distinction impossible

 everything builds 

tubular tuber, somehow soup

Alanna Artstew, fairy spud, whisks up words and serves them candied–a butterscotch forgotten under the table, bedazzled with dirt. Sticky treasure gravitates towards them, accumulates in speckled circles, pile files. Alanna's cast-offs congregation woos few, but those it enchants grow viscous, melting into each other + new versions of themselves; by embracing briars, they make room for hope.

Artstew boils queer temporality and self-mythology dyed by the ink of font books, mixes in slippery music with newsflash nightmare, and concocts rich soup, a constant spinning potion. Their aim is medicinal, their work incidental. Occasionally palatable. Alanna lives for the lyric.

Roll out the well-worn rug

Company's coming over

Discover treasure under tables

Trash dines on the floor

Alanna Artstew, all together tuber, hopes y'all liked the cake and wishes everybuddy everyday a happy new year -- what better time for revolutions!?

[[Write an eye-catching bio, aiming for fresh imagery and the language only you could assemble to describe you.]]

spring beauty swoon song

March was starting to spring, the backyard was green and that was fine. Mama pointed at blobs in trees, that’s the downy woodpecker, that’s that old cardinal again would he just quit it, that’s that’s i’ll have to check my app. All their songs come down to “hey baby” in the end the birds radio mtv2 all align in constant cat call “do you want me or not?” i’ll tell you now i can’t tell the difference so dont be surprised cry outraged when i yawn at whatever cishet romance streams on some screen i’m telling you now i’m–

march spring green fine songs fade for the scrape of the door skipping in its track you slide smooth through eclipse the green damn the moon sun leo love shine spot light on you.
yeah you heard me flowers pale where my beauty blooms she slick sweet sidle all peach fuschia turquoise light’ll leave every corner block party to shine on her and see see sweet tea you step no shade pulse through me again run currents single file signal fire burn leo sun light shine your shine toward ripe black currants find hidden color purple petals ripe currants dew wet berry pulse pale me

you, electric, shine.

Nobody better bother yelling by now those songs of homogenous hope know better by now chatter simmer down. He’ll leave you by summer leaf green lost lover lonesome nest tattered under trees. Mama blessherheart collects wholest remains of homes forgotten when the chicks have flown.
Empty nest mantelpiece display. Romcom reboot every damn day.

Ours i’ve already told you, the humidity abysmal, 4 ceiling fans 1 floor and 2 window units, home stays hot april to october, we nested bodies heat it hotter dripping water dowsing divining spring green ground swell key hole of summer lover shiver sip her long days long tongue nights burn run on shine.

[[Wednesday's prompt -- We've spent a lot of time thinking and writing about hard stuff, haven't we? And though our trials are as individual as our tastes, there is one universal truth: we all want to love and be loved. Maybe we avoid the subject as writers because we don't want to risk sentimentality or greeting card poetry. But today, let's celebrate joy! Familial, romantic, plutonic, (and however we might describe love of nature, animals, and learning), let it be our subject today. Feel free to experiment with form and style--your only directive is to woo us.]]

patchwork

I've noticed I write about myself A LOT. I'd like to move beyond that, but maybe I need to purge some of these old stories before I can move forward...? I'm not sure how to deal with that. But my own experiences have been my main subject over these last 9 weeks.

Some themes I'm finding:
-- family (both biological and chosen), acceptance, connections and broken connections
--mental health, queer/trans identity, personal autonomy, dysphoria
--the constant quiet hum of everyday trauma in late stage capitalism, implications of privilege and oppression
--joy, performance, play, art, music, collaboration, looking toward a beautiful future built for/by everyone

Sometimes it gets pretty dark but I've attempted to include humor in various ways.

I guess pretty much I'm using my stories, micro experiences, to talk/think/feel/stumble through macro patterns of culture + society.... but that's kinda what creative nonfiction is all about isn't it?! stories let us see each other... okay so that's not really an insight.

Feels like I've moved through a lot of different tones and writing styles, which is making it hard for me to see how things could fit together. Unless it's just an oversized patchwork quilt.

I notice when I'm putting more thought/care into language, I write more for sound + rhythm. (maybe this is falling into old patterns tho-- too easy?) Lots of lyrical stuff happening. Other times, it seems more like rambling, a runaway train (or kite).

