I just wanted to apologize for this blog being rather quiet this week. Despite feeling completely exhausted and uninspired the past few days, I am currently working on transferring the blog to my own (brand new domain) and I am learning CSS so that I can get everything set up exactly the way I want it. Of course, I have no idea how long it will take!
Anyway, write this down: http://ashleylorelle.com and I'll give you a heads up when it goes live!
This may not follow the same kind of "Theme" this blog has been venturing into this week, but I just adore Patti Smith--and her Babelogue is awesome. It's inspiring, and its good to listen to when I'm angry. Which is often:
I haven't fucked much with the past, but I've fucked plenty with the future. Over the skin of silk are scars from the splinters of stations and walls I've caressed. A stage is like each bolt of wood, like a log of Helen, is my pleasure. I would measure the success of a night by the way by the way by the amount of piss and seed I could exude over the columns that nestled the P.A. Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off with a skirt of green net sewed over with flat metallic circles which dazzled and flashed. The lights were violet and white. I had an ornamental veil, but I couldn't bear to use it. When my hair was cropped, I craved covering, but now my hair itself is a veil, and the scalp inside is a scalp of a crazy and sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of the skin. I wake up. I am lying peacefully I am lying peacefully and my knees are open to the sun. I desire him, and he is absolutely ready to seize me. In heart I am a Moslem; in heart I am an American; in heart I am Moslem, in heart I'm
an American artist, and I have no guilt. I seek pleasure. I seek the nerves under your skin. The narrow archway; the layers; the scroll of ancient lettuce. We worship the flaw, the belly, the belly, the mole on the belly of an exquisite whore. He spared the child and spoiled the rod. I have not sold myself to God.
I can't believe I never thought to write about this before. It should be required before anyone enters into a profession for them to state the reasons why they want to do that thing in the first place. There is no wrong answer. You can have any reason for wanting to do something with your life, but you must have a reason. You must be able to stand up and say "I want to do this!" Not why your parents want you to do this, or your teachers want you to do this, or why society wants you to do this--but why you want to do this.
So why do I want to be a writer? I can tell you many reasons why someone would not want to be a writer. Writing is not easy, at all. One of the most difficult, brave things to do is form your ideas and your dreams into coherent sentences and share them with strangers. A writer has no secrets because in order for there to be any quality to a work, it must be filled with blatant truth of what it means to be human and what it means to have secrets and pains. You must write what you know. That is not a cliché, that is a fact. Even if all you write is fantasy and science fiction, there is so much of yourself in those far off lands. After all, that fantasy is your fantasy and no one else's.
No one becomes a writer to make money, because unless your Stephen King or James Patterson (or J.K. Rowling, oh my goodness...) you will not make money from writing. At least, not enough to buy you that second mansion in France. If you are a good writer you will make enough money to live off of. This goes for both writers of fiction and of journalists. It is not a high paying profession.
You will get no respect as a writer. People will never understand why you have chosen such a "frivolous" and "easy" career. You will encounter endless comments like, "Alright, so you're a writer, but how do you actually earn a living? What is it that you actually do?"
Writing will also ruin your relationships. Writers are impossible to live with. They immerse themselves into a fantasy world for months at a time, they have drinking problems, they're dramatic , and most often they are traumatized by past experiences. Because let's face it, unless you have lived a life where the shit has occasionally hit the fan you will not be able to write any story that has substance. Your story will not penetrate what it means to be human--because humanity involves pain and darkness. There cannot be light without it.
But I write. And why? Well first off, I write because I can. Because it is something that comes naturally to me. I write and I write fast. I'm a horrible blogger because my blog posts always end up being long. I have a lot to say.
I write because I needed to do something in my life that allowed me to daydream for a living. When you are a creative person you must find a way of releasing that god-like ability to make something out of nothing. I cannot draw a straight line and I cannot design anything with my hands. My tangible productions messy. So I write, because it is a medium that allows me to do so much with something so simple--language. I can create new worlds and all I need is knowledge of how to put words together so people can understand them.
I write because I have to. Expressing myself is a reflex that I have had since I was young. I used to write on walls and on my arm and inside books. I have so many thoughts cluttering my mind that they have to come out somehow. When I was young I used to talk really fast (I still do, but I have managed to slow myself down, kind of). I also used to talk a lot. My parents would make fun of me because I could never shut up. I had the typical child mind. I wondered about everything and the truth is, I still do. I am constantly questioning and instead of talking a lot, I just write a lot. Makes sense, doesn't it?
But why fiction? Why attempt to write stories and then publish them? Well, that's because stories are beautiful and we forget, but our culture would never have gotten as far as it has without stories. Ancient tribal cultures had strong oral traditions and used stories to educate themselves about their histories and their religions--basically their stories told of what it meant to them to be human. We have become so disillusioned by the growth of our inventions that we are beginning to forget that we are in fact humans, because recognizing our humanity grounds us in a way that we do not feel comfortable with. That is why literature has been classified as "entertainment" because it is thought to be something that gives us pleasure, but no more. But it is so much more. Literature reconnects us to our humanity.
