owlswhisper

[owlswhisper]

I seem quiet honestly incapable of just sitting my butt down and writing. Why. WHY??

Perfectionism? Yeah there's probably quite a bit of that still. Partly boredom? I dare not think so.

Just shorts. I have to think shorts. Just do short texts. It'll be a way to encourage and move along with the writing. Yup. Just do that. *sigh*

[owlswhisper]

Dear @inkskinned ,

I saw one of your posts swing by on instagram, and it slapped me in the face. I liked it and scrolled on. As you do. But the words glued themselves to the ceiling of my mind. I don't know how much time went by before I came across it again... This time, this time, I wrote it down. I read the sentence over and over again. I tried twisting it around, interpret it in different ways, see if it gave anything else. Yeah I might've analysed the heck out of it (I overthink all the time).

It's one of those sayings you know. You've seen it before. You've talked about it before with friends and others. And if you think about it, it's logical. But logical isn't enough. It doesn't infuse it into your core beliefs, into your inner system. You know it, but haven't assimilated it. That's where I was. For some reason, the way you formulated it, it clicked something deep down. Like scraping rust off an old mechanism, and somehow it starts to go (and for someone who's done quite a few self-help exercises and such, I did not expect to find an "epiphany spark" here).

"The pursuit of perfection kills joy & I hope whatever you do today, you're allowed to do it badly"

"You're allowed" is what stabbed me right in the heart. I was conditioned to always do "good", "good enough", "high grades", "good friends"... "perfect" was what I heard... I now realise that's probably why I ended up being afraid of doing anything. Because I knew it wouldn't be good enough. I was, and am still convinced, of my own mediocrity. So why start at all? Why try? "Failure" never felt like an option. Growing up, my parents unconsciously kept that pressure. They still do at times (without being too aware of it). But I also realised, I never gave myself permission to do things badly. A part of me always judged, always surveyed what I did and the "quality of the work". Doing anything became nerve-wracking. Until you "gave me your blessing" to do badly. It was weird. My guts churned. I doubted. Could I really? I took my notebook and wrote weirdly into it. I didn't follow those lines. I blotched out smudges of messed up letters. I wrote upside down, sideways, over washi-tapes, filled gaps with dissonant colours...

And I LOVED IT.

I felt free, and all I was doing was writing in a notebook. I also felt awkward for feeling like that from simply writing crazy. It started bleeding out into other aspects of my life too.

No I still don't have all my shit together, and that okay. No I'm still not sure what I want to do with my life. That's okay too.

But those things I know I want to do? I've already started a little. But I'll do them. I'll write that first short-story I've wanted to for ages. I'll do it badly. And I'll learn and get better, and probably re-write it. I'll keep drawing maps and building plans for stories and adventures. I'll push on with the wood carving and make wonky figures.

I'll also mess up, and revert back to my silly perfectionist self. I'll get anxious, nervous and angry at myself. I'll hate it. And I'll learn (hopefully), and push through (also hopefully).

I've rewritten your phrase about a dozen times now. It's kind of become my mantra these days. And I love it.

So if you've made it this far... well, sorry for the long post, but I had to tell you and let it out.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, THANK YOU

THANK YOU_THANK YOU_THANK YOU_THANK YOU_THANK YOU

From a complete stranger, somewhere in the world and through the internet, I love you.

I have never felt so free.

Thank you

Whoever you are and where-ever you are, I'm holding you tight in my mind's arms, and showering you with kisses. And from this I can only wish you all the very best I can imagine!

[owlswhisper]

3/30 day writing challenge: Fans

I mean they’re crazy right? Yeah I can say it, because I’m one of them!

Bananas, nuts, crazies, obsessed, bonkers, thirsty, hungry, coocoo, six feet above ground (no you read that right), high-strung, protective, needy, desperate, hopeful, passionate, enthusiastic, enamoured, creative, adventurous, curious, frightened, hurt, I could probably keep going if I stopped to think some more.

I mean some people revolve their whole lives around their fandom for a certain amount of time. They start defining their world through it; Estimating different values and behaviours in people; How would certain “this world” situations be lived in the other world; Hey that looks nice! Reminds me of that character! I’m gonna wear it!

Fans breathe, live, love, hate and infuse their existence with these worlds. It’s another life spark to add to the hoard. A little bit of light to help and see what hides in the darker corners of the world. A flame to give you courage in facing certain situations.

Fans will keep little pieces from every world they’ve visited, every character that made them live and shiver with them. All these pieces -unique tiles with their own colours and patterns that have nothing to do with the others, or almost- come to add themselves to the canvas that is a person. A great, shifting mosaic.

I would love to see what tiles others have collected!