Of course y'all have different preferences so I'm not able to concretely say what has been "most effective." I often think of my self(s) in multiples so I never know whose voice is gonna show up. I wonder how important consistency is. A clown is infinite, anything is possible, so maybe I'm carrying that into writing too.... actually I think I hope I'm doing that!

The various prompts have been ridiculously helpful for thinking in new ways and finding stories hidden in places I wouldn't have expected. That has been such a learning experience and so much fun!

Any feedback or random thoughts about my random thoughts would be much appreciated! Thanks, buddies.

[[TUESDAY PROMPT: Spend some time thinking about the themes that have emerged in your work over the course of these ten weeks. Are there recurring images or topics? How might the snippets be woven together into a longer piece? It might be a good idea to print all of your responses to the prompts (including those that weren't related to the prompt but were part of your own projects). Can you see any connections? Please share your findings, so we can offer our insights as readers.]]

writing class wrap up

 hey future self! you are about to post all your prompts from this creative nonfiction class so far because guess what it's kind of what today's exercise is about! called look at everything we wrote and try to connect the dots. images, themes, etc. so WHAT BETTER TIME to carefully arrange these bread crumbs?! little lost loon. 

also i am telling you right now that you are NOT gonna be freakin ridiculous ocd about this like usual and put the exact time of day i wrote/posted these. no no no you are not. just get em in here, welcome welcome. 

also guess what, blogger fucking sucksssssss bc goog killed it dead and you have gotta get out of here. you know they fucked up the formatting on all your old posts. and now they have this nightmare box where you paste anything in from gmail or wherever and it automatically includes the background color???? what fresh hell is this! the old blogger would never be so stupid, as it would have known we all want our pink and tan boxes set up just right. please. cmon. goog. why. 

well you've looked at substack and patreon and ghost and blah blah blah 

no one wants to read any of this anyway

well maybe they do! what do you know about it! 

these little scrapples even? this stuff from class? it's just dribbles. blots. 

okay so they're blots. okay so what. you have been getting a lot of good feedback and maybe there's someone who wants to read this aka SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE as i keep trying to remind myself, yes yes yes there's certainly an audience for everything. because that is just the way the world works. i'm not so unique as to be unrelatable to every other person crawling round this rock. cmon. 

okay so shut up and post the posts and dont worry about the formatting like we said 

okay fine

p.s. you should also save the prompts you didn't write and maybe do those some time when you are stuck

just thought of another disclaimer (3:10pm) called i really am not bothering to post these on the days i actually wrote them. i'm just posting the prompts. sometimes i did 0 and sometimes i did 2 or 3. so dont go using this as an excuse of like ohh look when i wrote every day bc you fuckin diddnt

you couldn't take it anymore and you had to fix the formatting. and you thought no one (brett) would ever read the posts if they look so bad. so it's taking forever and you haven't done the homework! (4:19pm)

a sterilized send off

WEEK NINE - When Is It Finished?
In conjunction with "No Such Thing as a True Story", please write a scene from the point of view of someone with whom you've recently argued/disagreed. What does the 'truth' look like from his/her vantage point?

All the groups warned her this would happen.

"Sadly, this catches up with all us sufferers of environmental illness. First the establishment doctors, then our brainwashed friends and families. They just won't listen to the truth."

I never had to say "I don't believe you" for her to hear it. She stood at full attention waiting for the day I, too, would follow this unavoidable pattern. Just one more misery on top of all her other suffering.


The internet groups chorus, "Cut them out. You don't need more negativity in your life."

She's packing up her trailer with what few belongings she has left. Extreme mold avoidance protocols necessitated a "clean break," meaning she trashed everything she owned, as it could be either carrying or attracting toxins. Her bass. Her clown nose. The harddrive housing all our songs from 2019. Her phone, car, computer. Every few weeks, she buys new clothes, tents, sleeping bags for temporary use, then dumps them when they've absorbed the toxins escaping her body. To donate them would be irresponsible.

We used to call each other "creative soul mates" and now we can barely breathe the same air. Literally. She can't come inside my house, as most buildings in our humid town trigger her mold symptoms, which include debilitating physical reactions as well as anxiety, OCD, and self-harm. That's why she's moving into this trailer, planning to park somewhere with good air.