I have always thought the words "Ultimate Truth" when I used to think of the goal of my stories. Many people think of the "Ultimate Truth" as God. They believe in God because his divine power is able to make up for all that blank space in the universe that we cannot understand. Why do we love, why do we suffer, why do we feel joy, why do we feel this need to create and invent? I believe that the answer can be found through storytelling and through observation. When you take a person and put them into certain situations, how they react to those situations says a lot about what it means to be human. The Saw franchise was a success because the movies were set apart from other horror movies in a unique way--a serial killer who never killed anyone. Instead, John tested their humanity. What will a human do in order to survive? I digress and this is getting very long, but it is important. Recently we have been reading Marshall McLuhen in class and asking ourselves "Why do we feel the need to have such advanced technology? How does something like the iPad actually improve our lives?" It doesn't. Instead, the iPad is adding to our lives things that we never needed in the first place, and by introducing it to our culture we are crippling ourselves. Because now we can never take it away, "But I need to be able to read my email while I'm waiting for the bus! But I need to get my news for free! But I need to check Facebook five times a day!"
What would happen if we took everyone's phones away?
So I write because of that I suppose. However, I think the number one reason I write is because it is so self fulfilling. That, and writing saved my life. I have never experienced the dark horrible things that many poor souls have had to experience. However I have walked down a path of darkness and I have had to encounter my greatest enemy--myself. Once upon a time I almost self destructed in the most literal sense of the word. I turned inward to my darkest fantasies. Instead of imploding in that moment, I took the thoughts and the dreams and I wrote them out of me. I exorcised myself through writing. It is my savior. It is a miraculous thing to be in a moment where you are both the enemy of yourself and the savior of yourself. That says a lot about our ability to survive. There is a truth right there. Writing helped me find that truth.
You cannot have a Nutella Day without the goodness of a light and buttery, sweet and nutty Nutella Croissant:
You know Nutella has transcended the genre of normal condiments when five pages of pictures are devoted to it on Weheartit.com
I am happy today. There isn't any particular reason for this happiness, I just feel a glowing ball of contentment all around me. My aura would be pink and purple tie-dye. I have decided that today will be a Nutella day. I am not particularly sure of what that means exactly. Unfortunately, it does not mean that I will eat nothing but Nutella all day (but I might indulge in it at least once). Declaring this day as a Nutella day is stating an affirmation that I want this day to be sweet and nutty. I want things to be lovely (like how Drew was this morning) and at the same time, goofy and crazy. I have my favorite professor in my favorite class later today, and he will guarantee at least three hours of goofy and crazy (and enlightening) commentary to hopefully fuel my Nutella tank for the rest of the week.
I have been reading Marshall McLuhen's "Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man" for class. While my peers are bitching about not being able to understand a word McLuhen is saying , every time I pick this book up I suddenly cannot put it down. I love falling into the wondrous web that is McLuhen's brilliant mind. Of course his words are a labyrinth and can be hard to follow, but I just pretend that Lewis Caroll and I are talking in poetry and everything comes out all right. It is fascinating to see examples from literature (including Lewis Caroll) used to describe man's dependence on technology. In fact, I sense a future blog post about McLuhen in the near future. For now I will just bore you with some quotes:
"For in the electric age there is no longer any sense in talking about the artist's being ahead of his time. Our technology is, also, ahead of its time, if we reckon by the ability to recognize it for what it is. To prevent undue wreckage in our society, the artist tends now to move from the ivory tower to the control tower of society. Just as higher education is no longer a frill or luxury but a stark need of production and operational design in the electric age, so the artist is indispensable in the shaping and analysis and understanding of the life of forms, and structures created by electric technology" (McLuhen, 65).
Take that you cynics who believe that artists are frivolous leeches who add nothing to our society! (Considering Leeches were once considered essential tools to ensure our medical well being).
I hope everyone has a day filled with Nutella.
Love,
Lorelle
As I have traveled further into the world of blogging, I have really striven to break away from my blogging hero (Gala Darling) in order to create my own unique content. That is why you won't see me posting TILTS here anymore (I do them in my own private journal). However, I really have to applaud Gala for her new project this month, "The Playgirl's Guide to Radical Self Love". Basically, she has decided to center the month of February around that journey which some women struggle with, while others have no problem skipping down--the journey towards self love.
So despite that this Valentine's Day I will have a honey to cuddle with (Our fifth! We plan on watching LotR all day), I can always work harder on perfecting that relationship with myself. It has been a tough week for me as I have traveled down memory lane and reawakened a dark past. See here. I need to remind myself that I am no longer that girl and that I have overcome so many obstacles and I have laughed in the face of every teacher and adviser that ever told me I wouldn't get anywhere in life. My goal this month is to remember my magic. That is why I will be participating in Gala's "Guide to Radical Self Love", because I am so in love...
