2026-03-18 23:39![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
witchpoetdreamer
witchpoetdreamerOh god. It's done. We've finally got to the end of the series (at least what exists for now). I'm sad. This is sad. I needed a moment to process everything that happened when we finished the game. What do you mean we only learnt Glide (my beloved) and Curaga at the very end of the goddamn game? What do you mean Sora is gone? What do you mean the Toy Story video game Riku is a real character now?
( What do you mean... )
( What do you mean... )
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2026-03-18 10:15witchpoetdreamer
witchpoetdreamerI've been getting better at recognizing my limits. Well, in some aspects. I've recently went through the worst asthma attack I've ever had because I pushed myself too much, thinking I would be okay a few moments longer before taking my emergency meds. Big mistake. Didn't have to go to the hospital but damn, never want to experience the sensation of not being able to breathe like that again, it was awful (I'm okay now).
( Read more... )
( Read more... )
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2026-03-18 08:40witchpoetdreamer
witchpoetdreamerOkay so, here I am now! I wasn't ready at first to grant access to anybody because, well, none of my posts were on a grant access limit before. But I think I feel ready to have some posts hidden behind that, mainly whatever fiction I'd like to share. If you've been subscribed for a while and noticed that I granted you access when you thought you had it already before, that's not a bug! At first, since I didn't have a need for it, I removed the access from almost everyone because, well, not needed! But since now it is, I'll be setting it up again, which means everyone who is currently subscribed to me is most likely to have it (and if I forgot you for some reason, or if you actually don't care about being granted access, please let me know in the comments!)
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2026-03-17 20:39witchpoetdreamer
witchpoetdreamerPrego's pasta sauce jars are amazing to reuse for drinks I need to shake to mix. Pour in, seal the jar, shake, drink. Lovely way to enjoy a cold coffee with milk and sweetener. I also particularly like those jars because they have the number of ounces on the side. I kept one jar that goes up to 12 ounces, and the one I've used most this week goes up to 20 ounces. Very useful. I don't keep every single jars of the pasta sauce (we eat a lot of pasta so that would be impractical), but I do make sure to always have those one hand if they need replacement.
***
I had to get myself some higher quality watercolor paper because my sketchbook wasn't taking it well at all (although it's been behaving better with my watercolour pencils, it still warps heavily but I do like the crinkling of the paper once dry, but normal watercolours would make the water puddle in places, not great at all). I decided to go to Walmart because I want to keep my spending low in favour of savings right now, and honestly? Did not expect their paper to slap so hard! I just got a mix media paper sketchbook (because I prefer hot press watercolor paper and they only had cold press, but the mix media paper was smoother) and damn. It's actually better than the gouache paper I've had before! It warps a little bit (that I expected) but barely, and besides I'm not using this paper in any professional way so I don't need it to not warp at all. AND I got a lot of it for pretty cheap. Definitely going to get this same sketchbook once I'm done with the one I have now.
***
Speaking of watercolour, I've taken some time to play around with the mixing of my watercolour pencils and chose more or less the same colours for my watercolour themselves so now I have the same-ish palette for both and I can play around with what I know right now (and said palettes are pretty limited, which I like better than the 48 colours I've got. Now I only have 16 to choose from, which still allows me to not have to mix primary into secondary or tertiary, but also gives me plenty to mix from for particular colours I'd like).
****
I've started to have a bit more fun with my writing lately. I think fully admitting to what my problem is in a previous post of mine unlocked something. I'm not saying that I'm healed, but my approach to writing feels more... simple and carefree than it's been before. I feel it's going to be a cycle, an upward spiral in which every time I go back to feeling lost, it's easier, and I get better during the times I feel like I know where I'm going. And you wanna know what helped a lot? Creative Writing for Dummies. I swear, the for Dummies books have been really good to me (although I really dislike that they have books like "writing prompts for generative AI" and that kind of shit in their collection now).