I struggle to find words that won't sting. Every interaction a mine field. If my concern crosses the border of total agreement, I turn enemy. My poisoned position sparks a flare up; she's compromised, unreachable. Her mind and body retaliate but she takes all the hits. I'm helpless. My truth can't not hurt her.

So just smile and step back. Feel complicit in your deference. Hope for the best.

"Good luck on your trip!"

not quite quotes

What is your favorite quote about writing or writers? Explain...

I reach, but recall fails me. A cavern holds the memory of treasure, as each tide swishes in and steals whatever's sat there. Not a damn thing stays where I put it, and that's a promise.

Say, “a scroll in the morning is death to a writer,” which I saw, would you believe it,
on social media, and though I’ve mangled the original words, I do believe it –
screens steal our sacred thoughts, which may be even eviler than their theft of our time.

“They took as they tasted the best of my wine; they took me down dancing the rape of the vine.”

In my own quote, I thought I was quoting another poem, but I can’t find it– whose words are they, then?

I’m nearly sure Adrienne Rich told us poetry might be the purest form of art, in that its very essence could never be commodified or captured by capitalism. I’ve hung my hat on this one for at least a decade, so deeply I want it to be true but meanwhile shrink and sniffle at even the idea I could wear that wondrous robe, “Poet,” and those that do, bless you, bless you. I think I need to trust that there’s a secret room, locked to merchandisers and advertisers, where Truth will bloom and not be plucked, where Beauty fruits and Ugly struts, without the compromise of commerce tying y’all in knots.

Where is diction’s temple? The sanctuary of verbiage?

“The rebellion of art is a daily rebellion against the state of living death routinely called real life.” And if that doesn’t rattle your bones, I don’t know what will. Jeannette Winterson peels back the curtain of certainty (the pinprick of history we cling to as canon), reveals the stage of flesh as the show itself–a play of finite bodies treading the boards of the infinite. We make to move beyond. We must.

(alt title= constructing a home for language)

digging or the hole story

[[Write a Q & A between you and your inner voice.]]

Q

What are you doing down there?

A

Huh? Oh I’m digging a hole. Don’t fall in.

Q

I don’t intend to. But why?

A

Because I don’t want you to get hurt!

Q

Thanks, but why the hole?

A

Well that’s a secret. Pah! I can’t believe you’d ask such a dingus question.

ALL titter.

A

I’ll just say, I hope everyone will fit. 

Q

In the hole?

ALL

It’s a secret secret! 
They have to fall in! Us too!

A

G D it y’all. 

ALL

It’s part of the show! 
What a show!

Q

What’s a show? 

A sighs deeply and rests their forehead on the end of the shovel.

ALL

We fly the kite and you can’t help but be dragged along and you laugh and then you fall in the hole and then we all laugh together in the hole.

A removes gloves and lets them drop to the dirt.

Q

Kite? 

ALL

YES we ride on the line like ribbons! 

A

You most certainly do not! Have you ever even seen a kite with ribbons?!

Q

Well, sure, a kite with ribbons!

A

Really?? Or are you just imagining a drawing?

Q is stumped. ALL shuffle their tiny feet and look at the ground from their various perches in and around the hole. At least one is sitting in a tree, gnawing on the same branch they’re sat on. Someone is drawing in the dirt, a picture of a kite with ribbons on the tail.

A

See?? I can’t fly the kite with ALL of you AND the whole audience! 

Q

Audience? 

A scrunches up their face in frustration.

A

Crumbs, I've done it now! 

(to ALL) 

See what you made me do???

ALL

We’re sorry, we’re sorry. We love you, We love, We you, We did together, Sorry. 

A collapses with a thud and sighs even deeper than before. ALL cautiously approach. A rubs their hands over their face, smearing dirt everywhere. It’s unclear whether this is an accident. Meanwhile ALL climb onto A’s lap, shoulders, and head. They sort of soften into each other.

A

It happens every time. I never get that far before they mess it up. (whispering) I know, I know, you don’t mean to.

Q

Can’t they all stay with you, like they are now?

A looks bewildered and miserable.

Q

Instead of on the kite’s tail, I mean. If that’s the trouble. 

