kwan ann (n).

1. she/her, 24
2. writer, malaysian, medievalist (in that order).
3. devourer of books and, on occasion, can be found mainlining media content into her veins
4. a menace on Twitter
5. writing a mysterious book, a series of short stories that keep disappearing from view, and maybe even a chapbook (?)

IF project writing log #1: It has become evident that I need to think of the endings first and work backward so that it’s easier to craft the forks. I’m also approaching it as if I were writing a short story (this did first start out as a short story idea), and happily this one is really lending itself well to being repurposed into interactive fiction.

feestje:

“It was summer. I didn’t feel like saying anything. I felt as if I were going along some road of inexpressible sorrow.”

— Takuboku Ishikawa, from “Romaji Diary & Sad Toys,” published c. 1985

eastgaysian:

the ancient and noble art of Hating must remain distinct from the dogmatism of the moral crusade. hating has no greater goal. it is not about engineering change or imposing one’s will upon others. to hate is a complete act in and of itself

archipelagoofliterarynonsense:

I wanted to put a more positive spin on the popular skeleton leaving meme

faggottranssexual:

i do not consume art btw it consumes me and its teeth are scary sharp

memoryslandscape:

“Silk is a noun. All nouns are very lonely. They’re like crystals, each enclosing its own little piece of our knowledge about the world. But examine them thoroughly, in all their degrees of transparency, and sooner or later they’ll reveal their knowledge. Say the word silk, and it vanishes with the sound, but your senses, your memory and knowledge cast back an echo. Write it on a piece of paper, and it stays there, unmoving, but your thoughts and feelings are already on their way to the farthest corners of the world. That’s what I mean about the loneliness of nouns; each one has to be self-contained, as if it were the only word that existed. As if silk were the only word, and is therefore able at any time to awaken our encapsuled knowledge not only of silk, but of the world itself. Even of forgetting. Just try to forget the word silk, and you’ll be reminded of it next time you see the summer sky, a flower petal, or the membrane between two muscles in a butchered chicken.”

Inger Christensen, “Silk, the Universe, Language, the Heart,” trans. Susanna Nied, Poetry (September 2018)

ryebreadgf:

the dream