Once again I have nothing.
I have piled my belongings in one big heap and bet it all in Rudyard’s game of pitch-and-toss, and which is more, I have spoken nothing of the sort to the document that has held all of this information so delicately, so serenely, so indelibly in the ground. The Nothing Document lies under a makeshift gravestone in a cemetery of second cousins nicknames, old pet collars and lifted leashes, muscadine vines that bring out the leeches (in us all). The makeshift graveyard that holds my love; that piece of true self that I try to keep hidden under cool, moist earth. If we can keep some part underground maybe one day some lucky soul will dig it up and then whT?
They think to themselves as the sinking feeling sets in, “how incredibly sad”;
And then upon later reflection, “living so much, he never really lived” says they heads shaking in perfect unison to the beat on the cassette tape they found buried in the yard.
In need of nothing,
But want of everything,
I see, I see so clearly myself;
Today I make for myself no excuse,
But I make for myself a way to walk,
And to live and to love and to thrive,
And to do good,
And to be well.
Today I make myself.
My document is dead and buried
Until it is unearthed and touched - now it’s alive!
Daniel’s document is alive too
It is visceral, it breathes and moves and touches me so as to prod this dormant body into action;
If action is all I do well, so be it,
And so be the life that follows today, and this moment,
And right now.
DISCLAIMER: Watch the video with the sound off as it was intended.
Fuck. Lou Reed is dead.
It would be no exaggeration to say that this man was one of my heroes. His life work affected me in such a way that when I first heard “The Velvet Underground & Nico,” my life was changed forever.
Everyone who loves Rock & Roll probably has an “& Nico” story. Everyone knows the banana. It is clearly one of the seminal albums in musical history. And whoever said it (It’s still disputed if Eno ever said it), but whoever said it was right: “maybe only 30,000 people bought that record when it came out, but they all started bands."
Because that is the influence that this band has.
And the shocking thing was, like an Earthquake, the effects were almost immediate. Bands got more daring and dissonant. Alex Chilton tried his hand at "Femme Fatale,” less than 10 years after the initial release (which may be the first VU cover?)
This Lou Reed put out “Transformer” too. That one has “Walk On the Wild Side.” You know, the one where he talks about “giving head,” but they still play it on the radio.
He released “Metal Machine Music,” mostly famous for not being what most people consider music.
What the fuck else do you say about Lou Reed? What can you say that will not have been said a million times today?
In the wake of his death, Lou Reed will be remembered as a genius. And rightfully so. He will be remembered as the man who wrote “Heroin,” and died from Liver Disease.
He will be remembered strung out and thin.
And old and wrinkled, standing next to Metallica, playing the weirdest fucking, well, whatever “Lulu” is. And Lou could get away with it.
Fuck you, that’s how.
He broke all the rules, while making the rule-makers look like the criminals. He set “The Raven” to music.
I am at a loss for any meaningful words that wouldn’t be another summation of his career or just another personal story.
So watch the video above. Sound off. (It’s a shitty song anyway).
Watch that video, and think of all the fucking happiness this man has imparted through his art.
Think of “Sunday Morning” and “Rock & Roll."
Because you’re sad and those things make you happy.
It’s fanfic author appreciation day!!!
I wish I could make this post super long and complete, but I wanted to give at least these two shout outs. If you wanted to know every fic author who has made my day or made me smile, you should check out my fanfic page, read some of those, comment, and kudo.
The fanfic that I am currently reading that you should all be reading too:
This fic consumed me. I lost impulse control and didn’t go to bed until my eyes started to close on their own a couple of nights, and one of those nights I think I only got 4 hours of sleep. I can’t wait to read more of your work!
There are a lot of fics that should make this decision difficult, but it’s just not because this fic felt like the way Harry describes flying. I’m also not a strong fiction writer, but I even scribbled down a drabble in my journal once after being inspired by the atmosphere of what you wrote. It’s also the fic I’ve reread the most that’s for sure. It’s a lovely story to come back to and your characterization of Hinny are great! I feel like I don’t know how to say thank you enough for writing this. <3
Bakugou spent most of the night watching the street lights
and head lights dance upon his ceiling, far too anxious to actually fall
asleep. What if he woke up and his meagre attempt at comforting Midoriya hadn’t
worked, what if his pathetic words hadn’t made a goddamn bit of difference and
nothing had changed. Would he spend the next two weeks or so cursing himself
yet again? Would he end up right back here again, caught in an infinite cycle
until he got things right. Bakugou didn’t know, didn’t want to know, he just
wanted everything to end up like it was supposed to with Midoriya alive.
He rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow,
groaning with frustration over the fact that he couldn’t settle his mind, that
all of this bothered him so much when there was almost nothing that he could
The thought now was laughable, the idea that he could
tangibly change the events that he’d so desperately wished hadn’t happened, it
was impossible but here he was and that was the sickest joke of all. That it
was left to him to save Midoriya’s life. Bakugou fell asleep feeling more
pathetic than he could ever remember feeling, it was funny how it was always
Midoriya making him feel worse than dirt. Lowest of the low.
Midoriya’s hair caught the stark morning light in just such
a way that it stole Bakugou’s breath, what he’d tell himself though was just
the sight of the other being alive was shocking enough to take his breath away.
He didn’t stall in the doorway this time, he’d simply checked that Midoriya was
there and went straight to his seat after that, Bakugou hoped, almost prayed,
that Midoriya wouldn’t bring up the things he’d said the day before.
I smoked the last cigarette. It must have been a few days ago now. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but it’s been damn near impossible with all these withdrawal symptoms. You try to think of something else. You get headaches. You start to cough. You get a cold chill that runs down your back so long it damn near touches your feet.
It must be 5 in the morning. I haven’t been sleeping. The light of my computer hurts my eyes, otherwise I would check. I’m sitting at my desk, using a lamp that hasn’t been turned on in ages. I can almost hear the smell of dust burning off. There’s not much that doesn’t make me want a cigarette. Insomnia makes me want a cigarette.
It wouldn’t be so bad, the withdrawal, if I had a cigarette to smoke. It’s funny, not really, no, but, isn’t this why we smokers kept doing it in the first place? Weren’t you ever stuck in traffic? Didn’t you ever get a shitty customer at work? Did you ever stay up all night studying over cups of old, warm coffee, taking breaks every once in a while to reinsert yourself back into reality? Everything makes me want a cigarette right now.
Most of all is the anxiety. They’ll tell you to expect the headaches, to expect the coughing. You’ll probably be irritable. We all know that. Most people are irritable to begin with. They smoke so they aren’t irritable. But they don’t tell you about the anxiety. Anxiety so bad that it sends you into a vapid wasteland of cold sweats and pondering the reason of life.
It started, must have been a day or two ago, when I would get these chills. Just a brief look over the shoulder to check. Nothing there. It gets worse at night.
You lie there, trying to get some sleep and there’s no shoulder to look over. You are by yourself and the one place you aren’t sure of is out that bed room door. If you are alone in your bedroom reading this, please look over at it. Tell me, what is behind it? Oh, you seem so sure now. Oh, it’s the hallway to the stairs. The kitchen, whatever.
Suddenly, there’s a noise. Tell me, what is behind there now? What made that noise? You can blame it on an old house, sure. I’m with you on that one. I’ve been there, to that old house. I’ve been to the new house and heard that noise. Is it the refrigerator? Is it the pipes? Or is it just the house settling? Oh, they’ll tell you that. The house is settling. When did it get up? It did not. It has no where to settle. It’s been here.
The creaks and groans and wails outside the bedroom door are object-less, they come from nowhere. Nowhere that you or I can see. Let us take a peak outside, shall we? No, I didn’t think so. Just a quick peek? It is dark, as I thought. Of course it’d dark. It’s the middle of the night! All the lights have been turned off, and no one is staying up late, except for you. And you’re alone in your bedroom.
Now if we can, imagine for me the worst possible thing. Anything really, because it is outside your bedroom door at this very moment. I do not fuck around, it is out there. It is. And you don’t know if it’s not. You can check, but it’s dark out there. It might creep up on you. How far away was that noise again?
I wish I could smoke inside. They’re in the pocket of my jeans. I shouldn’t even have them anymore. Just in case. I haven’t touched them though. I haven’t touched them. But I’m still anxious. That feeling I can’t seem to escape. I’m waiting for something and I don’t know what, or perhaps something is waiting for me. On the other side of that door.
Sometimes, it’ll get so bad I’ll feel pinned to the bed, strapped in by chains of terror, bolted down by the fear of what lies underneath the edges. You’re safe in your bed. It’s warm, it’s comfortable, it’s a possession uniquely yours. Yet the space below is a no-man’s land. It’s littered with things you didn’t want to see the light of day, so who’s to say it’s the home of things that don’t want to see the light of day. How often do you check under there? How often do you dangle a leg over the edge?
The heart quickens to a rapid chatter after all this paranoid talk fills the deep recesses and the voids of the mind. And then you can’t help but imagine what lies just beyond that door, what lies just under the bed. The terror fills your mind because it is your own terror. It is what haunts you, and only you. Each sound, each space, every inch of the dark frightens you. It frightens me. Heightened, of course, by trying to help myself. This is my punishment. I deserve this fear. I should have never picked up smoking in the first place.
So the next time you find yourself peeking out over your sheets, trying to convince yourself of a truth known so easily during the day, ask for me; “What have I done to deserve this Fear?”