<3 <3 <3
right, third time's the charm- You are someone I am very glad to have 'met' in whatever way the internet lets us.
Not because you're the first person I've ever exchanged drawings with like they were notes passed along on a rainy day, making silly little stories out of woodpeckers and lego toadstoods and trick or treat wishes- Not because I have those drawings printed out, woodpecker and otter hanging on my wall, the halloween ones added to my old lebkuchen box of decorations to be tacked up next year with all the rest- Not because the memory of looking at your art had me picking up pen and paper with a lightness that hasn't been there since I was a kid-
I just love seeing you around on here.
Blocks of tags with rambles- little stories and asides to soak up like a sponge or a plant, reminding me of this or that thought I've had myself- your passion for things, the breath of relief I let out reading something you wrote that says something I can't trust myself with.
The rhythm of your thoughts makes mine very happy, is what I mean. And that you share them- tossing small paper planes of your life out into the world- honest silliness, maybe? It takes bravery and kindness to do it, I think. Even when something upsets you or makes you sad, I'm grateful to see it- these things you care about enough to be hurt by, and to talk about.
From you, I won't argue about how good of a person I am. I'm smiling at the thought that you would think that of me, and I'll makes myself send this little ask to try to tell you back-
thank you for being you.
If tumblr crashes tomorrow and I never hear about you again, I'll always be grateful it lasted this long. I'll remember the rat stuck in a marble, with a skull for it's emblem, hoping you got to do some pottery, snuggled your cat, and had a little hot chocolate, as a treat~
I- I'm at a loss for words...
And crying. Oh words collect yourself into a proper order-
People have said kind things about me before, and it's always brought me joy- but nothing like this. You've cut right into my soul, found things I didn't even know would get to me like this if I heard them.
I want to comment more but re-reading what you said is almost painful, because I was not prepared to take in such words today, or ever. It hurts in the same way as thinking about the beauty in life for too long. I don't know if you understand what I mean- but strong joy, getting overwhelmed with feelings that are good
It's like my little body can't handle it, experiencing things it was not made for. This feeling is bleeding out of me, and I can't even name it. It's not joy. It's... Something better. The knowledge that someone I care for deeply could be made happier thanks to me, my words, my ramblings, my silliness, my art, even the serious and vulnerable moments. Everything. It's like you saw my entire self and said yeah... there's nothing I'd leave out. Oh gosh I'm crying again.
I didn't know you did actually print those drawings out. I've been wondering. I'm so very glad. Bringing you some joy with them is all I wanted. And that someone could appreciate my art this much- especially you. It's like something out of a dream. I didn't know life had such luck in store for me. That I could make art come more easily to someone else again. And you know I love your art. Every time you post something I scramble to get that across, after all. Clunky and anything but concise.
Often I fear that I may be doing too much, coming on too strong, saying so much where others would keep it short. But I've had my years of silence born of paranoia, and I got sick of it. So sick. The reason I started blogging is exactly that, a form of self imposed exposure therapy, I suppose. Every time I'd be afraid to share something, I reminded myself- that's exactly why you should do it. Even if your heart is beating so fast it makes you lightheaded. Which happens rarely now, because this worked, somehow.
And I find myself thinking of a different string of time- where I didn't. Where I let the fear win. Where I never met you and some other lovely people, where all these exchanges we've had, the art and the words and photos of little rocks and tote bags and comics of them running away- never happened. These things that fuel me even when things seem dim. You light something up in me that was previously difficult to cling to- an occasional burst of this spark. Now it is like a little star that has snuggled its way deeply into my heart, refusing to leave.
The rhythm of your thoughts make mine very happy too. I never feel like I have to adjust my thinking with you, because I know you'll understand. Your mind is just as wonderfully strange. I know no one else who creates hand snails and runaway totebags and the most perfect crest imaginable. Making art for you is so fun, because I feel like whatever I choose to depict, you'll get it.
What I want most in life is to be a good person. To bring people joy. Knowing I succeeded is more than I could ever hope for. Am I making sense? Why are you so easy to let into my heart? Why does letting you influence my creations, my way of thinking, my way of loving the world feel so right?
You bring out the best in me.
And that you think sharing what I do takes bravery- well I suppose you're right. I never thought anyone would realise. Would understand. But that it takes kindness? I never thought of it that way. I didn't think anyone would look at what I say and think, "how kind of you, that you chose to share this". I never thought that would be possible. I've had people tell me how happy my tags made them, a few times. That's what fueled me. I thought, if some have said it, then more must have thought it. And I want to keep spreading that joy. What I'm trying to say is you've reassured me in things I didn't dare hope for.
And that even my occasional admission of pain could be seen as good. That you would see me as good.
You're the reason you know. The reason I talk so much on here. I didn't use to do that. I think about the moment that made me follow you, I remember it clearly. I think about all that led to knowing you at all.
Thank you for sharing. I will come back to this, whenever I need a reminder that, well. That I did something right.
I'm glad you won't argue what I said. You couldn't change my mind anyways, on you being a good person. I am so very grateful to have you in my life. I find it hard to tell what people think of me. Thank you for the reassurance, your own bravery, and your beautiful words. They're like poetry.
If Tumblr crashed tomorrow, and I never heard of you again, I would be heartbroken. Truly and fully. But I would be grateful, as I already am. For the time you were a part of my life.
But this shall not happen. We haven't reblogged those snails yet, as we promised, and even after that. I don't want to imagine.
I'll do pottery some day. I'm snuggling my cat as I type, and I'll make myself a hot chocolate, in my dancing skeleton mug. And every day, I'll keep being reminded of you, and how you're everywhere now. In every little thing I've shared, that you got excited about. You're a part of that clay hand now, my spooky dishware, my lego frog, my tote bags, my rocks, my memories. I take a moment to take in nature and I'm reminded of your description of the light falling through your window, the spot you left just to appreciate it. I see a sword, a snail, a drawing of a werewolf, and you're always there.
When you let people take up your time, you let them take permanent residence in your heart. And with you, I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you for being here, for being you, and for bringing a peace to my soul I didn't know it needed.
Thank you.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".
Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"
And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".
Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.
At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.
So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!
Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!
Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!
Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.
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