Defenestrations

Tell me I’m not alone in finding this deeply disturbing.

Thu, 23 May 2013 18:21:58 -0500

Tell me I’m not alone in finding this deeply disturbing.

Home

Thu, 23 May 2013 01:59:34 -0500

Longing takes
so much of love’s breath,
what can remain
when figures are confirmed,
static, constant?

Passion pricks patience’s fingers,
makes mincemeat of comfort
with wait and calm and other
words living hearts can’t translate.

Don’t look at me with quiet eyes
bartering memories for touches
like fingerprints on new glass —
your silence isn’t mine to take.

Your words pound
walls with kick-drum echoes
bleeding rhythm my veins,
my mad refrain, your love —
I can’t be sure it’s not a dream.

I woke up
and you weren’t there.

We Are ...

Wed, 22 May 2013 18:13:52 -0500

It was spring. If you had a wall calendar you’d have just turned it to May 2010, revealing yet another image of cute puppies, or kittens, or some beautiful vista on the other side of the planet that you’d probably never see in person. Then the rain started to fall. What started as a normal heavy rain just sat on top of my city, and just kept falling. For two days it didn’t stop, didn’t even let up, really. The Cumberland expanded to include several blocks of downtown Nashville. Homes were destroyed and lives were lost, and some residents were without electricity for weeks. Concrete roadways expanded under the water and cracked, the land buckled. Major highways were under water and later, impassable — littered with overturned vehicles, trees, and debris.

What we saw, after the power was restored, was that no one had really noticed what was happening here — but we noticed. How could we not? Residents became angry and bitter that help was not arriving for us, as we’d seen it happen for others. Nobody cares about Nashville, people said. But then people realized it didn’t matter if others came to help or not — it didn’t matter if other people cared. We cared, and we should band together and help ourselves, because we were strong, and we could do it.

What caused this sea-change in attitude? A blogger. To be precise, a blogger of the locally infamous “Section 303,” a group of loud, raucous, die-hard Predators hockey fans haphazardly named after the section number of the stadium they occupied at games. One of those bloggers put up a post on May 4, 2010. He decried the “helpless” attitude so many had, reminded readers how wonderful our city is, and sought to rally us together. That blog post, titled “We Are Nashville,” went viral, with portions read on every local news station within days, if not hours, of its posting. This was a blog previously unknown to all but a few die-hard hockey fans in Nashville, Tennessee.

“We Are Nashville” became the rallying cry of a city that refused to be broken. We all went out and helped our neighbors and friends recover their property and clear debris. We walked impoverished and devastated neighborhoods handing out water and food and hugs. We shared smiles and stories. That one post, which began “Allow me a moment to step away from the usual voice of this website. What I am about to write has absolutely nothing to do with hockey …” started a revolution to rebuild and reclaim. An unrelated party started a foundation that still exists, accepting donations as well as selling t-shirts, tote bags, stickers, etc. emblazoned with the slogan “We Are Nashville,” the proceeds going to disaster relief (proceeds now go to a number of local charities).

Community exists in a handshake, a hug, a smile, or a kind word. We all have the power to make a difference. If you believe for a second that blogging won’t ever accomplish anything, that you can’t make a change in the hearts and minds of others through your words — you’re a fool. It shouldn’t take a tragedy for us, especially us writers, to realize the power words hold.

It is three years later, but this story is no less powerful. Even the darkest days hold an opportunity if you’re willing to look for it. Your survival writes inspiration thousands will follow if you only give them a chance. You have a voice, and that voice has power. Whether, and how, you use it — well, that’s up to you.

How can your post get featured in irrelevant tags?

Wed, 22 May 2013 00:51:33 -0500

Sorry (not sorry), Dennis … I feel the need to post this...

Tue, 21 May 2013 23:15:58 -0500

Sorry (not sorry), Dennis … I feel the need to post this on my blog. This is probably the single most amusing thing I have ever seen on my dash in these 2+ years I’ve been on Tumblr.

Bread Crumbs

Mon, 20 May 2013 23:09:40 -0500

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.

Rest in peace, Ray Manzarek.

Mon, 20 May 2013 19:29:26 -0500

Rest in peace, Ray Manzarek.

Just a little observation ...

Sun, 19 May 2013 17:09:27 -0500

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...

Sat, 18 May 2013 23:03:23 -0500

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...

Sat, 18 May 2013 17:58:18 -0500

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.

Dear Ashley,

Thu, 16 May 2013 17:46:44 -0500

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,
About it.

I'll Never Let You Go

Wed, 15 May 2013 00:32:00 -0500

“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.

