What do I care about

I feel as if I’ve had my realizations of privilege, feminism, and religion. I’ve gone through the misunderstandings, research, and passionate interpretations of my experiences with them. I feel old, but not old enough to be passive about things. I still feel moved by new opinions and educating myself.

But alas, I don’t know what I care about enough to try to portray in my field. I feel like I should step aside and let people more deserving of speaking up, well… speak up. I’m a white girl who has misunderstood her own privilege, and now that I understand how privileged I am, I feel as if I have nothing to speak of that matters. It’s not a pity party, just an engine that has burned out.

Did great artists and filmmakers who took on the times in their work know what they were doing? Were they actively trying to dismantle or understand the world around them? Am I missing something here?

I want my fire back. I feel as if my life has been drained from me these past couple years.


i don’t get your magic

I don’t get modern SF/Fantasy. So much that it actually makes me angry. Did I miss something here? I feel like I’m not seeing something that everyone else is seeing.

Featured image It just reminds me of Church. If someone has a question as to why God does something, and the holy man doesn’t have an answer, he says, “Well, it’s something we are not meant to know.” This leaves that someone in a state of doubt: would the all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving God let his child doubt him?

That might be dramatic, but I just can’t fit myself into either of these ways of thought anymore.

I understand many love their myths and their fairies and their trolls. I love my circuses and far away galaxies. But is everything that can’t be explained filed under the “magic” file? Why do writers try to explain “magic” like they know what it is? Is it also something I’m not meant to know?

Maybe I’m too much of a realist. But the minute a character starts discussing their magical powers that they were born with and how justly they use it, my eyes glaze over. My god, you are so fake.


Leo was a teenage ringmaster with a bad attitude, a dangerous cocktail of pride, restlessness, and passion.

He adored his title, and he wore it as if it were addressed on his letters like “Sir” or “Lady” or “Father”. The Ringmaster, capital “R”, please. A master of three rings, three stages of performance, three circles of chaos: all at his fingertips like an orchestra conductor. He bore a black crown made of felt, a top hat that gave him the poise of an Englishman but the intrigue of a magician. What could be a better situation for an eighteen year old boy? What more could a proud, flamboyant teenager want than a circus of his own?

And the answer is simple: a bigger, better one.

It was the longest day of the year in the Outskirts of the city of Urbs Fumus. The summer was grueling for a Fumidian, covered in a layer of grime clinging to sweaty skin. But for a member in the Angelone Circus, a short auto ride eight miles away, it was a drunken bliss celebrating the Ringmaster’s nineteenth birthday.

A drunken bliss is exactly how Leo woke up that morning.

Leo stumbled out of his carriage one year older, about the same time that the sun turns pink in its rise. With a smack of his lips that tasted of whiskey and garlic, he began to pace the Backyard, checking for any others before relieving himself out in the open.

As he unzipped his trousers with the motor skills of a town drunk, he wondered how he safely ended up in his own bed last night. There was a vomit stain outside of his carriage door, which he could tell belonged to him just by looking at it. there was even an outline in the vomit splash matching his shoe shape. When Leo placed his foot there that morning, it had fit like a puzzle, the matching splash on his shoe toe completing the evidence. Along with being a drunk comes a game that only a detective otherwise gets to.

As he relieved himself over the remains of a fire pit, contemplating as elegant of a thought as vomit, he realized another soul was awake. Trotting towards him was a beautiful, flat-faced Persian cat, one who was never seen without the company of her human, Luis Bajramovic.

Luckily for Leo’s kidneys, this was not a problem. He already had a feeling his right hand man would be awake by now. Luis swept up his cat and stared at Leo with his judgmental left eye, the other covered by a simple leather eyepatch.

“Don’t look at me while I have my dick out,” Leo growled.

“It’s too small to see with the naked eye,” Luis replied, moving towards the armchairs in front of Leo’s carriage. “It worries me that when you’re drunk, sometimes you forget that it’s out.”

“I know it’s out,” Leo spat, though he teetered slightly as he zipped himself up.

Luis lowered himself into his armchair, which had an ottoman for his cat and feet. Leo fell into his own armchair and swung his feet over the arm, pushing his top hat out of the way. He craved a strong coffee to wash the taste of day-old whiskey away.

The two pulled out their personal cigarette brands. Leo liked Marlboro’s. Luis liked Turkish. The cat glazed over the two, uninterested in the odd habits of humans.

“We have two days. Two fucking days,” Leo said through his cigarette, fanning out his match.

