sonofheaven17 asked: How can your post get featured in irrelevant tags?
Hundreds of years ago, two brothers wrote their version of a traditional German folk tale about two young children walking through the woods. These children were clever, and always left a trail so that if they became lost in the great woods, they could simply follow the trail they’d left to find their way back home. Unfortunately, the children were only so clever, and one day used bread crumbs instead of stones or something more permanent to mark their trail. If you’re at all familiar with the story of Hansel and Gretel, you’ll recall that particular decision didn’t play out all that well for those two. At the same time, if you’re familiar with the story of Hansel and Gretel, you’re probably also familiar with the name Grimm. Wilhelm Grimm died in 1859, his brother Jacob in 1862 — but their stories live on, giving them an immortality of the sort that comes with never being forgotten.
Whenever I have the opportunity to question anyone who dares call themselves a “writer,” I find myself asking them to tell me their greatest fear. Other people have other fears, often involving death in some way or another, but writers (indeed, anyone who engages in the creation of any sort of tangible art) go further than that. They do not fear death — or if they do, that fear remains secondary to the fear of being forgotten. The will to create something that exists outside and independent from us is driven by the fear that we will be forgotten.
You will be forgotten.
I will be forgotten.
It brings chills. We writers claim many reasons for doing what we do, but all of those things are to some degree intended to make what we do seem far more beautiful and romantic than it actually is. The truth is much of writing is painful drudgery and those fleeting moments where you’re “in the zone” and platinum and gold threads are flying out of your fingertips to be woven into the next masterpiece with little effort on your part only barely compensate for those hours you spend slogging through shit.
Why do we do this? As cynical and jaded as you might be, as depressed and angry is you may feel, writing comes from a place of hope. Driven by the fear of being forgotten, we press words into stories in the hope that a piece of us will be carried forward. That piece will live on in the hearts and minds of others long after our molecular makeup dissipates back to the cosmos from whence it came, and we will not be forgotten. We seek, perhaps, to transmogrify our very souls into stories others will read — and through reading, relate. We write with the hope that someday our words will move a soul generations removed and that we will, through that movement, remain.
As we writers trek through the world’s woods, we too leave a trail to follow in case we become lost. These poems and stories are bread crumbs others may read and follow. Some of those bread crumbs may be washed or blown away, eaten, or tramped into the ground. But others will harden and stay, only to be found years later by an observant soul who will follow the trail, and we will achieve that immortality that comes from never being forgotten.
Who among us will be the next Fitzgerald, the next Hemingway, the next Bukowski, the next Poe? True, our stories may not last as long as those of Joseph and Wilhelm, but perhaps we’ll do better than Hansel and Gretel. Only time will tell, and time doesn’t tend to give away too many of its secrets. All we can do is leave our trail, and hope that our bread crumbs will last at least long enough to guide us and a few distant souls home. And for however brief that time might be, we will not only not be forgotten — we’ll be a little less lost, and a little less alone.
I find it amusing that a lot of the people freaking out about the Yahoo thing have also been seen publicly bitching about this or that issue they had with Tumblr, or complaining about some feature they wished Tumblr had. Now, rather than seeing a billion-dollar cash infusion as a good thing that could potentially fix the problems you saw from the beginning, you immediately jump to the conclusion that your precious Tumblr (that can now do no wrong and never had any problems ever) is going to go down in flames.
It reminds me of changes to the dashboard. Whenever a change is dropped, people go crazy for at least 24 hours about how awful it is and how much they hate it and want the “old dash” back. Then people get used to it. Implement another change and the same cycle occurs; only this time, the “old dash” is the “new dash” you were complaining about last time.
In this case, the reality is the deal affects Tumblr as a business and the continued viability thereof. It’s doubtful it will actually affect you as a user beyond the point of your having the ability to continue being a user.
Sorry, sometimes I ruin things by observing them.
Tumblr Crushes (I love all of these beautiful and brilliant people and/or websites) (in which inkstained mucks up my professions of love by not technically being a person):
P.S. I am sorry there hasn’t been a lot of writing here lately. I will be back in full swing soon enough. Just have a lot going on right now. Still love you all though. <3
A GPOY, in which it is revealed that Jen has clavicles.
In all my time on Tumblr, I’ve noticed there seems to be a major fixation bordering on fetishism with collarbones and/or clavicles. Now, the word “clavicle” has never seemed to me to be a particularly poetic word, but that hasn’t stopped a lot of y’all from writing poetry using it. I’ve seen them bathed in moonlight, I’ve heard of flowers growing out of them, I’ve known them to shine in starlight and glitter with stardust and a million other metaphoric descriptions.
So much so, in fact, that I’m well convinced this photo may be tantamount to porn here in the TWC. Sorry not sorry, don’t care, posting anyway.
Your blog is titled “Poetry by Ashley”,
And you are Ashley,
As far as I know,
And you write all of your poetry,
Again, as far as I know,
So you can write it,
Anyway that you choose,
And if you want,
To use a comma,
To end every line,
That’s your prerogative,
But that doesn’t mean,
I won’t stop bugging you,
“If you love something, let it go,” they said.
But I said no.
No. The hour was late and the rain was light but steady; the sort that would’ve been refreshing on a hot summer’s afternoon but brings damp frustration at 2 a.m. For some reason, rain seems more angry at that hour, and more persistent on being so. Of course, the cat chose this particularly annoying moment to attempt her escape. She’s only been with me for a couple weeks, so escaping is something she attempts often, and she took advantage of a bout of carelessness on my part. Halfway through the parking lot she realized she’d made a mistake, that being out in the rain was precisely the last place she wanted to be, and she retreated to the relative shelter under my car.
I hadn’t hesitated from the beginning. Not following her was never an option, and when she slipped under the car, I dropped to my knees on the wet pavement. The rain, as though upset at both of us for interrupting its steady falling, erupted into torrents. My hair was already soaked, my clothes were already soaked, and the poor frightened cat simply slipped further under the car the more I reached for her. I laid down on the wet concrete and slid under the car myself, moving at a slow pace that I hoped wouldn’t startle the cat who was already startled. There was nothing else to do. I would’ve laid there on the filthy concrete half under the car all night to get that little cat back safe into my home. There was no other option.
It only took a few minutes to grab her by the scruff of her neck and slide out from under the car with her. I curled her up in my arms and pressed her into my wet and dirty hoodie and bundled her inside. Once inside, I got her a towel and commenced to drying her off, cooing to her and making sure she was alright. It took about 15 minutes for me to figure out that I probably needed to change out of my own soaked clothing and dry my clammy skin, and in that moment I knew. Although I’d only had this cat for a couple weeks, I loved her, and if she was in trouble, I’d go after her. I’d never let her go.
Because that’s what love is. Love is never letting go.