Top 5 Patriotic Movies | Top5.com

Mon, 13 May 2013 14:36:00 -0500

Top 5 Patriotic Movies | Top5.com:

If you don’t check out my list of the Top 5 Patriotic Movies, the terrorists will win.

Two Hands, One Heart

Sun, 12 May 2013 15:13:00 -0500

When the top of my head was as high as your waist,
I always reached up to hold your hand —
A connection to protection
In dangerous and threatening times.

Your eyes told a thousand tales, they —
Spoke warnings fierce and gentle,
Sparkled praise proud and bursting,
Smiled love strong and unconditional.

Your lips held magic within them,
The power to make it all better
With a single kiss, be it skinned knees
Or bee-stings or broken hearts.

Now grown, my hands remember,
They seek to be squeezed in yours
Before I cross life’s dangerous streets.
Now grown, your hands do not forget.

One day does not contain enough hours
To thank you for a lifetime of love.
You — the first person I ever knew,
Your warm smile the first I ever saw.

Be it Mother’s Day or any other,
One simple fact holds true —
You carry my heart in yours,
As I carry yours in mine.

— — —
Author’s Note: This poem was published last year for Mother’s Day, and marks my first and only foray into any attempt at being a “professional” poet. When I called my mom this afternoon, she told me my dad had read it aloud in church this morning, and several members of the congregation and the preacher had asked for a copy.

Why Do You Write?

Sun, 12 May 2013 13:18:00 -0500

For as long as I’ve had this blog, one of the questions I’m asked most often is some variation of “why do you write?” If you have a writing blog, I’m sure you’ve been asked that question too. If not, maybe once you’ve finished reading this you’ll find yourself asking yourself. Or asking someone else. Or both. Or neither. For all I know, you’ve already stopped reading. If you’ve not, you probably should. The rest of this is rubbish.

How you answer that question says a lot about you as a writer. Maybe even more than you realize. Typically, I’ll say I’ve been telling stories as long as I’ve been able to form complete sentences (perhaps even before, although I’m sure those weren’t very interesting stories to anyone). But that, while true, doesn’t quite explain why I do what I do. Stories about my story-telling childhood may be interesting and lovely (or they may be neither), but my saying that doesn’t explain why I write any more than you telling me about the great food your grandmother used to cook for Sunday dinner explains why you eat.

Why do I write? The truth is I have no fucking clue.

Writing and I have a long history. In elementary school, my teachers would consistently predict to my parents that I would be a writer when I grew up. To my more practical-minded parents, I’m sure this sounded a bit like a curse. In high school I started “seriously” writing poetry. My parents found my poetry and became convinced I was suffering from depression. Regardless of how true that conclusion may have been, I never let my parents read my poetry again.

In college I started writing a novel, and submitting my poetry to various publications. I was in the place where I see a lot of you here on Tumblr today. My freshman year of college, I was invited by the then-Editor of the Asheville Poetry Review to open for him at a reading and share some of my work. I expected to read one or two poems and sit down. I’ll never forget the first thing he said to me, after introductions had been exchanged: “Will 15 minutes be enough?” I’m glad I took my entire binder of poetry with me. As the first two people read their work, I feverishly went through my work, trying to find 15 minutes of material. I was never published in Asheville Poetry Review, but the editor did send me a hand-written note, telling me to keep writing, and thanking me for giving him the opportunity to hear my “passionate voice” in person. I’ll never forget that either.

I lost interest in writing, though, and got distracted by a number of other things that don’t bear mention here. I worked for student newspapers, wrote research papers, won awards, wrote a column, and ended up in law school (where I was on the staff of the law journal, wrote a law review article, and won legal writing awards). I became a lawyer.

Then, in September of 2009, I was in a car wreck. It seems like it’s been longer. It hasn’t been. I checked. I had a severe traumatic brain injury and both my hands were paralyzed. There was no prognosis. Every brain is different, every brain injury is different, I was lucky to be alive, etc. Lucky. That word has little meaning when you can’t feed yourself or read a paragraph of a book without falling asleep — which assumes you somehow found a way to hold the book open to begin with.

And all I wanted to do was write. I did the most boring physical therapy exercises known to man so I could fucking write again. I sat at my laptop and poked at keys with one finger to write things, despite that it’d take me four hours to physically type 200 words (with breaks for naps). Once I could type again, all I wanted to do was write.

There really are few things I can do very well. Writing is one of them. The odds were 80% I’d never recover mobility in my hands. Had that been the case, I’d have become a big fan of dictation.

Why do I write? I may not be able to answer that question, but good luck trying to stop me.

Two

Sat, 11 May 2013 20:52:49 -0500

Numbers are important symbols, and we humans have an interesting relationship with them. Some of them we’ve endowed with near supernatural powers of ominous portent or transcendental meaning. Through the manipulation of numbers we make sense of the world around us, so much so that numbers may in fact be the only universal human language. We see them everywhere and ascribe to them certain abilities to organize, measure, and define our world.