A

Like, let them come along when I fly the kite? But the audience would see them.

Q

Nah, they’ll be looking at the kite– 

ALL TOGETHER 

And then they fall in the hole! 

ALL applaud and practice falling into the hole. 

A

Well! This ditch isn’t gonna dig itself you know! 

Q picks up the discarded shovel and gets to it. ALL gather sticks and stuff themselves into the work gloves to carry on with digging. A gazes at them all bemusedly, knowing they’ll never be rid of each other.

A

Might as well let everyone play.

cut scene

For today's prompt, try writing something that elevates the absurd to the obscenely absurd (remember the infant on the chopping block from the lecture).



“So she's on the rope ladder, being lifted up into the spaceship by her crew, and remember this comes after she leaves the sinking clinic in the swamp and she’s walking around planet Chattanooga noticing all the little fuckin weird aliens and they’re singing along with her, yeah the one about cycles of life, yada yada yada. So she's hanging on the ladder, swaying in the wind, what if she actually DOES fulfill the prophecy of blood rains? Do you see what I'm getting at here? The captain’s just had a bortion.. she's in the air... what if we just have some, you know, some fetal tissue or whatever land on somebody's face, like the cult leader or whoever, whoever's watching her take off? Eh?”


I crack myself up sometimes. I convinced the team this was a great idea, real comedic genius this one. Unfortunately I already got rid of the stuff from last time. Well of course I did, I didn't think I needed it anymore! But that's the clown gods for ya. And they already got me good, considering how I'm directing a movie about a spaceship captain getting a bortion, and then I'm a space movie captain getting a bortion. What are the odds!


But to hell with it, if we need a fresh bucket-o-blood, lemme see, if I time it good, I get gut-bugged in a couple months and go in for round two, I mean let's be real, it's all about authenticity, am I right? Once we've finished the alien puppets and tinfoiled the cockpit set in Brett's garage, then I'll get serious about getting busy. Look we only get one shot, we better do it RIGHT!


“So the guts fall out of the sky, land on Jesse’s face, and what if, stick with me here, what if he eats it! Eh?”

new edits of these old awful things

 [[here are two pieces i wrote several years ago, condensed from their original length.  i thought i might be able to combine them somehow but i haven't been able to work that out. maybe connect them with some statistics or more of a big-picture view somehow? any insight about that would be great. and even though this writing is old, it still feels vulnerable and i've had to work myself up to feeling like it's worth sharing and not just emo navelgazing journals. so really any feedback is appreciated!  content warning: substance use + nonconsensual sex]]

shapes that pass in the night

we drank half a 30 rack and smoked at least a half pack between the late liquor store walk and the sun coming up.

 

when we sat on the bench where we'd painted the bedroom trim, i was wallowing and you said you wanted to help, held me, till your lips pressed my mouth free of words.

 

(in what moment did this become inevitable? this last beer, or the first? meeting your gaze in the warehouse kitchen? your drunk flirting, the night you don't remember?)

 

this night too is only pieces: chainsmoking and natty bo in my unfinished room, top floor of middle house, perched on the roof to watch dawn creep over the highway, wearing just jeans and a hoodie. i don't know how i lost my shirt.

 

we were too many beers in to be doing what we did. we crashed to the mattress tangled kissing and i fell into a dream: walking to a job interview at the neighborhood grocery. to apply i had to get fingered. 

 

your hard soft body on mine, the sweetness of skin on skin, how we ache for this dance. suddenly your soft hard cock inside. if i wanted it, i hadn't said so, i wasn't ready and no protection. (you're lovely but i don't want your babies or infections.) what stops me from stopping you? caught in old patterns–drunken jumbles, wanting without understanding, not safe enough to speak.

 

they have said: cmon. please. you're nothing special. just hold still. shhh.

and they have said nothing as they put themselves inside me.

and they have said how much they missed me, how they love my squishy softness, i'm not like the other girls, i'm good enough, i deserve it.

 

and i’m disgusted with myself but i want and i want and i want to break myself apart and unlearn all the untruths they pressed upon me.