...With myself.
Last night and today marks the pagan festival of Imbolc (Or Candlemas). This is a festival that celebrates the Celtic goddess Brigid: who is a fire and fertility goddess that rules the hearth and poets. She is one of my favorite Celtic deities. Imbolc is a fire festival, and it is a time when the days are beginning to become longer and lighter and we look forward to spring. In a way, it acts the same way that Groundhogs Day does in contemporary culture.
For more information on Brigid, this is a great site
For more information on Imbolc, see here
I decided to honor the day by writing a poem for Imbolc:
There was a startlingly newness to the world
That if it wanted, could break a silver heart
My fire goddess sang her name:
Brigid of the fiery hearth.
Poets, arise from your slumber of a thousand ages,
Shake the snow from atop your head,
wipe the tear-shaped icicles from your eyes,
for you no longer must dream in secret and locks.
And your mind shall no longer be an abandoned house.
Allow your hallways to become haunted by ghosts.
Brigid has lit the spring fires, and The Snow Queen trembles,
for she sees the end rising over the Lapland sky.
Poets , stand! We need your words.
(Never doubt the power you have)
To awaken the lazy earth,
and make the Daffodils smile.
It is hard to feel serene this Sunday knowing that I have to go work an eight hour shift. However, I gain comfort from knowing that this is the last Sunday until May that I will have to work.
Today is my last day at Plato's Closet and starting this week you are all going to see some changes here! I read somewhere (now I can't remember where) that the key to having a great blog is to live your life as magically as possible and then write every moment of it. In the beginning, that is what PR was supposed to be about, but then I stopped embracing the magical in my life. Instead I trudged through and slept and forgot to take pictures and forgot to embrace adventure.
No more my friends.
No more.
This is one of the most egotistical things one could create online, so naturally I just had to create one.
I'm beginning to wonder how it may ever be possible to update this blog as often as I want. As it stands I already spend too much of my time sitting at a computer and writing. This kind of structure has actually been rather damaging, because the limitations of having to go to a specific place to write (I have a desktop) and the separation one feels between keyboard and artificial screen and fake paper has really been damaging for my writing as a whole.
I have been reading Emilie Autumn's "The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls" and much of the book is made up of the actual journal entries Emilie wrote during the time she spent in a mental hospital. The entire beginning of the book records her desperation to just be allowed paper and something to write with, in order to keep herself from slipping further into madness. At first she wasn't even allowed to have a book but eventually the nurses gave in and gave her back her books, and alas, a single red crayon to write with. She ended up having to write all over her books with red crayon.
As time went on she was allowed a whole box of crayons and eventually given her notebook (which she had to return to the nurses every night). Emilie's survival instinct while in the hospital was to write, write, and write. She spent the idle days recording her experiences and thoughts. Those simple, true thoughts, written by a woman who was going through a period of extreme harshness, are some of the most pure thoughts I've ever read.
The problem is, even though I consider myself a "writer", I am not sure that a notebook and a crayon would be enough to save me from idleness. This is because I have removed myself from the miracle of thoughts transferred from pen to paper (in such a direct way that your hand actually touches the paper). I have written almost entirely on computer screen for the past four years. It took me nearly three years to fill up one Moleskine notebook, and that was the only pen to paper writing I experienced.
I lost the sensation of writing thoughts down the instant you have them, or even the sensation of brilliance that seems to occur when you can feel the words flowing out of you as you shape them into letters. On a computer I am just pressing down keys. I may as well being playing a piano. It is the same movement.
Feeling desperate and saddened by how disappointing my recent writing has been, I have been rereading the stories I wrote at seventeen and sixteen. They are so much better than what I write now, even after a college education. What is the difference? Drew, of course, was the one to point it out to me. I no longer keep a handwritten journal.
He remembers when we began dating that I would often get up from the middle of conversations to write something down. I believed in my power to think and was constantly doing so. My notebook was filled with random lines, passages, and words that I would then lace together into stories. I wrote my experiences, and my fears, and my madness in illegible writing and hung them all over my walls. We called them the "Letters from the Darkness" because they looked and sounded like a mad person wrote them, and perhaps I was mad. Isn't it strange to desire madness, simply because those moments of madness were the only moments that I truly believed in my own personal power to be something more in this world? To be a human being with a purpose?
I have decided that this endless writing on screen needs to end. I even considered taking my writing off the internet entirely--but I have tried that before for an eye rolling amount of time, and in the end I always crawl back to the digital. I feel myself turning into a machine really. A Cylon. Which is what we all are (look it up).
The truth is that writing daily journal entries is not as egotistical as it seems. It isn't as self centered as it seems. You aren't professing the insignificant details of your life as if it is something worth glorifying. You are not writing your memoirs. Instead, you are exploring your mind and discovering the genius within.
