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Newest Deviations

The Pearls Are Cooling by RomaV The Pearls Are Cooling :iconromav:RomaV 0 1
Mature content
Keeping Count :iconromav:RomaV 1 1
Mature content
Pretend :iconromav:RomaV 1 1
Mature content
Why I'm a Virgin: I II III :iconromav:RomaV 5 14
Mature content
I Pretend You Hear Me Now :iconromav:RomaV 5 11
Literature
Anal Fixation
Look, people notice you: that's your job.
You have appearances to keep up.
Keep your self to yourself! and try
Colours unclashing. It's easy enough.
You're not fucking poor - look at you! -
It's not like you can't afford to keep
Your hands clean, smooth - and for Chrissake
Deforest your face. Your body.
The social ladder rises until there's you -
Friendship is like that. Like rising hills in the far distance -
They roll gently. They are tidy. Messy landscapes
need good gardeners. (And I am yours.)
This will do, for a start, but there's more.
Now I can be with you. Perhaps we can talk.
:iconRomaV:RomaV
:iconromav:RomaV 3 4
Mature content
Cycle :iconromav:RomaV 1 7
Literature
Roles
The Warrior Maiden signed up, and the group was complete.
We're going to need your back-story, they told her.
She fluttered her eyelashes, and everyone grinned. She was going to be that sort of Warrior Maiden, was she? I was raised in a small village, she said, and my father was a farmer. (My mother died giving birth to me, but that's an issue we don't have to deal with.) I took up the bow to protect our farm from raiders, and I took up the sword because I wanted to. I now seek adventure and a cause, hoping to find meaning and purpose to my life. She pauses, tilts her head. Her breastplate is making her slightly uncomfortable. I suppose I could have an abnormal need to find the Stone of Murmor –
- Murmurs, they interject softly, but she continues –
- but really that seems too much angst for a side character. She stops, smiles again. And oh yes, emphasis on maiden.
*****
It was a ragtag group, as all quest groups must be: The Warrior Maiden. The Bard/Scholar. The Short One (with
:iconRomaV:RomaV
:iconromav:RomaV 8 7
Literature
Bleed
The new doctor doesn't want to bleed me.
He hunches. I've made him call Dr. Vijaya so she can tell him that I've donated blood before.
I'm a regular, I want to tell him. I know this procedure better than you do.
Dr. Vijaya comes and weighs me - again - and talks about how my father called her when I first came to give blood - again. I think she has a thing for my father. There's no accounting for tastes.
You're so thin. How are you, et cetera et cetera. I lie down; he straps the band around my upper arm, and inflates it. His movements are awkward and the band is too tight.
The band is too tight, I tell him.
Your BP is low, he tells me.
No, I say, this is normal.
I don't have dizzy spells. I've eaten. No headaches no breathlessness blah blah. Call Dr. Vijaya if you don't believe me.
He gives me the rubber ball, inserts the needle into the crook of my elbow. I squeeze the ball without waiting for permission, and he winces.
My arm hurts. He distracted me. But I maintain a rhythm. I rock.
:iconRomaV:RomaV
:iconromav:RomaV 0 2
Literature
The circle has no end
If you walk down the roads Beyond Death you will find that they stretch before you for miles and kilometres and even inches, forever and today. It makes very little sense until you realise – but now you do not need to realise, because I have told you, and only a very inattentive person will forget this important piece of information – until you realise that here, as in life [but that's a lie] you can choose your journey, its length, duration, and end. You need me to tell you these things because you have not died yet.
[That is not your fault.]
This is what Beyond Death looks like:
There is a field, and it has no end. It is The End and there is no greater infinity to be found. There is a field, and to some people it is grey, and to some it is green, and to some it is the most wondrous thing, multi-coloured and full of life and fertility. Happy people usually like being dead because The End is beautiful for them. Infinity, life, death – narrative ethics forbid me from belabouring the poi
:iconRomaV:RomaV
:iconromav:RomaV 1 33
Mature content
Two poems. I can count, see? :iconromav:RomaV 2 12
Literature
5 steps 2 being ok without u
It's too stupid
to be
real.
I.
You were the one who was
supposed
to stick around,
my link to reality.
(You promised!)
This is a vast cosmic
joke, yes?
And really, after all that
radiance you put out,
that knife against your wrists won't
take you to dances amongst the stars,
because the stars will send you back.
Somehow.
(They're jealous.)
*
I didn't watch
out for
you.
II.
I was the one who was
supposed
to break down -
tantrums and mirrors
were my excuses.
(Are.)
Perhaps if I had
burnt my self away in the
living
then the knife would've been mine...
So, if I freeze, maybe
you'll be okay,
and the hell your father promises
will not find no one, and you can
dance
with the cold bastards up there
who'll ignore you when you tire.
(Burn out is solitary.)
*
The say that
people like you
deserve
death.
III.
It was supposed to be
my story, dammit!
My failure, my release,
My moment to be Sita, Sati, Aria (now Raaga).
And you stole them from me
and killed me a little, too
:iconRomaV:RomaV
:iconromav:RomaV 7 34
Literature
Hiding
Sannan remembers. The fortunate few who are permitted entrance may, if they are calm enough, accost the echoes left behind – shadows of those children of Unreality whose hearts are filled with life. Sannan remembers, and honours, those she loves.
Here they see colourful ghosts of the Aalaapana children, who sneaked in, one autumn solstice, and clambered through the trees for a day and a night. There they may shy away from Bol-Tana, lovers who left echoes in more insensitive areas than this. Around the corner Lord Paaltukootha translucently ponders Reality's redrawing of his Unreal borders. Magical greatness and its opposing decay shadow Sannan – border between the real and unreal.
And now, in this time that is past and present and future and might-have-been and might-be… a few steps might find them a pale dancing figure with drunken, happy laughter. The face is recognisable – all of her family are distinctive in person.
Sannan recognises and honours Unreality's reigning family's reigni
:iconRomaV:RomaV
:iconromav:RomaV 3 15
Literature
Three random acrostix
progressive i may be, but
in point of fact
not one of you
knows what i am capable of.
is life not enough for you?
south west east north is essential?
ample spaces tell me that
stillness is enough. No more!
ever heard some dumb bird sing
vows of eternal beauty?
it's insanity, for to expect fulfilled
life in all irrelevant glory.
ambition is a direction towards filling
spaces that existence does not care to fill.
try this, just once. Imagine
everlasting nothingness where you, too, do nothing –
and I'll calm you down if you get frightened.
*******************************************
Order escaped from my insufficient
Traps a long time ago –
I'm relieved, really.
Of what use is order to a randomised
Soul in bathetic distress,
Even if she does wish for better things?
**********************************
For all the times I told you
Or you told me, "I'm sorry":
Remember me now wherever you are.
Go, with the knowledge that
I'm the only one who won't feel
      