Luis nodded with all the malaise of his sun-bathing cat, exhaling a spout of smoke, “We’ve prepared.”

Leo turned towards the sun, which had quickly become an awakening yellow. It pounded against his hungover eyes. He pulled his top hat down over his eyes, returning to the ancient hangover remedy of darkness.

“Have you?” The Lion Tamer’s question was another hangover irritant.

Leo decided not to respond, knowing Luis wouldn’t push the loaded question.

No one comes to the circus for the Ringmaster, and Leo did not like that.

The daily routine

• 5 am or 6 am Lolita (cat) wakes me up to feed her
• go back to sleep, enjoy her at my feet
• around 7, get up, get dressed, go get coffee at nearest coffee shop, make small talk with barista
• forget to take medicine, run back to room, pet kitty a thousand times
• late for class at whichever school I’m at, avoid teacher because don’t have assignment done, then end up talking to teacher about art and meaning of life
• have cigarette, chat with fellow smokers
• leave class early, feed/play with kitty, read comics or dr zhivago depending on intelligence level, give up and watch Simpsons
• hate self, eat leftovers, snapchat boy, sleep
• late to class again, either work really hard/stare at James Franco looking teacher (if it’s animation), or sit on iPad and say obnoxious opinion (if it’s humanities)
• go home, feed kitty and baby talk her, avoid talking to roommate and wait until she leaves.
• either : a) make tea and write until head hits pillow or b) spend night with Adam, kiss, touch, love, say something vulnerable and potentially stupid. Lay in bed and fall asleep at 4, then oversleep.

art and love

FIRST, you have the wonderful realization that you’re an artist.

THEN, you have a wonderful experience that proves that you can be a successful artist.

THEN, you go out in the big ol’ world to follow that compass inside of you pointing towards that dream of success, with that belief that you have something worth saying fueling you through that big, bad world.

THEN, you fail. That big, bad world knocks you and your little compass all out of whack and you find yourself stranded in it with nowhere to go. But that fuel is still sitting there, running in your engine. You still have hope. You just have to get back to where you were.

SO, you follow wherever that spinning compass points, hoping you’ll get back to your path. You go this way and that, left and right, chugging through the fuel.

THEN, you run out of fuel. You find yourself directionless, fueless, and alone.

SO, you try to restart the car, push it to get it started again. Again and again and again. Could it be the engine overheating? Could it be the battery is dead? Sometimes you get it to hum again, move a few feet, but then it sputters again and dies.

THEN, someone comes along. Hesitant, you ask them for help. They offer you a ride, but tell you that you can’t come back to your compassed car. You decline, and watch an opportunity go off into the distance.

THEN, you get hungry. You feel guilty. You feel like you just let your only hope slip out of your hands. All you want is a direction, ANY direction, just to get out of here.

THEN, you get depressed. You’re done. Your stupid compass isn’t working. You sit on the side of the road. You never thought this would happen to you. The big bad world has gotten to you too.

THEN, you wake up to find someone along the side of the road, an over heated engine. Their hood billows smoke. They sit on the side, waiting for it to cool down. They hold their forehead in their hands. This must happen a lot, and you can tell that it’s time for them to get a new car. They see you, and offer you water.

SO, you take it. You try to help with their car, but it won’t restart. They ask what’s wrong with your car, and you tell them that it ran out of gas.

THEN, they offer you a map and gas.

SO, you two pile in your car, turn on the music, and drive away to whatever place you want. Now, you don’t need a compass, because you know all the directions. You talk about where you’ve both been, where you need to be, where you want to go. You throw your broken compass out the window and just drive. With another person, you don’t need a compass. You have the fuel, and that’s all you need.



Let’s talk. Actually, let’s listen. Always listen.

I started playing The Nightjar last night and I couldn’t do it in the dark. It’s not necessarily that the video game is scary, per say, but it’s the fact that it’s so emersive. SO emersive.

The visuals? It’s probably one of the most simple video game interfaces I’ve ever encountered. This is what you’re looking at for the entire duration of the game.


The two columns are right and left, which move your feet, and the dial above turns you around. But how do you know where you’re going?

The story: You’re abandoned on a failing ship hurdling towards a dying supernova, aka a black hole. You find a headset and put it on, and are miraculously given instructions as to how to get to safety (or so you assume). Your guide? Benedict fucking Cumberbatch. You must judge where you are based on the sounds around you–you move yourself around to avoid monsters, black matter, and make your way towards safety. Completely emersive, completely imaginative, completely freaky.

I’m still waiting to finish it. I just need someone to sit next to me.