---

sometimes i think i ought to charge

lately, everywhere i go, all these men's eyes.

at east wind, there's a male majority, and the closest bar is 20 miles away. commies in the ozarks get lonely too. from out of the autumn night rain, i shuffled into the cramped sunnyside commons, bumbling with my bags and beer and too many coats, sloppy smiling, and i became meat. the freshest sort, from one or two communes over, but as yet unclaimed. a dozen people crammed in this smoky room, and i felt them mentally undress me, i saw them puff up against each other for a piece. but it was so far under the surface that maybe i'm the only one who saw, because they were really all so kind, not creepy at all, just starving.

could i blame them?

i don't know what to do with men's interest in me. i guess i'm a little flattered but mostly confused by it. they all like my dimpled smile, they like that i “think” and it's cute that i'm awkward, they always like it when i'm nervous.

do you think your presence caused this? your power?

my confusion takes the lead in the dance of the flirt. i don’t understand what’s happening, i thought we were friends. i didn't expect him to take it there.

how did i end up again against some him?

his room is its own circular structure, right by the dribbling creek, falling down, half whole, mysterious, broken. is this how you saw me? how did you see me at all?

i will entertain the conversation, i will drink his dandelion wine. i'm a sucker for the bottom of the barrel, let me keep going till i find it. finally i'll stop my babbling long enough for him to ask to kiss me.

thank you for asking.

for a moment everything feels sweet and giddy, almost innocent.

why not say yes? why not anything? why not see if i feel?

the first kiss is always the best. (maybe i am better nervous.)

start on the couch with our mouths until his hands start to wander, why not? he will want to move to the bed or turn out the light, why not? he will squeeze my tits like lemons, kiss suck pinch pull push hard harder hurts.

most of this will be uncomfortable.

i will go into a certain type of subspace: silent, riding, object, use me.

some things feel good but others i will just let happen.

what's the point in trying to correct his too tongued kissing, his hard hands?

what am i doing here, where have i gone?

what can i ask for that i will get?

he won't know whether i like pain or what kind. he will have already had his hands in me and will have bitten my meat until the blood vessels pop and the bruises flower up.

week 7 friday prompt

Today's prompt is adapted from a book called Naming the World and Other Exercises for the Creative Writer. This collection of 'tips' from assorted authors includes a chapter on revision, and though we're focusing on micro editing this week, I think John Smolens' contribution "On the Wheel: Revising the Personal Essay" fits our needs nicely.

Using the first draft of an essay (or a previous response to a prompt) you've already finished, write a second draft without going any longer than eighty percent of the number of words used in the first draft. "The intention is to provide the reader with the same experience as in the first draft, only in a more concise fashion."

He suggests eliminating modifiers, of course, and using the active vs. passive voice and also to edit one paragraph, "...distilling it until you've said the same thing in one sentence."



[[i turned in the first half of what i posted on saturday]]

hungry scene draft 2

[[Experiment with punctuation today. Not usually a fan of commas, semicolons, colons, or dashes? Find a way to make them an interesting/artistic part of a new or old piece. Comma crazy and dash happy? Find a way to remove them from your work by shortening sentence lengths or using a different tone or point of view. Let us see two versions, (one with punc. and one without or vice versa).]]




No one would diagnose “trauma.” Not at intake. Not when discharged. Maybe acknowledging it would’ve kept me there longer and they had to keep the doors revolving.

I’ll never know if my therapist lied on purpose. She said they’d let me keep my phone. My paper and pens. Zines and herbal tinctures.

Nope. My bag of goodies turned out to be full of danger. Pens could be used as weapons. I might self-harm with the staples in the zine, apparently. And they do take your shoes. The best part of the loony bin is wearing socks and pajamas all day. I couldn’t believe I got free underwear. Two pairs! Blue and pink.

I didn’t recognize my hypervigilance. One of the aids convinced me to take a shower. It would be safe. What a relief to finally be alone! I would’ve stood forever under running water. Count my veins and scars. Blue and pink.

I learned which staff members would give me pens, and which would take them away again. But I couldn’t argue back my tinctures. I’d been using them for months to regulate my mental health. St. John’s Wort and Valerian root. The alcohol base rendered them illegal. So they kept my botanicals and put me on pharmaceuticals.



When you’ve been depressed for decades, you can’t know what you look like on the other side. How it would even feel. You try SSRIs and MAOIs and the whole gauntlet, always reporting back to your doctor, “I guess they’re helping?”



