“Curation” does imply something far more deliberate than these inspiration blogs, whose very point is to put the viewer into an aesthetic reverie unencumbered by thought or analysis. These sites are not meant (as curation is) to make us more conscious, but less so. That might be O.K., but it also means they have a lot more in common with advertising than they do with curation. After all, advertising trains us to keep our desire always at the ready, nurturing that feeling that something is missing, then redirecting it toward a tangible product. In the end, all that pent-up yearning needs a place to go, and now it has that place online. But products are no longer the point. The feeling is the point. And now we can create that feeling for ourselves, then pass it around like a photo album of the life we think we were meant to have but don’t, the people we think we should be but aren’t.
what about that story about the two teenage boys? will you ever post that one here? because i would love to read that one.
Probably not, because it’s a fanfic :) I’m still working on it, though I haven’t written in a week or so because I was on vacation. Adding to it today though. But yeah. It’s a fanfic, so I will probably not post it here.
Still working on an original story about two girls though (Rose and Georgia). Having problems with it, but I love the characters too much to give up. If it’s not too crappy I will post it here when I’m done.
Girls with oxford shoes; girls with tattoos on their arms, like maps - the x marks the spot where treasure lies. Boys with red lips; Boys with large hands and square jaws and lovely treacherous eyes. Crouching down behind bookshelves in a store, having a panic attack and clutching at the spine of Great Expectations. The irony is never lost on anyone, unfortunately. Pages bruised and torn and sweaty fingertips on colourful covers, blinding with overwrought letters, cheerful comments - a classic; a masterpiece; a treasure for generations to come; forever the best.
Girls that know better; Boys that know too much. Poetry circles filled with cigarette smoke, fumbling touches against rock walls, backs arching like bows like arrows flying to jab at skin and paint with blood and moaning against the grass, against the stone, with bruises on pale hips and bite marks on shoulders. Girls with toothy grins; Boys with well-pressed trousers. And one more panic attack only witnessed by dead men, who knew nothing of the pain of carpet burns on bare knees.
I sent you something here the other day, I don't know if you saw it? Anyway... is there a book character that you feel identified with in a negative way, as in the fact that said character has your same flaws (and sometimes, your same virtues)? x
Oh! I actually don’t know…I don’t think so…um…I usually end up identifying more with characters I wish I could be like, that have the qualities that I think I lack or wish I had.
I think, maybe Ron Weasley…many of his flaws are the same as mine. Maybe in the end that’s why he’s my favourite :)
What time of day to you draw best? Why do you think that is? Is that the same time of day that you write best? If not, why do you think that is? What are you reading at the moment?
I think I draw best in the afternoon, but I’m not sure. I haven’t touched a pencil in 3 months… I think the afternoon, because I need time to wake up and the evenings are meant for writing, reading and watching TV :)
I write better in the evenings/nights I think. But that said, I still tend to write at any moment of the day, depending of how I feel. I just do it more often in the evenings. I think it’s mostly because I am lazy and spend too much time on the internet in the mornings before actually starting to do something productive.
I’m am currently reading an epic fanfiction that is like almost 500,000 words long and it’s really fun (and still a work in progress!)
I haven’t read a new books in months (though I constantly re-read parts of books I like)
I don’t know. I don’t dream of writing things that will last forever. I’m perfectly fine writing stuff that will be forgotten 5 years later. Posterity has no appeal to me, as long that some people read my stuff and like it and I touch someone with my words, I’m fine with that.
I hope that one day I’ll write something big/good enough that it will have fans, then they will write fanfictions of it and twist the story and the characters and create alternate universes etc. And then I’ll go on the internet and read them all and delight in the way people play around with my story and my universe and my characters and laugh at the bad ones and the troll fics and enjoy the porn and the kinks and the AUs and life will be good.
I know I say this every time I go home and have to speak French for a long time, but it still feels weird. I am constantly surprised at how much my mother tongue feels foreign in my mouth and to my ears.
went through a 14hrs bus ride from Gaspé to Montréal. Waiting three hours for my train to arrive so it can take me to Ottawa…this is the less fun part of travelling. Also: I hate buses, but trains are awesome.
Also: a guy asked me if I had a dollar for him. He called me princess (“Hey princess, you wouldn’t have a dollar for me, would you?”). I said no, even though I probably have $10 in change in my bag. Don’t call me princess asshole. Ugh.
You know, there isn’t much comfort in knowing that the bed sheets have been cleaned and smell like sunshine and soap, if I cannot hold your hand and kiss your shoulder while we lay between them. Dirty sheets at least have the advantage of smelling of you.
crab meat & garlic buttered-fingers ; the waves crashing, crashing crashing ; breaking every resolves ; the moon is too bright ; words are meaningless ; I don’t know anything ; I will always love him ; I forgot how to spell her name ; lighthouses are the perfect houses ; the sea is unforgiving ; seagulls never give a fuck about anything ; reading is better than almost anything except maybe living ; drifting is a state I like to be in ; keep notes tucked in my shoes ; I always drink too much wine ; I don’t like my name.
If I could write a whole story about people swearing at/with each other while telling absolutely nothing of importance, I would. I like swear words more than any other kind of words. They’re beautiful.
So. Here’s the deal right? I write words and I write them together. One after the other in neat little lines, in neat little blocks, in neat little thoughts. So I do this, right? I do this with ease or not, I do it well, or not, I don’t know. I never really know anything, and whatever, it’s not really relevant right now. So I do this, for I don’t know how long. Because, fuck, what else would I be doing? And I look over the words and I want them to mean something. I desperately want them to be more than lines and blocks and black and white and whatever the fuck else words are.
Except, I don’t know, and so they don’t know and what does that even mean? How do you build a story and how do you make them count?
I don’t want them to be empty, but how do you make them full if they’re only tiny little lines, full of angles and spaces, on a flat ocean. There’s just a big pool at the bottom of the page, where the meanings go to die. Horrible, painful deaths I hope, because they fucking deserve it. And I don’t know, and sometimes I don’t fucking care. I feel like one of the Danaides, forever trying to fill something full of holes, forever trying to find meaning, to write something meaningful, to tell something, just something, anything, it doesn’t even have to matter, it doesn’t. And why am I even writing this? It doesn’t even make any sense.
Thank you for letting me stay in your house. Thank you for feeding me. Thank you for paying for this trip. But actually, I just want to sit by the sea, go to the national park, read, listen to audiobooks, and type stories on my laptop. And I don’t want to talk to any of you if I don’t have to.
I knowingly let myself get a sunburn today. I think I wanted to see if I could burn. Also, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I was sitting high on slated grey rocks facing the ocean. The air full of salt. The seagulls flying and dipping. The tides coming and going. Why would I care about anything else? Why should I? Let my skin burn, I had bigger things to think about.