautiful, and if it was beautiful I could enjoy it. Some time and drinks passed and I became outright elated. Considering the whole absurdity of where I was right now I had to laugh. I might curse my life every day, but it was, if nothing else, interesting. Even if I was the only one who would ever know. Just look at where I am! I grinned and kept laughing and drinking and soaking up the intoxicating woodsmoke and tender light that flowed from the fire. I loved that this was something I did. And later as the flames hid back in their coals I climbed into my tent and floated right away on a dreamless, happy sleep. Lord of my little realm of heat and smoke. Good times for all. All for good times.

      I sat at the edge of fire’s light clutching my cup closely. It was a bitter tea, what one could brew with just a cup over a camp fire, but I sipped at it greedily anyway, burning my lips on the rim. It would hold the blaze’s heat for a while yet, the cup was almost painful to handle even through my gloves, now streaked with ash. It had been a long, cold day. I had almost lost myself, but now, resting in the half-light at the edge of reality, it was alright. I smiled and, tipping my head ever so slightly up, whistled out a few bars of some song or another. Yes, here it was alright. There was a lot I didn’t know, but that was fine, I knew I was, as was the fire and the smoke and the warmth and the tea.

      I refocused on the fire, source of the little world I had found myself in. It was as if I were gazing through into my own light. A welcome feeling, as I had felt a dull cold more than anything recently. I looked more intently, allowing the firelight to wash out the surroundings until I and it were all that existed. Like this I could see hints, now and then, of what had been. Perhaps if I looked too greedily the flames would even take me then, shattering the gracious illusion of the light in the process. No, echos would have to do. They were all that was real anyway. I stared for a long while, lost in burning contemplation.

      That was a... number of days ago. I haven’t counted exactly. For the first few I was at home most of the day, only heading out for the trains in the evening. The first morning I didn’t plan to come back at all and tore my whole camp down. But around mid afternoon my listlessness would become unbearable and I’d flee from the prospect of another night in. So I started leaving my tent pitched, figuring I’d do this as some kind of therapy until I got better and figured out what I was going to do with myself. And I did get better! Or at least the more time I spent in the woods the less time I was sinking in the mire of my thoughts and the more I marveled at them. Maybe they were still dragging me down, but I didn’t notice anymore. Soon I was spending the afternoons out as well, and then I was only going back home in the morning to grab food and water.

      I’ll probably be forced out by the weather soon. It’s been getting much colder these past days, but I don’t want to leave yet, I like this routine. I like the work of building the little stone wall, or clearing the ground around the fire pit I’m slowly carving out of the stiff ground, or sketching my map of the area around the camp. It was more than I had back there.

      As the last of the purple in the sky was swept away by the darkening blue I stretched out alongside the newly rekindled fire. I had known for days that I was not going to find it here. I would have to go back and see what was next for me. But it was comfortable here, and for that I could pretend I had a reason to stay, at least for a little while longer. Yes, I’ll have to leave soon, but for now I can just enjoy the fire. I can walk in dream a little while longer.

      9 votes
    23. So I was talking to @cadadr in this thread about starting a workshop on Tildes, and since today makes for an alliterative title, I thought I'd start one now. What's a workshop? Basically, a...

      So I was talking to @cadadr in this thread about starting a workshop on Tildes, and since today makes for an alliterative title, I thought I'd start one now.

      What's a workshop?

      Basically, a workshop is when you have a bunch of people with poems or stories they've written, and everyone gets together, reads everyone's work, and comments on it, sharing what they got out of it and what the author could do to improve the work for publication. I used to do a lot of them in college, and I've missed the dynamic since graduating. I thought others might also be interested, so here goes nothing.

      How this'll work (for now, anyway)

      Each week, I'll post a "Workshop Wednesday" post. If you have a poem or (short) story you'd like workshopped, post that as a top comment. Then, read others' top comments and reply with what works/doesn't work/questions you have/ideas you have for the piece that could make it better. If you post some writing, try to comment on at least two other people's pieces as well -- we're here to help each other improve.

      Going forward

      Since this is the first one, obviously we can change the format or do something else. Please start meta-discussions with the word [META] so that we know it's not a poem you're trying to workshop!

      I'm excited. Let's do this!

      22 votes
    24. I have writing, prose and in verses, that I want to start submitting to magazines. I can't decide if I should use a pseudonym or not. My reasons for using one: I have problems with my name: it is...

      I have writing, prose and in verses, that I want to start submitting to magazines. I can't decide if I should use a pseudonym or not. My reasons for using one:

      • I have problems with my name: it is ideologically loaded, people can tell my dad was a nationalist, which is an ideology I reject and oppose

      • I feel like it would somehow good for me to distance myself a bit from my work, don't know why really

      • I guess I am intimidated by potential failure a bit, so maybe "getting my feet wet" with a pseudonym could help me get over it.

      But I also want to own my work, and feel like using a pseudonym with complete secrecy is a bit... cowardly, if I am totally honest. I consider using a pseudonym which I will publicly own later, but then, is there a point to it?

      What do you think about it?

      19 votes