In Feudal Japan
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Tea Party Ninja

Assassin of Joy
Bringer of His Mighty Wind
Most Fetid of Stench

For a Tidy Fee
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Would Disturb Your Foes

Piercing Defenses
Buddha Alone Knew His Tread
In and Out, Unseen

But Never Un-Smelt
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Bearing Bowels Most Foul

This isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve just had too many to care.

Most days I don’t need any to not care.

Yet I smile at them; servers and baristas.

Try hard, smile, look happy.

Maybe they’ll think you’re cute.

You arrogant shit.

“Sisyphus!

Arrogant twat,

How shall you pay

For the sins you’ve wrought?

I’ll hang your dreams

In delicate swathe

And leave you to work

Forever for naught.

.

Sisyphus!

You “god” among men

I’ll number your days

Count them by hand

While you work, serve

Slave to my end

Your bones will strain

And bend.

.

Sisyphus!

You represent

The whole that is wrong

With the common man

I’ll make you sweat,

And I’ll make you beg

(That) one day you’ll be free

Again!”

.

Dear Sisyphus,

I know your soul.

Your struggle is mine

And we share the goal

That work, work, will come

To an end

And we’ll live again

As free men.

.

Sisyphus,

I hear your cries –

Your yelps of pain

In the dead of night

When your muscles strain

And your mind ain’t right

My brother

Your pain is mine!

.

Gods above –!

Rescue me!

.

Sisyphus!

I’m you, incarnate.

I do my work and

Sing my songs in

Hope the gods will

Hear my plea

And one day

set me free.

.

I am he!

I aloud decree,

assuming Sisyphus’

identity.

I live his plight,

beg myself free

that I’ll find a

love for me.

.

SISYPHUS.

THIS IS YOUR WROUGHT.

YOUR MERIT THE PAIN,

THIS DAY YOU’VE SOUGHT.

YOU KNOW YOUR SINS

AND NOW YOU BEG

THAT YOU MAY FRESH BEGIN

.

THE GODS WILL REMEMBER

SINS IN DECEMBER;

DRAG YOUR SOUL DOWN

DEEP TO THE EMBER.

YOU AS THE KINDLE

YOU AND YOUR KINFOLK

FOREVER LIGHT OUR WAY.

.

SISYPHUS.

“IMMACULATE.”

WHAT A SHAME YOU’LL FIND

COME END YOUR FATE

WHEN THE TRUTH REVEALS

YOUR LOVE IS FAKE.

are you so thirsty

you would drink your own blood?

do you feel so dirty

that you bathe in wet mud?

are you so alone

that you make talk with yourself?

are you so afraid

that you, your own friends, repel?

.

would you clean your skin with acid

just to feel pure within your casket?

would you feed on rot and mold

in attempt to feed your soul?

are you so cold, your blankets worn,

you'd set your home ablaze for warmth?

do you so fear the words you'll hear

you'll drive metal spears into your ears?

.

are you so broken

and without any help

you would crack your own skull

and find some gold to smelt

in hopes you leave your corpse

a void kintsugi shell?

if not; then why, dear brain,

do you want to burn yourself

Apologies for the spam. This may be the last one today; worst-case there's only one more coming.

I see you, pretty home,

with your couch, your floor, and kitchen.

I see your sign there, hoping

that I might call and visit.

I want to tour your space

and dream of how I'd fill it.

What chair, what bed, what rug,

and if it could home a kitten.

.

I can see a career

that let's me furnish you to 9.

I faintly feel a hope

that one day you might be mine.

I teeter on a plan

that I could start, if energized

that would lead me to you

if I could try, and all went right.

.

A fireplace in cold,

you'd stay lit, always, in orange.

the warmest of colors

keeps my mind free of contortion.

Your firm, solid structure

Keeps me confident, supported.

What a beautiful dream;

I hope, one day, to afford it.

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.

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 thread • february thread • march thread • april thread

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

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.

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.)

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

Hello, Music Makers.

What are you all working on? Any pieces/tracks you've created that you're particularly proud of? Any part of your process that warrants special mention? Any part of your process that is particularly dull?

Let it rip.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

                                              #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

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?

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.

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.

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!