It feels like, when it comes to writing, because I've done it for two decades at this point, I tell myself that I'm not a beginner, but in many ways, I still very much am. I have finished poems, lots of them. I have finished a grand total of three short stories. And I have never finished a novel. And that's something that the book reminded me of: someone can be a great poet but suck at writing novels. My skills at one thing don't necessarily translate to my skills at something else, even if they use the same medium. I think the main thing is that I am impatient when it comes to art. I like to be able to create something and it's done within the day (or at least it feels done within the day). Only once have I taken more than a day to finish a drawing. And the last time I've taken the time to write more than a few chapters of a novel, I was a teen with so much time on my hands.
I don't let myself be taken by whatever art I create for long enough anymore. I don't allow myself to enter a flow state. I think the last time I did was when doing embroidery, but I went too hard, hurt my shoulder and couldn't embroider for a few weeks, so now I'm scared to pick it up again because, well, I need my limbs for work (if my legs are going to suck, at least let me have my arms damn it). Maybe what I need first is a good yoga regimen, something that will allow me to keep my limbs in good shape and supple rather than cramped from sitting like a gremlin all day long when not working.
All in all, I've got a few good days to ponder, explore and enjoy the small (and not so small) things in life.
***
I had to get myself some higher quality watercolor paper because my sketchbook wasn't taking it well at all (although it's been behaving better with my watercolour pencils, it still warps heavily but I do like the crinkling of the paper once dry, but normal watercolours would make the water puddle in places, not great at all). I decided to go to Walmart because I want to keep my spending low in favour of savings right now, and honestly? Did not expect their paper to slap so hard! I just got a mix media paper sketchbook (because I prefer hot press watercolor paper and they only had cold press, but the mix media paper was smoother) and damn. It's actually better than the gouache paper I've had before! It warps a little bit (that I expected) but barely, and besides I'm not using this paper in any professional way so I don't need it to not warp at all. AND I got a lot of it for pretty cheap. Definitely going to get this same sketchbook once I'm done with the one I have now.
***
Speaking of watercolour, I've taken some time to play around with the mixing of my watercolour pencils and chose more or less the same colours for my watercolour themselves so now I have the same-ish palette for both and I can play around with what I know right now (and said palettes are pretty limited, which I like better than the 48 colours I've got. Now I only have 16 to choose from, which still allows me to not have to mix primary into secondary or tertiary, but also gives me plenty to mix from for particular colours I'd like).
****
I've started to have a bit more fun with my writing lately. I think fully admitting to what my problem is in a previous post of mine unlocked something. I'm not saying that I'm healed, but my approach to writing feels more... simple and carefree than it's been before. I feel it's going to be a cycle, an upward spiral in which every time I go back to feeling lost, it's easier, and I get better during the times I feel like I know where I'm going. And you wanna know what helped a lot? Creative Writing for Dummies. I swear, the for Dummies books have been really good to me (although I really dislike that they have books like "writing prompts for generative AI" and that kind of shit in their collection now).
It feels like, when it comes to writing, because I've done it for two decades at this point, I tell myself that I'm not a beginner, but in many ways, I still very much am. I have finished poems, lots of them. I have finished a grand total of three short stories. And I have never finished a novel. And that's something that the book reminded me of: someone can be a great poet but suck at writing novels. My skills at one thing don't necessarily translate to my skills at something else, even if they use the same medium. I think the main thing is that I am impatient when it comes to art. I like to be able to create something and it's done within the day (or at least it feels done within the day). Only once have I taken more than a day to finish a drawing. And the last time I've taken the time to write more than a few chapters of a novel, I was a teen with so much time on my hands.
I don't let myself be taken by whatever art I create for long enough anymore. I don't allow myself to enter a flow state. I think the last time I did was when doing embroidery, but I went too hard, hurt my shoulder and couldn't embroider for a few weeks, so now I'm scared to pick it up again because, well, I need my limbs for work (if my legs are going to suck, at least let me have my arms damn it). Maybe what I need first is a good yoga regimen, something that will allow me to keep my limbs in good shape and supple rather than cramped from sitting like a gremlin all day long when not working.