:iconRomaV:RomaV
:iconromav:RomaV 0 9
Mature content
Spaces :iconromav:RomaV 1 18
Mature content
2 acrostix + 1 more :iconromav:RomaV 0 10

Wishlist

The soul abandoned me by linecut The soul abandoned me :iconlinecut:linecut 76 36 Creativa by linecut Creativa :iconlinecut:linecut 605 116 Buddha Ride by blue-fusion Buddha Ride :iconblue-fusion:blue-fusion 109 66 Air: Harpy by blue-fusion Air: Harpy :iconblue-fusion:blue-fusion 385 139 Water: Mermaid by blue-fusion Water: Mermaid :iconblue-fusion:blue-fusion 2,068 396 Mariang Makiling by blue-fusion Mariang Makiling :iconblue-fusion:blue-fusion 64 65 NIGHTSHADE VALE by tigaer NIGHTSHADE VALE :icontigaer:tigaer 1,406 221 Indian Summer by Isynia-Artessa Indian Summer :iconisynia-artessa:Isynia-Artessa 421 116

Activity


Why I Write, and Why I Don't

Journal Entry: Mon Nov 16, 2009, 7:30 AM
  • Reading: Tobias Buckell
  • Watching: Bones
  • Drinking: Chocolate Milk
I was a pompous little girl, and I grew up to be a pompous teenager, and I suspect that I am a pompous adult who thinks too much of her own opinions. I was also an insecure little girl, a very unhappy teenager, and I am now a very frightened adult with fuzzy opinions and too many words with which to express them.

      I suppose, all said, I’m normal enough. I talk and write and am just as other people, and I get through my days through the skin of my teeth.

