Writing Club

week of feb 8th:Write about what ways writing plays a role in your life-- Why do you like it? Is it hard? What's your relationship with it? Be as abstract or direct as you'd like.

The thing I find kinda funny is how for me, writing is what led me to pursue composition.

Before I realized that writing music was something I could even do (or go to school for even), I was always writing. I wrote poetry, I wrote short stories, I penned the occasional fanfiction now and then. I would write a lot during study hall, when I finished my homework and had nothing better to do. I would even write during recess, especially during the period of time when I didn't have a lot of friends to hang out with. It gave me something in which to fill time with. It wasn't until my senior year of high school that I learned about writing music instead, and from that point forward, I dropped the college ruled lined paper and picked up the staff. The only thing I focused on was composition. Nothing else mattered.

I think the reason I went to school for music as opposed to writing is because I've always found English to be therapeutic in a way. I never did it because I was thinking of future job aspects, or because I wanted to understand more about how our language works, I did it simply because it was an outlet for my emotions and ideas.

Obviously you may disagree with this point, but I found that the second someone applied "theory" to writing, the freedom and creativity of the simple freewrite is completely gone. I feel with music, I actually wanted to learn the building blocks of traditional music theory so I could not only understand why I was drawn to the music that inspired me, but use those aspects to shape my compositional voice. With writing, I prefer to vomit all my words on a page like I'm infodumping into the void. There's no fun in being your own copyeditor, especially if you don't desire to write as a career or a passion, even.

I'm strictly a writing hobbyist. I do it because it brings me catharsis. I do it because it's fun. I do it because I can.

I've been looking for an excuse to write again. I've tried blogging, both on neocities and other websites. It's fine, but it wasn't scratching the itch for me. I want to just say stuff. It doesn't always have to be about me, in fact I don't really want it to be. There's only one thing I care about though, and that is I want to sound like I know what I'm talking about. That sounds stupid (narcissitic even), but it's true. Perhaps a different prompt will compell me to go further into that thought.

week of feb 12th: write about a worldly place that is a threshold for you. this can mean anything-- maybe it's some place between end and beginning, forward and backward, past and present, here and there, friends and lovers, or something else entirely!

I like to believe that the computer is what has made me the thing that I am. Some of my first memories involved sitting at my mom's computer, playing browser games and web-based MMOs. In fact, I was so enamored with the computer that my parents had to tell me it was broken just to deter me from using it.

My mom loves to tell me this other story. When I first got diagnosed with autism as a kid, while the school I would later enter in as a kindergartener helped my mom get me speech therapy and other things, I played on the computer the entire time. While my mom sobbed and sobbed, terrified of my future, I was in a whole other world created by electric light on a CRT screen. I'd like to believe that's how that tale went.

When I got older, I quickly realized I was very different from my peers. My parents sat me down at age eleven to tell me I'm autistic. I later developed a very strong attraction to a new girl in my class. Even later, I realized that I never identified with femininity, to the point where I didn't really want much to do with womanhood at all. Did I want to be a man? Did I want to be everything, or nothing at all? Even today I don't know.

People like to describe the computer as a means of "escape". For a moment, they can close off the world around them and see their fantasies projected back at them. I personally never had that kind of relationship. For me, the computer was a means to access information. It holds the world's life in its hands, in all of it's horrifingly humanistic glory.

I bring this up because the computer helped me to process my individuality. I found people who discussed overstimulation, fidgeting, aversion to textures. I found people who were also attracted to femininity and attracted to those who identified with it, in a very different way than the patriarchial, heteronormative society wishes it. I found people who had this attraction, even when they had no desire to be feminine themselves, or had a very complicated relationship with it. I found people who showed the history of all those things, making me realize that not only am I not alone, but I've never been alone.

Community has always been hard for me to create. From growing up in a rural mud puddle for a town, to being severely anxious about everything, to just not developing the right skills to just say "hi" to somebody, creating a safe space to express myself to others has been a challenge. I'm about to leave undergrad behind me, and I still think that I'm much farther behind than my peers. While I wouldn't say the computer gave me a community, it helped me develop the terminology I needed to at least try to build it in the real world.