All in all, I've got a few good days to ponder, explore and enjoy the small (and not so small) things in life.
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2026-03-16 16:33witchpoetdreamer
witchpoetdreamerWife and I watched the play yesterday on the National Theatre Youtube Channel (it's available for free for a fundraiser for 3 more days I believe). I've been wanting to watch it since seeing a few clips with Ncuti Gatwa being his charming, openly gay self. But I don't think it hit quite right.
( Is it spoilers if it's about a century old play? )
( Is it spoilers if it's about a century old play? )
2026-03-11 14:44witchpoetdreamer
witchpoetdreamerThe other day, while trying (and failing) to fall asleep, I decided to scroll through my kobo's overdrive looking for a book that would soothe me to sleep while not being too tempting to keep reading until dawn. I... think I found one...?
The book is Practice by Rosalind Brown. It's... strange? But also incredibly relatable? It's the story of a woman working last minute on her essay on Shakespeare (hence the relatable), but it's told in the most minute details. I know exactly how the narrator's pee feels when trickling down her labia kind of detail. Someone online compared it to Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, and I can see that in a way (I haven't read the full review yet because I went into this novel knowing nothing about it and I would like to keep it that way).
I haven't finished the book yet. Partly because I've been able to sleep the nights after and didn't have much time to read during the day, partly because, well, if I'm honest, I have both expectations and apprehensions for where the book is going to go now. And it's something I want to work on pulling out of my head. I want to relearn to let someone tell me a story exactly how they want to tell it rather than go in with the knowledge I possess from both decades of reading and years of deep analysis of literature at uni. If anything, as much as reading has once been a comfort zone, to learn to let go of those expectations is completely out of it. To read a book and consume it with my mind a blank slate feels foreign to me now. When expectations come from the first volume of a series, it's a little bit different. I have had a taste of the author's writing style and the general direction they seem to be aiming for. But when expectations come from just the first few pages I've read, it feels... the only word that comes to mind right now is "terrifying". How strange, to feel anxious about whether or not a story will live up to what I want it to be in my mind. What gear in my brain went askew? And was it always like that or is it something that happened later on during my studies (because that's also when I've been at my worst, mental health-wise).
Is it the topic of the book? That weird balance between "I relate", "I miss it" and "I'm so glad it's over?" Is it the writing? Something I compare my own to, knowing there is space for my bizarre storytelling out there, the one that I don't really share, that I most often do not write, because who would like to read that? It's not the first book this happens with though. Regardless of topic and writing technique, I've DNFed books halfway through that I knew I might like but was scared to see how it would fully unfold. I've DNFed books I've almost finished for the same reason.
There is something about books that is both what I love most and what scares me most both at the same time. And I don't know what is at the junction of both. Love and hate, I can certainly understand. Love and fear, there is nothing to fear from the stories I read themselves. What am I afraid to discover within myself if I finish the books? It's the same kind of fear that holds onto me when I'm thinking of writing. So it must all be related one way or another. What I read and what I write, sisters looking down on me, not in judgement but as two goddesses disappointed in the quality of my worship. I can see them clearly in my mind's eyes. I would draw them if I could (I just might).
There certainly is a pedestal. I do not see them as my equal. I do not see them seeing me as an equal either. How catholic. Something has to give though, for me to find comfort in worship once again. And that something has to be me.
The only way forward is through.
(I would give a therapist a field day...)
The book is Practice by Rosalind Brown. It's... strange? But also incredibly relatable? It's the story of a woman working last minute on her essay on Shakespeare (hence the relatable), but it's told in the most minute details. I know exactly how the narrator's pee feels when trickling down her labia kind of detail. Someone online compared it to Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, and I can see that in a way (I haven't read the full review yet because I went into this novel knowing nothing about it and I would like to keep it that way).
