haha so many messy feelings



Skulls, 1976
four screenprints in color

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The Blonds, Fall/Winter 2013

Squashing the Procrastination Bug


Hello folks!

Ever been bitten by the procrastination bug? As in, no matter how hard you try, or how determinedly you swear that this time - seriously, this time - you’re going to write something… the procrastination bug gets you, and you… just… don’t… write… anything. (And maybe end up opening tumblr and surfing mindlessly to stave off the encroaching shame spiral.)

If this sounds familiar, would you be interested in coming to an online group writing session?

You may know them as pomos, word wars, sprints, or boxes of doom. Whatever you call them, this is how it goes:

  1. Writers gather together in a chat room
  2. Everyone chats (or perhaps vents, depending upon stress level ;D) for a few minutes, until the host calls time
  3. At the chat room host’s indication, everyone states what their writing goal for the session is (e.g. to plot out their story; to hit a certain word goal for the day; to get [X] number of scenes written in draft)
  4. A timer is set for 25 minutes, and everyone starts writing. No pausing to chat, no checking tumblr, no answering text messages. Everyone just writes.
  5. At the conclusion of the 25 minute session, the host calls break, and everyone chats (or vents) for 5 - 10 minutes.
  6. Repeat steps 3 to 5 another three times to get a sweet 100 minutes of writing done, all up!

If this sounds like something you’d be interested in, please fill out this quick survey so I can get an idea of what days and times might best suit everyone.

(Also, I know I keep calling them ‘writing sessions’, but honestly? It’s for anyone - writers and artists - who’d like to get the ball rolling on their WIPs and feels they might benefit from the gentle - very gentle! - prod of a group session.)


Marceau Truffaut: Ni dieux ni maitres

ok feelings dump underneath and then i’m going to sleep

tw for shitty emotions and food stuff

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ode to a mother tongue, lost & long forgotten


when my grandfather died       my father made me swear
      on his grave
   i would never forget
       the language of my birth.

              i was 4     so
    suffice to say
       the litany of my lifelong disappointments
begins early.

because you see i was born under a different sky with
a different set of teeth, a tongue
they called too    clu m
  to ever make for

and by the time i learned
that a lithp
   is just a lithp
      and not a mark against the art that
              ran over/through me
        i’d long since burned
      my mother tongue away.

but still   i
        proud, proud of my will, the strength of my resolve,
   the untraceability of my
pan-pacific zero-accountability accent neutrality,
race: blank
proud to be rootless,  to be fearless, to be 

and not knowing, then, that
no matter how many languages i   f o rg e    t
    i’ll never scrub away this gunpowder ash, this
         five-thousand-year history                ere are ya from?
         coursing through my blood&bones,
because they told me

"blood is blood"              or i just didn’t want to hear

but they never fucking said how much it hurts
to be living in a flash-flood tearaway world without corners in fear of
being carried/washed away, a world without handholds (a lost cause),
how living with no roots is a tightrope act over a stranger’s soil that you
       pretend to call 
       h o m e


                               how lonely it gets

                                       (how very)   .

i never managed to drop
that trace of
   foreign           (  xenos  )
          from my lungs,                  
                                  born and raised ha h a
 and now this sharp                   
&broken language cuts   
                        m e
              with it’s edges knowing
i’ll never write poetry
my mother understands.