Two. Not such a large number, but in this case, it contains multitudes — because this blog is now two years old. So much has happened in those two years, a period of time which, in the grand scheme of things is really quite short. I’m not going to say “it seems like yesterday” I started this blog, because it most certainly does not. On the contrary, it feels like far more time has passed since those early days when I started posting my writing on Tumblr, having no idea what I was doing and not really expecting much from it at all.

I won’t belabor this post with nostalgic remembrances, nor am I going to turn this into one of those posts littered with inside jokes and names of friends. I’ve met quite a few people on Tumblr who I am proud to count among my closest friends, online or off. They know who they are, and I hope they realize just how much I love and appreciate them. These two years have taught me a lot, and through this experience I’ve grown — as a writer, as an editor, as a leader, and as a human being.

I have had the opportunity to connect with so many people here, people from all over the world and from all walks of life, and you’ve all greatly enriched my life.

I want to extend a thank you to every one of you who has decided to follow me on this journey — I assure you, it’s just getting started.

From the Porch

Thu, 09 May 2013 18:59:01 -0500

Earlier today, Dean posted his thoughts on the current flow of feature traffic under the poetry and prose tags. I had previously discussed this with a number of the new editors, but following Dean’s post, I thought it prudent to publicly disclose my thoughts on this — especially considering the fact that Dean is not the first amongst us who I’ve seen express similar concerns.

To some extent, this situation falls under the old adage “be careful what you wish for: you just might get it.” For months, I saw writers lament that there were not enough posts being featured, and that many strong writers never had the opportunity to be featured.

What occurred was a two-fold example of the principle of scarcity. On the one hand, there were relatively few active editors looking for pieces — and those few had only a limited number of pieces they could promote under each tag in a given 24-hour period. Ten features may sound like a lot, but if you’ve ever sat on prose/everything or poetry/everything — let alone any of the related and community-created tags such as #fiction, #spilled ink, #rejectscorner, etc. — you know that there are at least 10 new posts appearing under those tags every half hour. The feature page is intended to represent the best the tag has to offer, but when one editor can find 10 pieces worthy of promotion by reading through things posted within an hour or two, what happens to everything posted for the other 22 hours?

The other side of scarcity was reflected by the attention those pieces that were featured received. When the principle of scarcity was firmly entrenched, visitors to the feature page could easily read an entire day’s featured posts in one sitting. As a result, a piece that was featured got more notes, on average, during that time than is the case now. I have previously used a bakery analogy for this. Suppose you have one bakery that sells 3 flavors of cookies: chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, and peanut butter. Now, suppose there is another bakery across the street that sells 50 different flavors of cookies (which I won’t burden you with listing). Assume all other factors are equal: both bakeries receive the same number of customers in a day, they sell their cookies for the same price, the cookies are of equal quality, etc. At the end of the day, Bakery #1 has sold 200 chocolate chip cookies. Bakery #2, in contrast, has only sold 24 chocolate chip cookies — and it’s easy to see why this is so. Bakery #1 sold so many chocolate chip cookies because there was a scarcity of flavor options available. Bakery #2, on the other hand, has a plethora of flavors available, and as a result, a particular flavor, no matter how popular or tasty it is, won’t sell as much. The feature pages of the writing tags were previously Bakery #1; now they are Bakery #2 — and there’s nothing wrong with this. You still have the same number of customers (maybe even more, actually), but having more flavors of cookies available translates to a broader distribution of sales.

Leaving the bakery analogy, the fault for the perceived diminishing value of the feature (presuming the number of notes received is the standard we’re using to valuate features) doesn’t lie with the editors who are selecting so many delicious pieces to feature; rather, it lies with the consumer. Assume you normally spend 10 minutes each day perusing the feature page. Before all the “new” editors, you could read through everything featured that day (for the most part) in that 10-minute time frame. Now, you’ll be lucky to get through even a third of what’s been featured in the last 24 hours. Since obviously you start reading at the top of the page, it stands to reason that those pieces at the top of the page get your attention first — but when your 10 minutes is up, you’ve moved on, leaving plenty of other newly featured pieces still to be digested. It also stands to reason, as Dean eloquently pointed out, that what piece sits at the top of the page changes frequently, and no one piece remains there for long. What this means is that each featured piece ultimately receives fewer notes as a direct result of being featured, not because the quality is any lower than it was before, but because the content is rotating so quickly that pieces rapidly lose prime position at the top of the page.