This time, the little fuckers worked. Maybe too well. I hardly recognized this energetic person. The ward turned bright and hard. I used the hospital phone to quit my job. Instead of sleeping, I read YA novels and made up plays. I’d been resigned to spend the rest of my sorry life here, but now I burned for freedom.

bit from "witness" draft 2

[[Revisit a paragraph or two from a piece you are feeling good about. Search for your verbs. How many of them are state of being vs. active? Swap out as many is am are was were words with mood setting active verbs as possible. Then, go back and look at your nouns. Are there any you could make more concrete and less abstract? Lastly, search out all adjectives and adverbs. If you remove them, does the meaning of the sentence change? Usually once I edit out the static verbs and swap in the concrete nouns, the need for modifiers disappears. Please post the before and after results.]]







At the reception, Tyler's relatives unloaded gag gifts and toasts that drooped like eulogies–all past tense, they released him to a life of sin before an eternity of hellfire. We did not witness the same flame.




Honest to goodness, I couldn’t believe so many conservatives showed up, anti-vaxxers and Mormons, their love expressed as presence. Cousin Mary offers a plastic pail and shovel, with a memory of playing on the beach as kids puncutated by the unspoken, "Before you made us bury you." Before the waves engulfed the castle.




Brock's father had terrified teenage-me with his half-empty mansion, grill pit tongs, and his god's judging eyes. A rigid man, sure of his status, followed straight the path laid before him, unaware of who bent to build it. That night in the Eureka Springs Community Center, he uncoiled just slightly, the tiniest detour.

performance review

[[Yesterday we attempted the six-word memoir. Today we take on the six sentence paragraph. Here's the catch: you must not repeat any words in all of these six sentences--not even a, and, or the.

I have found that this exercise is easier when approaching it as a painter might. Find a subject to study and draw inspiration from it (a bowl of fruit, a melting mountain of snow, a nude model, etc. :).]]



Aldous, whose wide mouth wears many flavors, entrances enchants inspires with each waving sound. Falling effortless into clown, queen, prince, voice of a kiss finds its meandering way through almost-honesty, closest thing to true. See how meaning clothes her body? Intentions become actualized as gesture, squint, breath, weighted vibrations, spun song. She straddles beauty and terror; we adore this – held captive like the towered princess reaching toward mother horizon, untouchable.

I try writing about music but can’t not be floated away; you just must listen.

6 word memoir(s)

pale blistered changeling, birthmarks still itch.


come out bloom whisper worlds awake.

UNCENSORED OUTTAKES, WHICH I DID NOT POST IN CLASS BUT HERE YOU GO.

• born blistered, brown birthmarks still itch. 
  
  
  mama said i was a changeling.
  
  
  come quick, you gotta see this. 
  
  
  wake up, ghost, burn this ship. 
  
  
  fight for the labels you deserve.
  
  
  hush puppy, dirt dobber, bloom sideways. 
  
  
  crawl through mud, swell onto shore. 
  
  
  see the world worth fighting for. 
  
  
  look toward the So Much More. 
  
  
  
  
  see the affiliate link for details.
  
  
  see more through my affiliate links. 
  
  
  
  
  selling labor is hiding the clown.
  
  
  hide the clown, sell your labor. 
  
  
  
  
  money is salt to my slug. 
  
  
  a slug in a salty sea. 
  
  
  
  
  sorry, my cat did my homework. 
  
  
  well, I don't see why not!
  
  
  tickle me Elmo, end of days. 
  
  
  that rat crawled over my foot. 
  
  
  my head is a bone brick. 
  
  
  head my head a bone brick 
  
  
  
  
  love as often is safely possible. 
  
  
  out for smokes, gone for good. 
  
  
  
  
  come out, bloom, whisper worlds awake. 
  come out. bloom. whisper. worlds awake.
  come out, bloom. whisper, "worlds awake"
  come out. bloom, whisper worlds. awake!  
  
  
  
  
  
• honey's ideas
  

  - born on a Friday! what's today? 

  - you never do know, do you? 

  - who packed all this bean dip? 

  - join me round these flickering sticks

  - feed each other, eat each other.