I haven't finished the book yet. Partly because I've been able to sleep the nights after and didn't have much time to read during the day, partly because, well, if I'm honest, I have both expectations and apprehensions for where the book is going to go now. And it's something I want to work on pulling out of my head. I want to relearn to let someone tell me a story exactly how they want to tell it rather than go in with the knowledge I possess from both decades of reading and years of deep analysis of literature at uni. If anything, as much as reading has once been a comfort zone, to learn to let go of those expectations is completely out of it. To read a book and consume it with my mind a blank slate feels foreign to me now. When expectations come from the first volume of a series, it's a little bit different. I have had a taste of the author's writing style and the general direction they seem to be aiming for. But when expectations come from just the first few pages I've read, it feels... the only word that comes to mind right now is "terrifying". How strange, to feel anxious about whether or not a story will live up to what I want it to be in my mind. What gear in my brain went askew? And was it always like that or is it something that happened later on during my studies (because that's also when I've been at my worst, mental health-wise).
Is it the topic of the book? That weird balance between "I relate", "I miss it" and "I'm so glad it's over?" Is it the writing? Something I compare my own to, knowing there is space for my bizarre storytelling out there, the one that I don't really share, that I most often do not write, because who would like to read that? It's not the first book this happens with though. Regardless of topic and writing technique, I've DNFed books halfway through that I knew I might like but was scared to see how it would fully unfold. I've DNFed books I've almost finished for the same reason.
There is something about books that is both what I love most and what scares me most both at the same time. And I don't know what is at the junction of both. Love and hate, I can certainly understand. Love and fear, there is nothing to fear from the stories I read themselves. What am I afraid to discover within myself if I finish the books? It's the same kind of fear that holds onto me when I'm thinking of writing. So it must all be related one way or another. What I read and what I write, sisters looking down on me, not in judgement but as two goddesses disappointed in the quality of my worship. I can see them clearly in my mind's eyes. I would draw them if I could (I just might).
There certainly is a pedestal. I do not see them as my equal. I do not see them seeing me as an equal either. How catholic. Something has to give though, for me to find comfort in worship once again. And that something has to be me.
The only way forward is through.
(I would give a therapist a field day...)
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2026-03-08 23:32witchpoetdreamer
witchpoetdreamerThis week, I've managed to stay offline for the most part. Even when posting here, I've mainly wrote on Obsidian first and copy pasted, so my time on the website have been minimal. I've responded to most people's comments, but I haven't been as present to read and comment on their own posts. Which I'm learning isn't such a bad thing either. Sometimes, being in a community means knowing others exist in the same neighbourhood even when we don't actively seek out each other. It's something I have to remind myself often. Community takes time to build, and that's okay. Community won't disappear if I don't read and comment on every single posts for a week or so. I will not develop fomo over missing some people's posts. Missing posts is not the end of the world. If I'm okay with other people not reading and commenting on every one of my posts, then they are most likely okay with me doing the same. Because when they do, I am just happy to say hello back and exchange with them then, so surely they feel the same way. And if they don't, maybe we are just not a good fit for each other, and that is okay too.
Community takes time. I do not have to be chronically online to maintain it. I can be present just once in a while, write and respond when I can, and it's okay. It's easy to fall back into familiar patterns, familiar pressure to exist in online spaces daily or else. An "or else" that implies erasure, disappearance of the self, a fallen tree no one can hear. But the tree is still there. The tree still stands. The tree exists even if no one perceives it.
(I will not disappoint the tree for not seeing it. The tree still exists. The tree does not need me. The tree is okay. Why is my brain like that?)
Community takes time. I do not have to be chronically online to maintain it. I can be present just once in a while, write and respond when I can, and it's okay. It's easy to fall back into familiar patterns, familiar pressure to exist in online spaces daily or else. An "or else" that implies erasure, disappearance of the self, a fallen tree no one can hear. But the tree is still there. The tree still stands. The tree exists even if no one perceives it.
(I will not disappoint the tree for not seeing it. The tree still exists. The tree does not need me. The tree is okay. Why is my brain like that?)