The tag editors are all individual Tumblr users with their own lives and responsibilities, living all over the world. To attempt some sort of coordinated effort to “slow down” the tag so that readers can keep up would be impossible and fool-hardy. The movement on the featured page now comes closer to approximating the actual traffic on the writing tags as a whole. This is what the community has been begging for. Now that you have it, it’s time to dig deep and adjust your pace to account for it.

Open Letter to Anyone Curious/Concerned:

Thu, 09 May 2013 13:21:59 -0500

I’ve had several messages today from people concerned that I am no longer an editor, or that I’ve been “demoted.” Neither of these is the case.

I am still a tag editor on the poetry, prose, and lit tags. (you forgot about that last one, didn’t you?)

I am no longer “Top Editor” of poetry and prose. All this means is that Tumblr’s algorithm is functioning as it should with a wide field of active editors. The “Top Editor” on any given day is the editor whose promoted pieces get the most impressions (likes, reblogs, etc.) within the previous 24 hours or so. It means nothing more than that. There is no “authority” that the “Top Editor” has that other editors don’t. They are simply the editor who happened to promote the “best” pieces (as determined by other Tumblr users who liked or reblogged the pieces they promoted).

I couldn’t be happier about this, because it means the system is functioning properly and we have a large number of active tag editors searching Tumblr for the best pieces to promote under those tags. This, my friends, is how it should be.

The 5 Best Indie Comedies | Top5.com

Mon, 06 May 2013 14:06:00 -0500

The 5 Best Indie Comedies | Top5.com:

Looking for a good comedy to watch this evening? Here are 5 suggestions!

For all of you who read my recent essay “I Forced It”: this was the list I was writing that inspired that particular piece.

The Sunday Times

Mon, 06 May 2013 01:59:00 -0500

“Where are we going?” she asked between sips of coffee. Her fingers were inky. When she held the warm mug, her hands would sweat, which explained the erratic oblong smudges on the down comforter. White on his side of the bed; hers resembling a Dalmation’s pelt. He didn’t care. The blankets didn’t belong to them, and they’d done far worse to them the night before. And the night before that. And the night before …

She’d been enjoying this new tradition of theirs. Ensconced in this hotel room, stories upon stories above the morning traffic below, the Sunday Times spread out over the bed along with coffee and whatever pastries could be finagled from the breakfast buffet downstairs — this had been a tradition for the past two weeks, and would be for one week more. And then? Neither of them wanted to think about that, so they didn’t.

“Do you have International?”

She handed over the requested section and reached for a blueberry scone. “You never answered my question,” she said, her eyes on the Styles section.

“Which? The ‘where are we going?’ bit?” His right hand traced down her spine, resting in the concave at its base.

“Yeah.”

“It was so ridiculous I assumed it was rhetorical. Of course we’re staying right here, as we’ve done every Sunday since —”

“Is it?”

“Is it what?”

She sighed, swatting his hand away and sitting up to light a cigarette. Smoking was not allowed inside this hotel. She didn’t give a shit. She sat up cross-legged on the bed and took a deep swallow from her mug, nestling last night’s water glass between her ankles. He stood without a word, reached up, and turned the room’s smoke alarm two turns and a half to the left. Crossing the room to the window, he opened it the two inches allowed before resuming his position on the bed.

“Thanks. Is it ridiculous, I meant.” Her words were smoke. “Is it that ridiculous to think, is it so ridiculous to wonder what’s gonna happen next week when —”

“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk about that.”

“We have to talk about it sometime,” she said to her cigarette.

His hand caressed her shoulder blades before running down her back and trailing off. “Baby, you know we’re lucky to have had this length of time. And it’s been wonderful, but it’s —”

“Just stop. Alright? Stop. I know. I know what it is.” Her cigarette’s cherry hissed in the water as she sat the glass on the table and rustled the paper. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I’m done with Styles, do you want it?”

“No,” he growled into the nape of her neck. “I want you.”

She kissed him on the nose, and then on the lips, closed as she leaned over and reached around him. Digging around the bed’s detritus, she found the Magazine beneath a plate housing a half-eaten apple danish. “I know you do.”

He leaned back, anticipating any move he made would be pushed away. “Is that sentence followed with a ‘but’ or an ‘and’?”

She tossed the magazine to the side, sighed, and laid back, resting her head in his arm pit. He dropped his arm around her as though it was somehow required. Her smile was bittersweet. “We’re not supposed to love like this,” she said, more to the ceiling than to him.

“I know,” he said, stroking her hair. “This room is gonna cost me a fortune.”

She nestled into his side until she found that place where she just fit, like they were pieces that had been broken apart from each other by some malevolent force. She felt herself fall into him and exhaled more breath than she knew she had; an exhale that said sometimes it’s expensive to learn how to breathe.