ivaspinoza - Tumblr blog

[ivaspinoza]

Thanks for reblogging, guys :) You're the best! I'm feeling very motivated towards my goals recently, and I want to thank you all for the encouragement and kindness ♥︎ It's been such a nice journey!

almost 180 followers here!

hey you, i'm glad you're here. i've been on tumblr since 2011, but it was all silence and reblogs until now. after a violent return to writing this year, i'm very grateful for connecting to other writers and poets and i just want to say how much i appreciate you all, my friends!

if i ever hit 200 (who knows) what should i do to celebrate?

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Cries in reblog

tumblr notifs: Mutual™ has liked your post

me: *clicks on the button to see which post* I must know which of my humble offerings have pleased my dearest.

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Does a writer love to write?

Oh, to be a writer! A poet, an artist. What a blessing — or a curse? I said this before, as a joke, that "writers are cursed to write, no matter what" happens or how long it takes between intervals. Writers will write. They might struggle, mostly inside their own heads, but they will write. And they will feel accomplished for doing that.

During my block time, I used to try and try to write, not because I had to, but because I couldn't help but to keep trying and writing the weirdest words, absolutely nonsense shit — until one day, I went back on track. Not writing was never an option. I tried to give up this, many times when I was at a bad place mentally. I felt that I wasn't a writer because I wasn't writing, but this only led me to this previously shared conclusion I keep as a mantra:

"I do not write because I want to be a writer, I write because I am one."

Some people will lick an artist's shoes and treat them as their saviour. This is the same type of people who might think having a degree makes them automatically smart, that every doctor knows what they are doing, and that artists are somehow a superior class of people. I was talking with my beloved @goodluckclove about it today (the main reason I'm writing this), about how being an Artist, or a Writer, is just another job, like being a Teacher, a Baker, a Parent, a CEO or a Janitor. Some artists will even tell you they had no "talent" at all, they just decided to commit and learn. I can draw and I always tell people that it is pure muscle memory. Just practice. Just commit.

But there is also that sparkle, that inspiration, that epiphany, right? That thing that art causes. What makes some works of art shine and hit you with eternal impact? Just practice? This is a long, deep, crazy, boring, infinite debate, but to me the answer is simple.

It's the soul.

That's why AI will never be able to do it. The soul carries memory, information, patterns, feelings, mysteries, and language (unspoken, holy, different languages, that we don't know much about). Some works are technically fantastic but soulless. Some are full of soul, but lack skill. However, the soul is always a part of it, as it is for a doctor when their soul shakes in grief after putting everything they had in for a 72-hour surgery just to lose their patient. Everything goes through the soul. Have you met a soulless doctor? I have.

What about a teacher helping a student to overcome their difficulties? A mother in a 72-hour labour to deliver her baby, with a father who didn't leave her side? Parents that actually take their time and energy to raise conscious, cared for and loved human beings? When a CEO thinks of what is best for the team, and comes up with a brilliant idea, instead of just caring about money? When a janitor makes a place clean and tidy for others, instead of neglecting it? It is not the job itself that is important, but the motivation, the intention, and the heart behind it. That is what makes it valuable.

Our trades will always affect the ones around us. Human nature is deeply connected to the desire to be useful and serve. Not to be stuck at this point forever, but to me, a big reason for so much pain and depression in the modern world is how self-centred our culture pushes us to be. "All about me"! Too much thinking in your head will make you crazy (I would know). But when we are useful, we find peace and rest from ourselves, we connect, and we are in reality, grounded in the present.

Will you love it every time? Nope. Not naturally. But do we have to hate it?

As an artist, poetess, writer, I can tell you that I didn't always love to do it. Sometimes, it was painful. Sometimes, it brings me physical discomfort or it can be disturbing because of my own limitations and issues — the artist himself is in his work (I will die on this hill, because of the soul). But I don't believe and I won't ever advocate for the tortured artist figure, for the "I hate being a poet", although I can't think I ever got these words from any poet.

"I hate making art!" "I hate my kids!" "I hate to live!"

I think it's time to wake up to the levels of desensitisation we have come to. These contemporary times unfold in absolute glorification of evil as if everything painful and ugly was "more artistic". We don't have to avoid hard themes and make it taboo out of them, but we do need a counterbalance. We also need responsibility and honesty when choosing our themes and our artistic or literary approach. And we do need to stop hating things all the time. We need a mature creative world.

It is easier and faster to break than it is to build. It's easier to hurt than to heal. Look around. We have almost nothing left to "break" at this point. I'm in search of beauty again. Out with lanterns. The beauty in you and in me. Not for the glorification of the artist, or of the art itself, but for the Love that keeps me going, that designed me for a particular job, and that I plan to execute in love.

"Let all you do be done in love", it's written. But because I know Love is not only feeling, even when I don't feel like doing it, I will go back into Love, into humility, and do it to the best of my strength. I will do it so that when I have the opportunity to serve someone by it, they feel love. We put our soul into it, and it's not an aesthetic, not a fancy ethereal trend; there is no need for applause. I will do it like that because in that doing is the reward itself, not in the praise or the prize.

All is vanity. Love is the reward.

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There’s a lot of advice on the Internet. A lot of posts. A lot of books. A lot of podcast. A lot of information to consume. But I hope you know that at the end of the day the most important knowledge is within you. What feels true to you? What feels right to you? What lights you up? That’s the gold 

[ivaspinoza]

just felt like making clear that if this is considered outlining (since those definitions are so volatile), i would stress it's a very, very loose outline, it's much more of a conversation with myself, because 1) i think better when i write and 2) personally, hard plotting/outlining always kills my vibe, so leaving room for experimentation is vital.

not me writing this giant synopsis of my own wip to myself so i can understand what i am actually trying to create

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I know adverbs are controversial, but "said softly" means something different than "whispered" and this is the hill I will die on.

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Extra! Extra! Murder in the Streets!

The murders of Beauty told her she had nothing to do with virtue, and later complained about her impatience and cruelty; complained about the pain of reality once she was gone, miles away. Then they complained about the unfairness, not knowing that without Beauty, and all its intrinsic value, the evil would spread. Not only spread, to be exact, but take her throne, and instead of a little mystery here and there, we would have organs, teeth and bones all over the floor of her palace — now abandoned. Oh, the glorification of pain and violence, earning their own frames, while kindness was dismissed from the halls. There is so much anger in the world, they cry, but only birth more of it, not knowing the way back, because they erased that path. The skills are lies; the faces are masks; the titles are vain. Their chalice is empty, and disdain rules over man. Because someone, one day, decided Beauty was not important at all. Brave ugly new world. Hide in the shadows, for our faces in the mirror lack the bare minimum of beauty, and we know. Our eyes grow dull. Your taste grows vulgar and, in your mind, it's just an endless loop. The void smiles, ready to eat you alive. It whispers: so, do you miss Beauty already? Come on then, sit on my lap, let me show you the reality we've created.

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His sense of humour

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Hannah Collins. Breath, 1994.

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poemas de amor | victor m. alonso

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Literally nothing will make me more evil than just being sort of overwhelmed by Noises

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Before I fall asleep

sudden jolts of substance converge on colourless glass, sculpting skin taut like cling wrap translucent, honest, waning — the skull grew slightly longer shaped by darkened brows, swelling red and black enclosures capture the blue-green iris, painted — lifeless though distorted, familiar comfort in the decline, for I know my own way home.

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who loves a good beatbox?

humans are insane! the fact that they can do this is insane! this song is insane!