[owlswhisper]

Focus is so haaaaaaard!!!!!  I need to do sports!!! (trapped in appartment) It really is time to let creativity run wild... Who’s been creative and what have y’all been doing?

[owlswhisper]

2/30 day writing challenge: Carpenter

She sighed, put the piece down, took her gloves off, and approached the magnifying lamp again. Some woods just didn’t want to cooperate. Picking up the tweezers, she studied the angles of the splinters.

Gently, she grabbed an end, and felt the pressure run to the other end, somewhere further beneath her skin. A tiny shiver ran down the spine. There’s something so wrong about feeling something move beneath your skin.

Once all pieces were plucked out, she dropped them in a box and clasped the lid back on. She turned back to the block, and, putting her gloves back on, grumbled a warning, “This would go a lot more smoothly if you just let it happen...I can always forget about you at the back of the study again”.

The wooden block sat there on the desk, luscious prominent veins defying it’s handler. It wasn’t going to make this easy.

The Carpenter grabbed the block suddenly, like it was about to flex and launch itself off the table to run away. It didn’t move. Carefully, slowly, she grabbed a tool and returned to the groove she had started on.

Upon the first slice, something slid between her hand and the block, wedging itself in the glove. As she continued the movement, so did the element on the other side, until it started making it’s way through her skin. The Carpenter grit her teeth and glared further at the block, stubbornly pursuing her work.

About twelve splinters later, she put it down again to tend to her hand. Again.

Why not use stronger gloves, you might ask? Or a table vice? The thing is, Acer morphalis adapts to whatever is brought to it, or against it... For instance, If you bring a small blade to it, the wood will harden to that density and resistance. So setting it in a vice could make it harden to that level. And when it doesn’t want to be carved...well... it tends to fight back. As you have just seen.

It’s a very sensitive tree which will learn from how you treat it. Which is why sometimes, Carpenters get arrivals of very moody Acer morphalis without ever knowing the story behind it. But some Carpenters are determined to tame these wild pieces and give them a new life. It takes time, and patience for the wood to ease up, calm down, and open itself to possibilities.

Not this one though. She’s been at it for the last 5 years...

[owlswhisper]

So... 30 days challenges... amiright?

[owlswhisper]

Not a WORD about the 30 day challenge.

[owlswhisper]

Time is an illusion and I’m just the screen

[owlswhisper]

You ever trapped in a situation you feel you can’t escape?

A manipulative perverse personality. Maybe he’s not aware. Then what?

You let it go? Push on and hope he becomes aware of it?

He won’t.

He won’t think back on his actions. Won’t think he was wrong. The past is the past. He would say.

Shouldn’t we learn from it? Shouldn’t it allow us to not dunk our heads in the sand, for shame of doing yet another mistake? Shouldn’t it make us better?

Is looking at one’s self so terrifying? Is the lie’s pain less sharp than the truth’s gaze?

Why look away? Is it already too late?

I’m scared. I’m cold.

[owlswhisper]

1/30 day challenge Time like Liquid

I sat a little dumbstruck.  Me? Smoke that? Astral plane? Other dimensions? No, no. I don’t do that. Nooooope.

The Shaman held up my hand gently, and placed the long pipe in it. There was so much kindness in her eyes, so much care in her touch, it was hard to turn her down or set things aside as strictly as I wanted to. I couldn’t meet her eyes. Instead I carved all the groves and makings in the pipe with my eyes.

It was old. Some of the paint and varnish was chipping off in places. It was otherwise kept in pristine condition. How old was it? The wood was solid and light, and its brown was...how would you describe that...Coffee with cream? My eyes kept roaming the tool, up its neck to tip for mouth, then back down to the recipient for the herbs. I might’ve lost myself in it. I forgot the Shaman.

I looked up nervously, hoping I didn’t offend her. She smiled, approached only to light the pipe again, then go back to her place.

I reasoned. What’s the worst that could happen? I wasn’t with nutty people ready to run off on adventures high either. They knew what they were doing. What’s one time?

I brought the piece to my lips, no distinct temperature, and tentatively placed them around the opening. I didn’t inhale yet. Just kind of... held myself frozen, tipping on that edge. Holding my breath until I could no longer.

I inhaled.

I felt the nothingness fill my lungs. Not the off temperature of air, but the almost opaque sensation of the smoke. I let a few heartbeats go by unburdened, then exhaled.

I looked to the Guide, expecting a smile, a nod or something. Her eyes were half closed, and a low chant spilled off her tongue, along with leathery fingers questing the drum’s rhythm.

Nothing happened.

Yet.

...