      I used to have to brush off people who would tell me that I was “destined” to be a writer. Fluency in language was not a future set in stone, and I knew too many people who taught what they could not do, and too many people who did not do what they could. Being a Writer is a lonely business, or a drunken business, and given today’s market not a business at all unless you’re very lucky indeed – there are many narratives of The Writer, and only one of me.

      Reading, however, is free, and it set me free. I was reading fluently before I was six, and winning applause from teachers from then on because I could string together a sentence. (It went to my head.)  I read through a snotty and rather lonely childhood, and I was alienated both because I could find no one to truly talk to and because I had a filthy temper.

      And so when I needed to talk, I wrote. I write even now because it is the only time I find myself capable of being honest (even when I lie). I write because words are a beautiful thing that make intangible unrealities real. (Politicians and Priests have known this long before I was born, and will long after I die.)

      The first time I thought, of my accord, strongly and in a way that persists even today, of being a writer (or even a Writer), I was nine. I wanted to be Enid Blyton. I wanted to fill up blank pages with words that would later fill up empty spaces within someone else’s head. I thought of little girls and little boys who read my books and were happy because they had needed someone, something, like me. And so I did write. On scraps of paper I threw away later, in a fairly predictable teen-angsted diary, for school competitions, for class.

      I kept almost nothing that I wrote purely for myself, but I did write for myself, all the time when I was not reading, or slowly learning what one could or could not do in a social environment. (It always seemed like there were rules that everyone knew but me, and so I made worlds where no one knew the rules, and they’d all have to ask me.)

      Whether it is because of the reading, or the writing, or the talking – and most obviously, because of all three – I found myself introspectively verbalizing my life as I went. Every word went forth encased in quotation marks, and it is a pity that spoken words cannot be edited in anything other than hindsight. I began to write for myself more deliberately, and I began to keep what I wrote, and more importantly to show it to other people for myself as well as them. There would be no prizes, no scores, no academic credit.  

      One of the greatest lies children are told, or tell themselves, is that they’ll know – anything, everything, themselves, what to do with themselves – when they are older. Adult. One of the greatest lies voracious readers tell themselves is that there is always a story. There is a grand narrative. Successful lives are lived to the hilt, emotions felt at screaming pitch. Even Heathcliff’s life is better than a mundane one lived in routine complacency. Happiness is a wild singing emotion that bubbles in one’s blood and through one’s eyes. Intensity is beautiful, normalcy is only so from the right angle, in the right person. These are hard standards to live up to.

      As I grew older, as I moved closer to a time when I would live, or ought to live, unsupported, I found that there would be no sudden adult certainties, that I would still be alone, that there would be no answers, that getting up in the morning would always remain something I would have to find the strength within to manage. Intensity came to me only as a dull unhappiness that something was missing, and it was missing inside myself. The world would not provide me with my own coherent internal narrative to light my way.  It never would.

      And so I’ve spent three years recently where the words dried up. It is difficult to explain, and shameful to admit. The words dried up, and when they did come forth they refused to let themselves be seen. Something would not let me talk. Or write, or be read. I was empty, and I scrambled to hide what felt like a gaping visible hole from the people around me. I felt a sense of accomplishment sometimes that no one seemed to notice until I took to bed and didn’t get out. When it was too exhausting to pretend anymore.

      Today my doctor tells me I’m clinically depressed, and I’m doing much better, and it is not my fault. Nothing is my fault.  But it is still very difficult to write, and very difficult to say what is wrong, and very difficult to say, This will not happen again, with anything approximating honesty.

      It might happen again. It was my fault. The only thing that stops me is me. I believe, pompously and insecurely, that I am different. I believe, pompously and insecurely, that I have nothing new and nothing interesting to say, and in any case no skill to speak of. I am forced into silence by my own misfit with the unspoken rules of society that I do not understand and do not know and may not exist in the first place. I am a mass of contradictions around no center.

      At the same time, I am surrounded by love, support, intelligence.

      It is laughably easy to see that I cripple myself with my own fear, my own shame, my own helpless unhappiness. It is ridiculously difficult to do something about it.

      And yet – one must write.

      The only reason I have to write is my own self – I see, think and express in words, I put everything that happens in words, editing as I go. On very good days, or very intense days, or very bad days, I can see those words as they would look on a white page, see how they would sound as they were read out loud by a narrator with a lovely voice. I write because words are the only certainties I have, and they too numerous to keep within; there are too many people who are kind enough to listen, to read, to say, this can change and this need not. You’re fine.

