o capstone my capstone

That’s the thing, tho. Noise is noise. It’s crash and clatter and it usually adds up to one big mash of sound and thought and picture and half the time it’s impossible to make any sense of it at all. Men’s minds are messy places and Noise is like the active, breathing face of that mess. It’s what’s true and what’s believed and what’s imagined and what’s fantasized and it says one thing and a completely opposite thing at the same time and even tho the truth is definitely in there, how can you tell what’s true and what’s not when yer getting everything?
— 

Patrick Ness - The Knife of Never Letting Go


ok GUYS I am at the part of my capstone where I’m saying that internal descriptions of living in a weird futuristic dystopia are identical to internal descriptions of living with PTSD and I KNOW there are a million quotes that I can parallel with this one. what are they? 

Witch and Wizard author James Patterson similarly views the genre as a sort of messed-up sandbox for pampered naifs, saying “'They think they’re born with all these freedoms, and the right to an iPod, and I want them to think about the notion that that isn’t a right.‘” (qtd. in Springin). As a reader, I find that I do not need this sort of reminder. Indeed, I would assert that in any assessment of familiarity with omnipresent authority, control and discipline, body horror, identity dissolution, poverty and violence, I am the Katniss to Patterson’s Effie Trinket (mahogany is not a right, either).
—  is this an appropriate joke for my capstone? bankin on it

[Young adult dystopia novels] hold both ‘you could change this’ and 'no one is going to change it except you’. I relate to this, I relish it; only because I also was fully subsumed in a culture that both truncated my options for enacting change in my life and assured me that no one was working to protect me from the damage I experienced. This is cult talk, this is trauma talk, this is also the material conditions of dystopian fiction. I have to remember how absurd it does sound to say, like, ’my experiences of neglect are the same as surviving the Hunger Games,’ but at the same time…I’ve seen the knife, I’ve seen the dead eyes, I’ve stood in a stranger’s shower and pulled out my hair in handfuls because I was terrified and starving…this is about trauma and this is about totalitarian futures, obviously.

realizing i just turned in a draft that says this; i am the stupidest idiot in the world, it’s going to say that on my diploma

look at this shitty scan of a shitty thing i did while drunk (inspired by june’s far superior oberlin-related comic)

because i know i know i know my handwriting’s real bad:

i’ve been running my finger over the scratch on my neck, trying not to remember too vividly. there are dead salty moons under my eyes. i keep retracing my lipstick, over and over again, till it turns to mud, thinking about what the girl at the panel said about labor, about the labor we do every day, constantly, that depletes our energy and displaces our attention. just so we are able to exist where we are. just to stop words from snagging in our skin. (fucked up hand)