Vividly. (19.4.26)

Exploration

New forms

New combinations.

.

New bounds

For capturing beauty

Motion

Emotion.

.

Imagining process and creation

Its own delight

Even as the eyes arrange what they see

World of fantasy

.

What is it that others see

In this beauty?

.

Vivid

Touch, Taste

.

Tantalizing

Texture

.

Bright

Joyful

Real.

April: Camp Nano and SEAF Wrap Up. (19.5.5)

For this year’s April Nano I decided on a low, maintaining habits type goal. I put in 10K as my goal, and managed to keep my stats decently ahead of their targets most of the month, even while I wasn’t writing every day.

Camp Nano stats screenshot showing steady progress upwards.

The last week and a half or so was more of a struggle as other life things seemed to drain most of my energy and brain power.

I am happy to report that I managed, on the 29th, to make my goal! I now have 10K words more of draft, notes, and additional story work than I had previously. I’m really happy with the progress I’ve been making on the novel so far.

Camp Nanowrimo 2019 Winner badge, featuring cartoon tent and trees.

It feels a lot more ambitious than my other long projects, possibly because this is the farthest stage I’ve gotten to as of yet, and because I can feel my skills and thought processes leveling up. I can start to picture how this work is going to turn out, and I’m impatient and excited to see it done. By the time I finish with this draft, I’m feeling the confidence that I’ll have the skills I need to edit it. That confidence is new, and I’m really hoping it’ll stick around through the rest of this project.

Zoe Brook stands in front of a mural of six green, black, and white stylized wings and a flaming green, black, and white crown.

At the end of April I also have the privilege of attending Seattle Erotic Art Festival as a contributor to their anthology for the second time. I enjoyed getting to look at the artwork and see the performances. There was a lot of incredible work there. I’m honored that my work was selected for the anthology.

I hope I have the opportunity to attend again in the future.

Overall April has been a chaotic and trying month, but it’s had some lovely gems, and good progress hidden amongst the rubble.

See you at the next bump in the ride!

When She Looks At Me. (18.2.25)

The woman – perhaps?

The woman in the mirror.

When she looks at me.

.

A passing glance,

or a laugh.

Forced or true.

.

Mocking wet eyes,

angry crystallized sadness.

.

If

the image is distorted

When she looks at me

despaired.

Then

When she looks at me

soaring,

Is it too?

.

.

It’s not a mirror in my mind I see,

when I think of me.

Something more of an ideal,

mix past and future, maybe,

and pure, force of will

applied to sense of self

.

The woman in the mirror,

when she looks at me,

it’s not that me I see.

.

.

The image of me I see

I wonder

if anyone other sees

.

perhaps if it is not

the distortion is not my mind

but yours.

Potential Accumulated. (19.2.23)

Imagine, a city in gray monotone. Noir aesthetic, perhaps with the odd pop of color only occasionally. It’s raining there, striking an odd balance between warmth and chill. The motion of the city blending together into a stillness.

A few people in this city feel balanced within themselves. But most are lonely, brave enough to stay the same, yet lacking the strength that a sincerely offered ear lends. Without quite the bravery to be the first ear in the domino line of change; listless islands they.

Stories are experiences, ideas, woven with magic.

When the metaphorical ink of potential accumulated, would-be written stories, becomes physical force unseen within.

Does it bring hope or sorrow?

Yes. Exactly.

Quiet Deafens. (19.3.18)

Standing still after a shower, sensations of water running down your skin.

Listening to the click and pop of an open soda sitting next to you.

Listening to millions of tiny snowflakes hitting the ground around you.

The rush of wind, of cars, of heartbeats.

.

Quiet is loud, sensation is strong,

When you tune in.

They take over all in the end.

When will you tune in?

The Woman Dipped In Ink. (19.2.12)

Red dress. Black dress. White dress.

White dress, black flowers, red petal tips.

She drifts through the world. Rain pelts the glass in fat, running droplets as she watches. Their streams distort light, views through the window. Inside, and out.

Her fingertips trail down the pane. Longing, loneliness in her eyes.

Ink seeps from her. Constant, viscous, pooling. From her fingertips, heels, hair, tear ducts, it seeps and runs from her, pooling in places, sticking in others. Reflecting slick highlights.

As she drifts, the ink runs like tears around her. It fills her footsteps, dissipating in rain and evaporating into black stains in the sun. It’s left dark and unseen on anyone she touches, without her knowing. It bubbles up through the skin at her throat, sliding down her chest through her dress’s weave without leaving trace, but marking the whole world around her.

The rain is a mild, warm background noise in a cold city, accompanying her tapping footfalls as she walks through the alley slow, barely feeling the rain. The edges of petals on her soaked, summery dress the only spots of color in the scene.

Soaked in experiences turned potential, is this

Her beginning or her end?

She walks, a lifetime of untold stories no longer contained, flowing away from her in fine rivulets.