The computer is my threshold because it has made me feel less like an anomaly and more like an actual human being. It has been my Alexandria, and I'll always go on about how knowledge is so important to create the change you want to see in the world, even the change in yourself.

week of feb 19th: fuck salvador dali for being evil. that said, write a piece inspired by two famous dali paintings-- persistence of memory and the elephants. consider exploring movement, slowness/speed, heat/cold, and warped sensations.

Everything feels slower in the heat.

It's a sensation unlike any other, feeling your muscles forcibly relax once a wave of warmth hits them. Too relaxed. Your muscles soften to a point where you can barely stand. Walking feels like moving through a trough of molasses, feeling the melted sugar scorch you as you attempt to move yourself in a singular direction.

It is a horrible lethargy, none that feels satisfying nor pleasurable. It is not like the bliss of taking off shoes after a long day, or the they way your body euphorically sinks into a chair after taking a bite of a wonderful meal. No, it is painful, it is agony. It is the morning after where you instantly taste the ulcer of regret burning in your stomach, or the way your eyes glaze over at a screen as you notice yourself begging to move and yet you can't. It's as if someone stuck an electrode in your brain, leaving you immobile until a shock is sent through your entire nervous system.

Time itself seems to change in these conditions too. It melts and warps like plastic left out in the summer sun. Suddenly the fabric of what we know and take for granted is dysmorphed into something that we can't comprehend. It's truly panicking. It is like watching the sky open up, bringing it armageddon, and all we can do is lay there and watch it destroy everything we know and understand. We don't move, because the heat has made our functions slow to a dizzying crawl.

In the heat, nothing is real. Nothing is clear or coherant. Nothing matters. We think that chaos is a loud noise or an unfocused force of energy. It's not. Chaos is hatred. Chaos is giving up. Chaos is the loss of will to process anything happening around you anymore.

Chaos is the heat.

week of feb 26th: write about echoes, sound, and reverberation. what is an echo– just sound or something more? how can it reverberate through past, present, and future? can emotion be an echo in that way? what else can be?

Echolalia

According to Wikipedia, it is “the unsolicited repetition of vocalizations made by another person. In its profound form it is automatic and effortless.”

It is something that boomerangs itself back into your mind, recalling how a phrase vibrates in your skin at just the right frequency. The way the pitch flows as the words are uttered, the rhythm each syllable is enunciated. It is akin to a catchy tune that plays in your head over and over.

Sure, for some it is soothing. But for others, it is to engage in a deeply pleasurable emotional response. Back to that “catchy tune” simile, it is a melody that worms its way in and loops. It is an electric shock straight to your hypothalamus, making you want to hear it again and again until the effect has worn out.

These phrases are echoes because they are the memory of a person’s voice. They are the vivid recollection of air going through the larynx and being molded by the lips, tongue, and teeth. Then, these audible movements are replayed, either by another person’s anatomy or the one that exists within the mind. They transfer from once voice to another, creating a morphing echo chamber.

I personally love the phrase “automatic and effortless”, by the way. It shows how far in the stimulus hits. It strikes something so satisfying so strongly it invokes your body to repeat it. It needs to be heard again, it needs to be vocalized another time.

I would love to be someone’s echolalia. It would be a great honor to create that same effect in another’s subconsciousness. The joy that would pour from me to be an echo in a mind not my own would be enough to drown me in any room I occupy. Repeat what I say, so it may rejuvenate you.

week of mar 4th: take time to explore different structures of whatever you like to write. for poetry, consider writing a pantoum, ghazal, or abecedarian (some of my favorites). for an essay or fiction, consider writing vignettes, something in epistolary form, a diptych/triptych piece, a frame story, or a circular narrative.

TW: brief mention of pedophilia

That house, that godforsaken house. For too many years of my life I have looked outside my bedroom window and have seen that house, covered in blood and wearing stone and mortar clothes. It carries sharp metal statues as if they were large dolls, their heads made out of barn roofs, wings made of broken satellite dishes, and eyes recycled from totaled trucks or cars. All plant life that resides has long been dead or been slowly decaying away, including the one large tree that shades their property. I don’t even think a single animal has dared treading over their land, lest they too become victim of whatever horrors existed.

The large, wretched monster that is that house is one of the reasons why my mom told me and my sister to not play out in front of our own home when we were children. It was the reason why kids in middle school would ask me about what my neighbor was like, whispering in a way that one would when discussing a rumor. It was one of the reasons why I felt so disconnected from my community, despite living in one of the few places in rural America that had a house closeby a paved road.

I do not believe the husband and wife who lived across the street were human beings. Not in the way they made the structure they lived in warp and crack and spew unspeakable things, like a person’s flesh when they are in dire need of an exorcism. This horrid image is what has procured in my brain, since my parents won’t give me a straight answer as to why they were so screwed in the head in the first place.

Here is what I do know. The husband suffered a terrible mental illness, one that was never properly treated for one reason or another. He was also a registered sex offender, and had a history of trying to get a little too close to young children. The wife was sweet at first, but she became more and more removed from reality the worse her partner’s mental state deteriorated. The house was never in great shape, but as time went on, the house began to wear a more demented facade. The husband desired to build a stone wall around the house, complete with freakish metal gargoyles to “protect” those who lived in it further. Finally, the house was painted from a deep navy blue to a harsh crimson, completing the horrific look of it all.

Give or take five years, the husband was forcibly dragged out of his home by emergency responders. He screamed and howled and spat profanity as he was shoved into the ambulance and taken away. About a week later, my sister told me that he had died in the hospital from terminal brain cancer. The wife still lived in the house, never leaving its walls for anything, not even for the mail. People came to take care of her, but no one knew who they were. The undertaker ended up taking her life away a few months ago.

After their demise, I remember clearly one night looking outside my bedroom window, that I saw a faint light shining into my room. A tiny, white beam pierced through the glass, not casting a shadow despite its brightness. It filled me with pure dread, as if an evil presence was trying to peek in on me. I also remember one night attempting to fall asleep, when I suddenly felt a strong, sharp grip on my shoulder. It felt like someone was grabbing me and was going to take me away. I sprung awake, mortified, never feeling so afraid in my life. I do not consider myself a spiritual person, but I believe that ghosts are real, especially those who have formed a strong connection with someone or something in our world. It was as if their souls had fully turned, and they were crouching, waiting to seize a chance to drag me with them.

week of mar 11th: explore a life cycle in some kind of writing. for example, you could use metamorphosis, diapause/hibernation, paedogenesis [very weird], puberty, the salmon life cycle, the amphibian life cycle, or something else entirely! you don't have to be direct-- just start here and get inspired.

A hand torn down to the bones

An exposed throat

A reflection permanently soaked in freezing rain

"I have learned that death is not the end"

Instead, it is a state of rapid disappearance

One where you can feel every molecule being taken by the wind

A facade in scabs

A murky two eyes

A set of dirt-infested teeth

To be alive is to be naive to your atanomic being

To be dead is to discard it

To be neither is to be flaking and falling away

A deep gash in the side

A pair of boots drowned in mud

An image of a dying mother

It is lonely out here

Looking up into blurry sky as if faith can break you free

And not the key from an ancient riddle you've never heard of

A cracked outer layer

A torn inner layer

A forever active mind

Someone must feel pity for the corpse in purgatory, right?

week of mar 18th: write a piece in which you blend two physical senses. maybe focus in on the taste or shape of words, or the feel of an old memory. imagine & sink into those sensations and see what comes up.

When the sky has gone to sleep and the smell of dewdrop rain sifts in through my windows, I am immediately transported back to a simpler time. A period where the wieght of the world was not on my conscious mind, but rather the importance of beating a final boss on my DS.

The memory is so oddly vivid. I was staying at my grandfather's place for the week, as my parents were going on a trip of some kind. I was laying on my father's old bed, as it rained like God was crying tears of fury outside. The drops were louder than usual, as the house was located in the depths of a mountainous forest. Therefore, the water had more leafy greens to hit.

While I was horizontal there, I had once mission, and one mission only; to defeat the Elite Four of the Unova region. My Pokemon team wasn't that strong, and I kept getting the shit beaten out of me. But I was determined more than ever to claim victory over them. I don't think I've ever been so committed to completing a game ever in my life.

I had nothing better to do in that moment. The house was asleep, every room occupied with a family member drifting off into dreams. Who even knows how late it was! It could've been past midnight, which was way past my bedtime at that age. However, there was no way sleep could've even begin to influence me right then.

The rainy night had an effect on me. I was lulled into a trance, a hypnotic loop of sheer stubborness. The leaky windows would force the outside air into the room, making my state of consciousness even more altered. Every time I lost, the cool, dewy air would keep me from becoming furiously hot. Instead, I'd take a deep breath of the sleeping rain, and try again.

And again.

And again.

I recall how the smell of the rain mixed with the faint illumination of one lamp within that old bedroom. Since this was a log cabin in the woods, there was no outside pollution of noise or light. Looking out the window, it was nothing but a deep darkness. Perhaps it was the darkest shade of black I've experienced in nature. This singular light source created a warm glow into the space, with the dark shades of treated wood reflecting this yellowish tone back into my eyes. There was no bright luminescense from the streetlights, or the soft woosh of the occaissonal car to disturb the atmosphere.

Perhaps my grandfather was onto something when he built the cabin. It's only in rooms like that where you can experience the deepest concentration.

week of mar 25th: try writing in the second person. address your audience and sit with them as you tell your story. see how this direct connection affects how you write.

TW: Implied NSFW topics throughout the work. DO NOT READ IF UNDER 18!

1

You stand underneath the apple tree. It is the fruit leaning tower of Pisa. You grab one tiny apple. You could take a bite out of it. You could stomp on it. Instead, you chuck it into the lawn, hoping the velocity of the throw takes your worries with you.

2

You are now in your room. It is roughly midnight, though you weren’t paying attention. You take your shirt off, and you shine a light on your skin. It is covered in acne, scars from a viral infection, and course hair. You take a snapshot of something dear to you, and send it to the stranger next door. She responds how beautiful you look, regardless of the hairiness and the puss filled pores and the millions of little white bumps. You won’t show her more, which angers her. Tender moments always go sour in the face of greed.

3

You are now sitting on a patio. Is it considered a patio? It’s a bunch of big flat sheets of rock assembled in such a way it builds an outdoor room. You sit with her. You can finally see what people mean when they say that she’s lost weight. She looks older, from the sagging skin, but happier, from the bright clothing. Suddenly, you have a strong urge to tell her. Bear your soul to her for a moment. Why the hell won’t you tell her? You know she already knows. You know that any bitterness behind what you can’t control is gone now. Yet, you sit in silence as you watch the turkeys trot on the hill about a mile away.

4

You are back in your room again. The moonlight shines on your eye as you toy with yourself. You’re trying to remain quiet but it gets harder and harder. The wave smacks you almost unconscious, and the vibrations spasming throughout your flesh becomes too much. You stare at the fan on the ceiling and begin to weep. You don’t know why you’re weeping. You never will.

5

You are now at… that place. You’re with a broken porcelain doll. For the sake of confidentiality we’ll name her Mary. You lay on top of Mary, in an odd state of emotion. Should you kiss her? No, you haven’t reached that point of affection. At least, you don’t think so. Should you touch her? No, Mary’s sister will see, and she has a bad habit of seeing too much. Should you fall asleep on her? No, what will she do if she needs to go to the bathroom? So, you simply lay on top of Mary. You smell perfume and cigarettes and maybe a hint of blood. She plays some Tyler, The Creator for you. Mary talks about how she loves his single, “Yonkers”. An old friend insists it was her that got you into his music, and not Mary. It offends you.

6

You are now somewhere two hours away. Your friend texts you if you would like to go to a party. You tell her you’re not home, so you cannot, but did you even want to go in the first place? She sends you a picture of herself to you. She looks happy, or drunk, you can’t tell. You later learn that she lost her virginity near the vicinity of the party. Your brain is accelerating now, and it’s about to crash into a wall. You look at the picture of your friend again, and before you make impact and do something that would make you sick, you chuck the photo away, like you chucked the apple from the Pisa tree.

7

You’re at another place. It’s not work, but it might as well be. You’ve come to the conclusion that you love Mary, but you don’t even know what she wants for Christmas. You got her a bouquet of candy canes, so she can turn them into shanks to fit her edgy aesthetic. She comes over with her sister, and it was then she had kissed you right on the mouth. You fall to the dirty floor, the happiness crippling you. You get up and you kiss her. You kiss her again. You kiss her once more. You wished the voyeur that is Mary’s sister wasn’t there, or else you may choose to do more with her before your mother gets home.

8

You are in a hotel room with your family. You have binoculars, and you’re trying to peep in on other lives across the way. You see some construction, you see someone waving down an Uber, you see a mother and daughter sitting in a hallway, you see a man watching the news. That’s not what you want to see. You didn’t think it would be such hard work. A lady closes her curtains. Perhaps she saw you. You are a hypocrite.

9

You’re on your bed, and it’s about 1 am. You’re watching that movie, with the actor who’s in another movie that you haven’t stopped talking about for 6 months. He’s slow dancing with a stranger, a woman covered in freckles. His brows are furrowed, his hair is damp from the artificial rain, he looks pale and sickly though it could just be the lighting. You know many people who find him attractive, even sexy, despite the fact he’s 5’7 and has a unibrow. You can’t help but agree, yet somehow it hits you differently. They have a strong desire to be with him. You have a stronger desire to be like him. The way he talks in this scene leaves a gaping wound in your gut. He looks tired, down to the bones tired, and you can no longer tell whether or not he’s acting. You realize you’re making the same expression he is, and you snap out of it and continue to watch the movie.

10

You are in your room once again, the only room where you can live simply. You are cleaning out of anxiousness, and you find a picture of you and Mary. It’s not the greatest picture of the two of you, but if you squeezed it hard enough the joy within it would leak out the edges of the film. You forgot about her, she’s nothing but a distant memory to you. You wonder what to do with it. You put it back where you found it. Perhaps one day it will be useful.

11

The “you” we’ve been discussing? Scratch that for a second. You are now the apple tree. The harsh mountain winds have nearly knocked you to a 45 degree angle. You wonder how you’re not dead yet. Your leaves are small, barely covering your organs. Your branches still reach the sky, no matter if it’s blue or gray or pink or yellow or pitch black. Your fruit is sour and it’s rotten, just like you. Why no one has bothered to cut you down is a mystery to you. You’re as ugly as the soul that resides in its roots.

12

You are you again, except now you’re in the hopeful future. There is a beautiful woman that lays underneath you. They look familiar, they look blurry to you. They’re whimpering, but not of fear. They want you to continue where you left off. You’re unsure if you can. They take your hand and lead you to your next destination. It terrifies you how a simple jerk can set one ablaze, but the power in your hands is enough to smoke out your ego and bring it full center. Who cares if they hate you afterwards, right?

13

You’re back at the tree again. You look at it with disgust. It’s horrid shape pisses you off. You kick the tree, abuse the tree, pull off its wilting leaves. Something about it pokes at a nerve that does more than hurt. While you attempt to hurt it, it does not speak, but it mocks you. It cannot bleed sap, yet it spits in your face. It only makes you angrier, to the point where you have lost the will to continue to knock it down without an axe. You walk away with tears blinding your vision.

14

You are in the present. You are in the only place where you feel alive. You want to do something bad, something your family and friends and society would disapprove of. However, you cannot drive, and you don’t like the taste of most substances, so the rebellion must be put on pause. You wonder if you’ll ever make peace in a place so desolate, yet surrounded by a raging fever. You wonder if you can put out the inferno coursing through your own veins. Perhaps if you do, you can finally remedy the numbness in your marrow. You cross your fingers that Lady Luck will be on your side, and you swallow your pride for the rest of the night.

week of apr 8th: try to make your writing as silent as possible. i know it's a weird prompt-- don't take it too seriously. have fun. what does it mean for writing to be quiet?

Quietness - for CD player

Turn on the player without any disk. Turn up the volume all the way. Feel the soft hum of electricity through the speakers.

Silence - for styrofoam earplugs

Twist each plug until they become thin. Stick them in your ears as far as safely possible. Hear the crackling as the foam expands to the shape of your canal. Pause as the sound outside fades away into a strong nothingness.

Drone - for electric fan

Turn on the fan, preferably on the lowest setting. Sit in front of it, and watch as the blades rapidly spin. Notice where the whirring takes place, focus on how the vibrations go through your ears and throughout your entire body. Let the air cool your heating skin.