Sunday, January 5, 2020

for tomorrow:


(a prose poem

[and invocation to some deities of my personal figurative pantheon])



I call upon Aurelius! for the discipline, courage, and pragmatism I desperately need. Help me to reflect, as did you.

I call now upon Janeway! I pray: please grant me some of your poise and strength. That I might do what needs to be done, with the clarity to succeed. I love you, ma’am. (Oh, we’re in a crunch.)

I call upon Brody Dalle, remind me of the beauty possible even in pain, my goddess.

Also I call on Epicurus, ancient, straight forward, and wise. Help me remember, oh Founder of the Garden, help me to remember that pain can be a deferment for good things. It is a cost of continued living. In this too, Aurelius I ask of you, speak the scale of the observable universe into my soul.

And finally, I call upon Starlight Glimmer and Sunset Shimmer, my favorite ponies/pastel-magic-school-girls: help me to forgive myself of my past mistakes. (I work so hard to correct them.) Remind me to be open, pony-like.

I beg of y’all to aid me that I might survive this.

Love,
Evey <3

Saturday, January 4, 2020

video game noises


content warning: rambling personal essay





I don’t play video games. At all, really.

The last videah game I gave a continuous-fuck about was Kingdom ofLoathing: browser based, stick figure art, surreal stupid fantasy, a surprising number of They Might Be Giants references. It’s a game almost made for me visually and thematically. And now I can play it for maybe a few hours before just being done for a few years.

Video games used to be very important to me. Then, somehow, they became inimical to my identity for a long time.

B/c of course, being the excessive sort of bitch I am, I was loudly (and drunkenly) almost anti-video game in my twenties. Which is stupid. Jesus fuck, that’s dumb. Why was I so dumb?

No one answer that.

Anyway, I’m still trying to suss out what the fuck happened. That’s, I guess, the purpose of this essay. (Which I am writing to the sounds of chiptune punk.)

As a little girl, I cormorously consumed NES games. It was a reliable escape. It was a group(ish) activity my increasingly fat ass could participate in without revealing how out of breath I’d gotten so soon. (Or how dumb-fuckedly sweaty I’d gotten for no godsdamned reason.)

More than that, it’s something that lends itself to dissociation. Play that weird Looney Tunes game for a several hours. Remember maybe the first and last minutes with any more clarity that a half forgotten dream.

I got to be Princess Peach. I think she’s the only character I’ve actually beaten Mario 2 with.

But being Princess Peach was important in a way I couldn’t articulate at the time. I got to be a girl, with no one questioning or mocking me too intently for it. ALSO, her cute- ass, pink dress was a thing of power. I quietly loved her with an intensity. (I read so many Mario Bros books, drew so many Mario Bros, religiously watched that weird fucking cartoon...)

Then, I just didn’t care. It happened with comic books too.

My standard explanation was always, “...and then I found DnD so what the fuck did I need this shit for?!” It’s an assumption I had not questioned in a long time.

So what actually happened?

Some of it was probably that I’m not that great at them.

Some of it was almost definitely just, just one less thing to fight with my grandparents over. DnD, Magic the Gathering, etc.: all banned eventually, only ever weren’t because I fought tooth and nail to try in the first place. Video games were a precarious category, always on the verge of being banned. Comics too.

I gave up. To make it more bearable, I made their banishment my own decision.

outdated hierarchical thought (with commentary from the me that is now)
  • romantic era poetry > comics so fuck ‘em. (Not true. Not mutually exclusive states obviously. I named myself after Evey Hammond for fuck’s sake.)
  • ttrpgs > video games so fuck ‘em. (Excepting the “fuck ‘em”, still my assessment I suppose.)
  • dead inside > feelings (dumb)
I dunno.

Video games are an incredibly important part of my past. As I was reminded by the music on Unikitty!, 8 bit-ish video game noises are deeply good sounds for me. Pixel art often flips those same sort of switches in my brain.

Still some residual resistance to the idea of playing video in my brain, but I dunno I can recognize and appreciate them a bit more now.

So growth or whatever. I don’t have a point.

The mutable vagaries of my psyche still often surprise me.

And when I’m in the right mood, I play Scorched Earth.

Monday, December 23, 2019

hope is a commodity, and I can't afford it.
hope is for people with homes and cars
hope is for those with reason to believe things could get better
(or at least not worse)
hope isn't for me.
how does one live without hope?
I manage it only moment to moment.
and not very well.
bones grinding in their joints
I remember
carrying everything I owned out the shelter door.
in the snow, straps digging into my hands and my shoulders.
step by step, moment by moment
I remember
hope is a commodity.
and I can't afford it

Tuesday, August 6, 2019

"women in pattens"


saving shoes, saving hems
so carefully step

a woman in iron pattens
breaks bondage with itself.
breaks a gentleman's ankle.
makes off with his wallet and thigh high ridding boots.
her own hero, forever,
unless, o'course, she's hanged.

'til then,
her hem is filthy,
but her toes are warm,
and her feet are finally free.

Wednesday, June 19, 2019

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50392/a-cameo

to do is to die;
to try is to already have failed.
impossible always, and
hope is the cruelest of all Pandora's ills.


Wednesday, May 29, 2019

findings


"Having conferred with my esteemed colleague, Confirmation Bias, I can say with confidence, the more I understand the more enraged, afraid, and depressed I become. Ms. Bias and I have rigorously examined a selectively limited data set to reach this appalling and universal truth.

"Further, the findings of this very scientific meta survey of the stuff I remember indicate everything has always, and will always, suck. All actions are doomed to failure, happiness is neither compatible with knowledge nor moral behavior, and all will be burned away in that fateful epoch wherein this dumb planet is engulfed by the stupid fucking sun.

"The last point at least offers this researcher some small solace."

"We will be taking no questions. Answers are false anchors tying one to the delusion of sensibility and meaning.

"This then concludes the imaginary press conference. And again, questions are futile, just like everything anyone has ever done.

"Thank you for wasting your finite time with us, you monstrous fools. Goodnight."

Friday, April 19, 2019

precision and intent

The witch was precise. More chemist than magician he felt. 0.07g of green flakes, put in by tweezers one at a time. With ruler and magnifying glass, she sliced off a 3.33×1.11 cm strip of tongue flesh. What kind of tongue? He didn't want to know.

The silence was getting to him. Her glare stopped the spastic drumming of his fingers, and she continued etching some tiny design into a square of snowflake obsidian.

He spent the next 15 minutes twisting paperclips into gnarled bundles, and regretting mentioning the election.
Finally, she unceremoniously spat into a beaker of viscous, bubbling brown something. The paperclips bounced as it slammed down on the table.

He winced.

"Did ya have to like connect with it or something? The spitting? Just seemed different."

"No, and no amount of money buys you another. Drink it all and leave. Now."