ingyd4r

[ingyd4r]

clocking in to my bed every night to have weird dreams and leg pains

[ingyd4r]

maybe THG isn’t anti-capitalist.

maybe rebellions doesn’t rest on district workers taking autonomy over the means of production.

maybe the starkest contrast isn’t that between the proletariat (the districts) and bourgeoisie (the capitol).

maybe the capitol isn’t actually named such in order to reference economic capital, and then criticized for wielding power over the the proletariat.

would be a crazyyy coincidence tho 🤷‍♀️

[ingyd4r]

propaganda a lot of y’all should fall for:

whispering “thanku” to your tea or coffee before the first sip.

telling your friends you love them when they least expect it. especially then.

googling “what kind of flower blooms twice” at 3 a.m. to feel hopeful again

deleting apps every two weeks and calling it a spiritual reset.

naming your plants like they’re ur friends. apologizing when you forget to water them.

believing ur younger self would still think you’re cool. even on your worst days.

using perfume before bed. for no one. for you.

making eye contact with yourself in the mirror when you cry. giving the pain an audience.

taking selfies when you feel awful. proof you existed even when the light wasn’t flattering :-)

[ingyd4r]

physically, a teenaged girl

mentally, infinitely too much to be categorized by my age and gender

[ingyd4r]

found this in my mom’s old jewelry!!

[ingyd4r]

eat mama

[ingyd4r]

let’s do zoomies around mama

[ingyd4r]

Today’s card is: A 3x5 index card

[ingyd4r]

i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.

[ingyd4r]

🥹

[ingyd4r]

Love the dichotomy of Ponyboy Curtis. He smells like cigarette smoke. His hands are stained with ink, calluses on his fingers from writing and on his knuckles from throwing punches. He’s got a rep as a tough fighter. He’s too shy to notice when a girl is interested in him. He hot wires cars and steals from the corner store. He watches sunsets. He’s sensitive and thoughtful. He’s stubborn and rebellious. He looks like a hood and speaks like a poet. Beloved by his friends, protected by his gang, and the baby of his brothers. He’s lonely.

[ingyd4r]

I miss the world before AI image generation

Secondly, I also miss the world where AI image generation was just incoherent blobs and obvious fakes

Thirdly, I miss when I had a spark in my eye

[ingyd4r]

Has anyone pointed out the parallel of Van’s teammates not pulling her from the fire in the plane crash but her surviving to Van pulling all her teammates from the fire’s smoke but dying

[ingyd4r]

I cannot go through another winter out here.

[ingyd4r]

He's right tho

[ingyd4r]

hmm something abt the parallels between shauna indirectly killing jackie vs hannah stabbing that guy 🤔🤔🤔 like the clear shift in motive and intention??? the fact that both were a “point of no return”???the overemphasis on it being the first! snow! of! winter!!!!

[ingyd4r]

me, watching every episode of Yellowjackets S3: