Life (universe, everything)

Well, fuck.

Can we just leave it at that? ‘course not. There is a lot of It and because of That I will allow myself a list (list for me, November) and later I will tell all the true(ish) stories. But not now; I’m not ready. So for now, a list.

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Clarion UCSD

I am going. (!!!!!!)

Foxes and Things that Look Like Folklore, But aren’t Really, but Maybe Actually Are.

Mythpunk and the Queer Fox. (My thesis.) The Storyfox Database. (Also part of my thesis.) Foxeology. (Yes, thesis.)

In short: THESIS. (Because I graduate in two months.)

Life.

We’ll skip this for now.

Publishing

There have been podcasts and stories and papers. I will talk about them.

Goat Skins and Burning Wood

This means drumming.

Food. (Because there must always be food in a list.)

Always: Dragons (sushi). Cabbage (fermented). Bolted kale (kimchi; so, also fermented). Green Fucking Peas. Tahini + kabocha squash (holy shit, really, I need nothing else). Pickled ginger. More kimchi.
Less than Always: Cornbread, honey butter, smoked salted caramel ice-cream and HAIL to the bee honeycomb toffee chocolate freckled ice-cream, chocolate peanut-butter sauce. All at the same time. Obviously.

Stories About Coastal Oregon Fossegrim. Also Riot Grrrl-Inspired Robots.

Novels I am working on. I took a trip to do research for the first. There are pictures (see link). There will be words.

Body

Working out and stuff. ’cause I do that.

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So, yeah. I’ve got a fuckton of blogging to do. When I’m not, you know, teaching, or working on my thesis, applying for graduation, novel-writing, writing other things, working out, tweeting, drumming or eating. (Note that sleeping and socializing are not on this second list.)

Be back soon.

2014 Publishing Retrospect

Instead of bombarding people with foxes, as I have been recently, here’s a thing far less exciting and only half as fluffy, but always rather ravenous: me. My words. (If you blow-dried my hair, I might be able to compete with a fox tail.)

Things that got published:

Poetry:

Ekphrastic 22/The Drowning Girl (Strange Horizons, February)

Short Fiction:

Cinderseed (Cherry Bomb, March)
The Seaweed and the Wormhole (Shimmer, Issue 20)

Novels:

Skyglass (Sparkler Monthly serialization, ongoing)
+Chapter 1
+Chapter 2
+Chapter 3
+Chapter 4
+Chapter 5
+Chapter 6
+Chapter 7

Modest, but I feel good about it. Here’s hoping 2015 will be even stronger.

the velocity of inwards

If you couldn’t tell from the exponential upspike in fanart production, I started rereading The Silmarillion last week. I’m participating in the Tolkienreadalong on tumblr (Team Angband ftw!), and it’s serving well to feed the fannish hunger I’ve had these past few months. But it’s also been a reminder: I like being wholehearted.  I consume consumption. I have this urge to find new obsessions or sustain old ones. But sometime I have to remember to hold back.

We’re only one week into The Silmarillion and won’t be finished till November, yet I’m already trying hard not to kick through the whole book this very instant. I want to pace myself, so I’m going slow.  What’s the point of participating in a readalong if you’re not actually going to read along? I’m in this for the neck-deep onslaught of intestinal Middle Earth  mayhem (and all the dark lords ever), but it’s the ‘along’ bit that I’m excited about. Being in the same ephemeral headspace as a couple thousand others, seeing the divergent and intersecting bookspawn people create via headcannons, meta, fanart/fic/vid (I mean hel, we already have a booty dancing Annatar–aka Sauron–video)–it’s a glorious leviathan overload of community, and I want to ride with it, not ahead of it.

I guess it’s as simple as I don’t want to be alone. Especially not with The Silmarillion. One, it’s vast, and sometimes silly and wonderful in its vastness, and these are not things that should be bibliomaniacally imbibed on one’s own. For example: it’s one thing to think to myself, Melkor is a metal god, and quite another to see a billion fanartists in pen-and-inked-accord with this thought. Also, it’s been years since I last read the book, but I have no doubt this reread will prove The Silmarillion to be problematic; I’ll catch some of the terribleness, but not all of it. In other words: bring on the meta-tons of destructive criticism. In the meantime, I’m going to teach myself how to slow down.

 

dire me/2

–now insomnium, now null, now the gravid fishweight lashes lash and lashed. Briefly: I’m stalling sleep.

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I remember a walk, a summer night two years ago, counting months on my fingers, naming purgatory. Slowly, there were less fingers–and now there are no fingers. Maybe just a hangnail crescent. Leaving can’t be swallowed until there’s nothing left to swallow and the meal’s gone. I’m ready to go, but I’ve thought so often about leaving that I can no longer comprehend the act of it.

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These days, I survive mostly in my head. I’ve acquired a new paranoia: mind-readers. My brain is a scroll (skullscrollskullscroll) of compass rose, petals folded against one another, locked like fingers and eyelashes. Tweezers, sure, would be the only way to read a mind, and it would be slow going, so who would bother anyway? I’d rather read your lips which you bite and skin so the photos look nice in a pall of smoke; the worries you write in the crook of your elbow.

