Ani Was Writing

  1 January 2018   I remember -initially- feeling a little overwhelmed by the prospect of 2018. Maybe it was the weariness 2017 left with me. Maybe it was what I did before my folks and I welcomed in the new year with noisemakers and peach champagne. All I remember is returning to my computer and feeling a sense that something was gone -or maybe coming- and I was not prepared for it.   This feeling mellows as I pull out all my crafting stuff for my new bullet journal: cardstock for decoration, enough washi tape to start off, some stickers with the first six months of the year in a mix of print and cursive writing, and a dotted journal with a few stickers lovingly stuck all over it. As I work and watch a gaming livestream, I feel better about this new year. Then I realize my usual work alarm is going off at 4:30 am. Then the one at 4:45 am. I turn them both off without thinking, then finally look up at the computer to see it was 5:00 am. A mistake to stay up until near daw...

 Hadley didn't even bother to look where he was shoveling, and we're glad he didn't. If it wasn't for his lazy thinking, we wouldn't be dreaming of vacation islands.   He just wanted to get the farm going. We traveled here far from home with our precious seeds shoved in our pockets. It is his job to get them going. He's been nurturing them since winter in that greenhouse. Now that the weather is just right, he went to go plant them and watch them grow into the beautiful harvest we had back at home. Instead, his shovel went through the ground and came up far wetter than anything we'd ever seen. So he ran into the house and started yelling for us, telling us that there was something in the ground and we needed to come see what was going on. Of course, I was in the house making dinner, so I didn't really understand what he was saying over the constant noise of the standing mixer. Instead, he ran up to find his father.    Zachary was sitting in his recliner ...

  PR #082026 Reported on 29 August 2026 Project 1: Writing     Current Writing Project: Project Lilith          Current Status: Planning/Scattered Draft Phase     Current D&D Project: Custodius Continuum, Project Dungeons and Bitches           Current Status: 4 of 5 Preliminary Sessions Done, Preparing Session 5                    Secondary D&D Project: Custodius Continuum, Project Demons and Flames          Current Status: Preparing Session 1     Blog Posts Completed: 39 of 52 (Including Extra Blog Posts) Project 2: Weight Management     Current Weight: 237.4     Weight Loss/Gain: -0.5 in August (+4.8 in 2026)     Goal Weight: 180.0 Project 3: Crochet     Gifts/Commissions Completed: 5 of 5 Commissions, 0 of 5 Planned Gifts     Personal Projects Completed: 1

*knocking* "FBI, open up!" "Sir, this is the Void of Time and Mistakes. What are you doing here?" "I've come to sell hot dogs."

 The BreakBeat Poets Edited by Kevin Coval, Quraysh Ali Lansana, and Nate Marshall     Hubris is a guilty pleasure of mine.          I thought I could pick up this 350 page behemoth and read it in a month. I figured 70 pages at a time, easy pace, nothing crazy.     Then life said, "Hey, your job starts soon. Good luck."     And with that, I sit here before you with a confession: I didn't finish this book.     Thankfully, I read this book back in my college time, and I remember it well enough to tell you to get it. Seriously. If you are one of those cringe-inducing folk that keeps saying, "All of the great poets are dead." and you like hip-hop especially, then get this anthology. Seriously. I can't emphasize how much it will shift you into thinking that all the best poets are old white dudes that would be over 200 years old at the minimum if they were alive now.      Get this anthology.    ...

 5:Observation   The mechanical bell sounds and radiates from the depths. A single door swings aperture-like, its spiraled steel grinds against the concrete staircases below. An outpouring of works slumps out toward the rest of the city, hungry and tired and looking for some action. They stagger to their homes, clean their bodies of ash and dust, then cruise into the streets. Some head to bars, others to brothers, and even a few toward the theatres. Shouts and hollering erupt in the stale air as the insane outcasts of Canlanma comfort and numb themselves until the mechanical bell sounds again.    Hanging above the clusters of madness, Marsuvees looks through the shaded one-way mirrors he hands on. He knows these workers well, perhaps even better than the arrogant outsiders. He sneers to himself at the thought of the wealthy elitists in the Capital, or those pesky Ludumites who constantly send orders for more minerals, more materials, more liquids. More, more, more; t...