Ok I fell asleep for like an hour and woke up with massive Midwest emo ghouls au brainworm. Need to expel before sleep. There probably so many typos.
Mist - owner of local record shop. Makes all of the ladies who walk in the door feel like queens and makes condescending music bros shrivel.
Aurora - works at small cafe across the street. Amazing work ethic, short temper. Trying to find her place in the world as well as within a band that contains several very large personalities.
Mist comes in every day, wallet chain and massive key ring jangling in harmony with the brass bell hanging over the door. Orders a pour over every time, not because it tastes better. They really can’t tell the difference.
But because it takes longer. So they can admire Aurora’s deft hands stacking paper cups, refilling the sugar dispenser, smacking the side of the bean grinder to dislodge whatever’s stuck in there.
Aurora gives her a large. But she only charges her for a small. Slips her a cookie or a muffin cause it’s a funny shape, no one will buy it, it’s a day old (even though it tastes pretty damn fresh to Mist.)
Eventually she stops making excuses when she slides the brown paper bag across the counter, cause she’s too busy burying her blush when Mist reaches for it and grazes the top of her hand with their calloused finger tops, conditioned by steel core and round wire.
Aurora finds herself wanting to take a walk outside on her break. No longer content to put her headphones on and take a nap on top of a few sacks of coffee beans. Because Zeph frowns on that just a little.
She finds herself strolling past the window of the record shop, watching Mist prop up new releases against the window. At first they wave, but then y hey beckon.
The crisp chill in the air is a plausible excuse as to why the apples of Auroras cheeks are still so persistently red.
Mist asks if Aurora has a record player. And she does of course. “Have you listened to this?” Mist asks, plucking a record from beneath the counter.
Aurora hesitated, and admits, “No, I haven’t.” Aurora admonishes the fact that she hasn’t been in this world for very long at all and she’s a little bit intimidated by the seemingly vast and endless array for artists and genres.
“Take it for a spin. Let me know what you think.” Mist pushes the record across the gouged counter where various employees in the past 3 decades have carved their initials and perhaps some unsavory phrases.
“Oh, well, I don’t - we’ll - this is embarrassing. But I’m on sort of a tight budget.” The admission forms a hairline crack in her heart, and she isn’t sure why. Maybe Aurora simply does not want to refuse anything Mist has to offer.
“Don’t worry about that, you can bring it back later.” Sensing the hesitation in Aurora as her hand hovers over the record, they push it into her hand with a wink.
It’s so warm in there, Aurora can’t blame the chill and so she buried her face in her scarf and says “thanks, I’ve gotta get back. But, thank you. I’m so - I’ll - excited to listen.” She cringes inwardly and her feet stumble although not as much as her words as she heads for the exit.
She finished the rest of her shift, looking at her backpack with x-ray vision, as if she can see the record inside with Mist’s fingerprints all over it along with whatever she felt when she listened to it.
She kneels on the floor as in front of her stereo as soon as she gets home. Shoes and coat, scarf, lunch bag, all abandoned behind her like a trail of breadcrumbs.
GLORIA, G-L-O-R-I-A.
Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine
Meltin' in a pot of thieves
Wild card up my sleeve
Thick heart of stone
My sins my own
They belong to me, me
People say "beware!"
But I don't care
The words are just
Rules and regulations to me, me
She’s vaguely aware of the dull throb in her knees and despite how loud she has the music cranked she’s kneeling on the floor practically pressing her ear to the speaker.
Her voice is loud and infectious, the words are irreverent and rebellious. She’s already hooked. And she flips the vinyl over 4 times before the gnawing in her stomach forces her to trudge to the kitchen and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Normally a creature of habit, and a neat one at that, the plate doesn’t make it to the sink and the knife sticks to the counter, laden with jam, and there are crumbs on the floor. She doesn’t care.
She tries to go bed early because she has the opening shift. But that contralto voice is ringing in her mind and her feet are dancing under the covers.
She crawls to work and his through the motions, but she finds she’s less tired than expected. Still high on the energy of what she considers truly powerful. It’s like a talisman, no one can fuck with her today. She can’t help but occasionally run her fingers over the record, safely stowed under the counter to return to its owner.
When Mist arrives, they grins like a shark once they hears what’s playing over the shop’s speakers.
Counting the time, then you came to my room
And you whispered to me and we took the big plunge
And oh you were so good, oh, you were so fine
And I gotta tell the world that I make her mine, make her mine
Make her mine, make her mine, make her mine, make her mine
G-l-o-are-i-a, Gloria, G-l-o-are-i-a, Gloria, G-l-o-are-i-a, Gloria
G-l-o-are-i-a, Gloria
Aurora can’t even be bothered to feel shame as she shouts the newly memorized lyrics at the top of her lungs while preparing Mist’s pour over.
“So I guess you liked it?”
“You could say that.” Aurora is surprised that she can manage to say something remotely intelligible. She pulls the record out from under the register to slide back over the counter.
“No, keep it for now. But come by later. I think I have something else you’d like.”
Aurora is inclined to believe them. She takes the record back and in exchange slides over a brown craft paper bag. It feels heavier than usual.
When Mist dumps their belongings on the counter and flicks on the lights, they open it and sees it contains two cookies. And they are not deformed in the slightest.
Aurora comes in on her lunch, on a breeze that smells like roasted coffee and sandalwood. And she returns, with another record under her arm.
Zeph cannot find it within himself to chide her for being late. Nor will he for the days and weeks to come. When her 30 minute lunch break turns into 40 minutes. 45 minutes. 55 minutes.
Because an education in feminist proto-punk cannot be rushed. Nor can her deep dive into the riot grrl movement. Nor can love, Zeph knows that better than anyone.
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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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