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The things I did to your wrists.

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Skullplay Seagull pt 2: What else next, but intercourse? It always follows. Thus: leather, charkohl round his eyes, black spider webs he drapes upon his clavicle. Amps loud. Crowd close, and no one sees no one. Taboo. Taboo. The mesh, the sink, the deep, the fit. Later: the bathrooms here are splintered. Waiting, a troll-memory and orange-rimed teeth; sable foxtail for comfort round his ankles; three heads and a shared eye–punch it out. Home. This obsession I have with clothes and showers. Then bed. Then can’tcan’tcan’t then can.

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Tangle.

Tangle.

Tangle.

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END

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Poetic Form 1: Acrostic

Poetic Form 1: Acrostic

I call myself a poet, but you could probably fit my poetic knowledge into a barnacle–with room to spare for the arthropod inside. Thus, from now until whenever I finish this project, I’ve decided to plow my way through Lewis Turco’s The New Book of Forms (A Handbook of Poetics). I’ll work alphabetically, posting one new form a week. Each post which will include a description, definitions, and my sorry attempts to write within the form’s constraints.

POETIC FORM 1: THE ACROSTIC

The first kind of poem I ever wrote. My parents are probably sick of these things, as my sister and I used to give them cards often featuring contorted versions of the English language on birthdays, mother/father’s day, etc in our early elementary years. For example:

D apper, this mountain-scrambler, who
A lways manages to look
D isturbingly bug-like when he dons his gigantic sunglasses.

As you can see, the acrostic poem spells a word down its left side using the first letter of each word. Typically, it’ll be metered and rhymed–I, however, was lazy and did neither.

If you want to make life even harder on yourself (but gain accolades for being more cleverer than lazy word-tweakers like myself), here are a couple variations you can play around with:

POETIC FORM 1b: THE DOUBLE ACROSTIC

Spells out the same word(s) with not only the first letters, but the last as well. Like so…

D apper, this mountain-scrambler, ha D
A penchant for jav A.
D essert (its chilly ilk, aka ice-milk…uh, cream), however, was the only time he indulge D.

POETIC FORM 1c: THE TELESTICH

…which spells out the word(s) with only the last letters:

Pedal-spinner, epicure of Addams Peanut Butter: da D.
This conniving crafter of absurdly-long-bird-names, like The Ladle-Nosed River-Sipper of the Remoter Areas of Appalachi A,
proclaims that his bike-jacket is orange, not pink–but we call his bluff: he’s mulish, not colorblin D.

POETIC FORM 1d: THE COMPOUND ACROSTIC

The left side of the poem spells out words with the first letter of each lines, while the right side spells out DIFFERENT words with the last letters of each line:

D apper, the mountain-scrambler, who didn’t own a Capybar A,
A lways appeare D
D isturbingly bug-like when he donned his shady protectors of pupil and retin A.

…you see how clever I am? I spelled Dad down the left side, and Ada down the right. Which is clever, because Ada is the Sindarin (elvish) word for dad….

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Next week’s poetic form: AE FREISLIGHE

dire me/1

dire me/1

Me, lately: black metal folklore, foxes, brothers, twins, Jessica-Naomi, Heathen Harnow, Phobs, Daniel Gildenlöw, rain and rain and rain, genderfuck, tall sharp-jawed/grace-necked creatures who are always always/shouldn’t be allowed in here; writing things no one will get. Cyberpunk/goth, shiver-y book anticipation for The Diamond Age; sprouts, food and anatomical reactivity. Semi-colons. Pages of paragraphless text. -cest.

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Part of me wants to make a photographic record of myself. Feral selfies? I want to get rid of everything; I want a shadow wardrobe somewhere between cyberpunk and mori girl and Lisbeth Salander and androgyny. I find myself drawn more and more, ever ever ever, to these shifty places, where I might sit but never be still.

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Skullplay of late; we’ll call it Seagull: skinfuck and hurt and abuse; a nonexistent room, walls/bone so thin sunlight suffuses>>treacherous quiet binding, a Greyhound–aka escape, only to be cutoff during a smoke-break>>fists then, a guitar case thrown from the bus, bitter exhaust in his face>>a walk along a road, vapor and black concrete>>waiting, then following>>a wet meadow>>he concedes>>a car ride through misty nightfall, the sort where sunlight collapses through silky tattered rainclouds>>dozing>>decision: end it all>>a hotel room, a tub, three knife-lines in the gap between collarbone and throat>>asleep in cold tubwater, found>>towels, bed>>breaking; chest-spine, nose-neck, limb-tangle (all innocent)>>morning, weary, sorry, six shots espresso. tbc

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When this (dire me/1) is released, when you are, perhaps, reading it, I am: emptying blood, tumblring, stretching, eating, icing, running.

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