      So I have learned to rationalise, to pay attention while I internalise, to epistemologise my self.  

      My left brain is my logical, language-based-and-operating me, my right (or non dominant) is more emotional, the storing place for negative memories. It commands my flight or fight response. The right brain is also my id - so it wants instant gratification or nothing at all. This all-or-nothing response doesn't respond well to larger tasks, or tasks that take time, or tasks that are difficult, because gratification - the completion of the task, or the reward for finishing the task - is not instant. So since it cannot have everything and have it right now, it walks away. And so I walk away from talking, from writing, from finding out what I am and what I may want to do. I walk away from asking the questions, I walk away from answers, and I walk away from the solace that it might okay not to have any answers at all.

      While my left brain is insisting, Just do it!, my right brain is screaming, Don't! This push-and-pull jostling between the two impulses freezes me before flight-or-fight. I don’t give up, I don't do the thing I want to do. I stall or delay or do something else to fill in the time.

      I look at myself from the outside, and there are so many of me, so few, and we are all the same person. Over this year, I have found very few answers, very few certainties. But I must write. It is the only call I still have, and the only one that I think may be able to answer.

      There are cheats to help me function. I have had to change the way I look at action, be it of writing or of getting out of bed. I do not now sit and try to complete a self-set writing assignment. I do not set assignments at all. I merely spend a pre-set chunk of time writing a first draft.

      Firsts drafts are by definition bad.

      I find this a very effective cheat. If all I have to do is spend time writing, I do not need to worry about how “good” or how readable I am. I merely need to write. It is the only way I manage.

      Sadly, it’s not easy. Insecurities do not stay tucked away just because I declare a time-out. Ideas do not always show up for an appointment.

      But it is... interesting. It means being organised. It means that at the end of the day, I have something that has been done. Not necessarily done completely, or done to my satisfaction. But it’s done.

      And as I go I find I have several things that I do want to talk about, and whether I intend to or not they show up on the page, unmistakably mine. They might be other people’s too, but I’m saying them here.

      I write about finding people, even while I myself am lost. I write about the safety that can be found outside of oneself. I write about internalizing another person, about love and hatred. I write about many voices, speaking in many ways.

      I write nothing that seems very new, or very old, or very brilliant. Everyday I need to remind myself that writing is not meant to be a particular Thing. My writing is not someone outside of myself, no matter how much it looks as though it might be.

      It need not be easy. It will often be hard. It will not always be under my control, and sometimes it will be whether I want it to be or not. It will not match the arbitrary standards I have set for it, and all it will ever do is expose more of myself than I am comfortable with in public or in private.

      I am learning that that is enough.

:iconwriteaway: :iconproseplease: :iconfantasywritersunited: :iconvisuallit: :iconwordcount: :iconlitffs:

deviantID

RomaV
RVM
Artist
India
Personal Quote: I have a heart of gold. Too bad the rest of me is pure bitch.

Comments


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:iconhelewidis:
Helewidis Featured By Owner Jul 16, 2010   Photographer
Hey you! :hug:
Reply
:iconoceangirl:
oceangirl Featured By Owner Jul 13, 2010
i'll call when im back.

and im back in september/october.
Reply
:iconjonathoncomfortreed:
jonathoncomfortreed Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2010  Student Photographer
Thank you for your interest in :iconthewrittenrevolution:, we're delighted to have you!
Welcome to the revolution. :salute:

Please take a look at our contest, we'd love to have you participate. It ends soon! :tighthug:
Reply
:icontangledweb:
tangledweb Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2009  Professional General Artist
Thanks! :hug: Good to see you. :)
Reply
:iconromav:
RomaV Featured By Owner Nov 16, 2009
:) I'm getting back in the game. Slowly.
Reply
:iconoceangirl:
oceangirl Featured By Owner Nov 26, 2008
Where are you?
Reply
:iconromav:
RomaV Featured By Owner Dec 10, 2008
In Bangalore at the moment.
Reply
:iconoceangirl:
oceangirl Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2009
are you still using the same number?
the 59057 one

i shall give you a call sometime

what are you doing in bangalore? working?
Reply
:iconxxxfearofperfectionx:
i miss you
Reply
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