I lost touch with my body. It was very much like falling asleep. Actually it was exactly like that but... ‘you’ stay awake. Your... consciousness is still there. Being. Awake. I could see the Shaman lost in her mumbled words and touch of the drum. I could see the makeshift fire in front of us, but no temperature. ‘I’ ‘looked’ up. Stars. Cold pinpricks of light, too curious of the human world. ‘I’ ‘stood’. Which was weird. At least when I looked down... I mean. My body was there, sitting, the pipe comfortably set in my hands, eyes closed.

Before I could properly look at the Shaman again, a heavier, deeper beat resonated. And I just left.

Up.

  Up.

    UP.

‘I’ ‘sat’ just above the world. In silence and calm. Peace thrummed through my body in an odd rhythm.

I went further.

Stars, nebulas, dust clouds.

‘I’ dispersed. Or I....spread? I wasn’t just me then. I became more. No longer defined by a definite space. ‘I’ was that star, that gas cloud, that ice planet, that asteroid belt. ‘I’ was that old lady shuffling across the street in a hurry, ‘I’ was the driver grumbling to crawl, ‘I’ was the dog barking at the unattainable ball stuck in the tree, the empty soda can abandoned on the beach, the little girl feeling trapped at home and in herself, the man at the corner of the street shivering in fear, the fox with a bullet in the head, the sand, the water, the rock, the moss, the tree.

‘I’ was.

And across all of “me”, time grew. Like lichen, an odd coupling of space and life, and energy in the most miraculous existence. It grew. Across my skin and beneath it. Through the veins and out my pores. Hugging the bones and colouring the insides with life. Perhaps the lichen was just a structure. A base to welcome it. Perhaps the time was the water within. In every particle and every breath.

Time like liquid found its place in every crevice. And in so, I lost the distinction between it and me.

[owlswhisper]

Writing motivation attempt... #1

So.... I’m going to try and do this for 30 days. For myself. To myself. Good luck me.

[owlswhisper]

Was anybody going to tell me you can’t fix/ edit posts once they’re posted, or was I supposed to just figure that out myself?

[owlswhisper]

The Highwayman

ALFRED NOYES PART ONE The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.   The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.   The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   And the highwayman came riding—         Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,   A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.   And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,         His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.   He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,         Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.   His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,   But he loved the landlord’s daughter,         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say— “One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,   Then look for me by moonlight,         Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.” He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;   And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. PART TWO He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;   And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,   When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,   A red-coat troop came marching—         Marching—marching— King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.   But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!   There was death at every window;         And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! “Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say— Look for me by moonlight;         Watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!   They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,         Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.   Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.   She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;   For the road lay bare in the moonlight;         Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;   Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding—         Riding—riding— The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still. Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!   Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,   Then her finger moved in the moonlight,         Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death. He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood   Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!   Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear   How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway,         Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. .       .       . And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,   When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   A highwayman comes riding—         Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard. He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.   He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,         Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

ALFRED NOYES

Music adaptation by Loreena McKennitt https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSpxnPUgKFQ

[owlswhisper]

Bananas

No, nothing about bananas here. I just seem to have a real hard time getting used to tumblr. It’s like your own journal but public right? Cool Cool. See all my fear and my sins fellow humanoids.

I’m trying to use this to get rid of my perfectionism... I guess? Because it’s getting in the way of my writing and AAAAAAAAAAAH bananas is it ever so annoying. So yes. Bananas as title. Because why not. Run the dishwasher twice, eh?

I’d like to try a....inktober but for writing and not in October but in the middle of February. Thank god there are no rules. I’d be smitten where I...sit.

*whistles and looks around, twiddling thumbs*

[owlswhisper]

Sounds ominous. I’ll take that rest, thank you!

(via u/Madgic_Girl / Reddit)

[owlswhisper]

You know what? It was far too boring.

XD

I think “Hey, fuck you, buddy. I spent the night learning to riverdance,” is going to be my go-to excuse for everything, now. –AW

[owlswhisper]

Crossroads

A lot of people came here with the whole Covid and confinement situation. T’is an awkward place, and yet full of hope and possibilities. Some were unsure of the very path they walked on, eyeing that other one a little more closely. But it's the fear isn't it? The fear of having to go off road, through the brambles and other dubious obstacles. And once you get to that other path, you don't necessarily know how to walk it. It takes bravery, courage. Dear writers of the web I am at the crossroad. And I'm torn between two worlds. Science and Storytelling. You know that "save the world" conundrum? That little something we apparently all have (as per that post quoting a professor)? That's my science part that I have walked. And every now and again I'd hop over to the Storytelling one. I have to pick a path for a career (and I don’t even know what on either side). A world of science with people who have selective hearing, and where innovations are drowned by the lobbyists. A world of stories, where making a living from is as changing and difficult as predicting the weather. I guess I'm scared. Writers of Tumblr, is anyone in this predicament? I hope you are all well Lots of love, E