(my warpaint is) sharpie ink
(my warpaint is) sharpie ink
ryan-centric gen, pg
1521 words
by girlintheband
title by kimya dawson. much stylistic inspiration from e.e. cummings. this is something that is very experimental but i'm in that mood where you just have to put things out there regardless. thank you to softlyforgotten, alchemywow and miznarrator for looking at this in its various stages of existence. ♥
The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love, suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences... - Allen Ginsberg
He's excited when they plan it.
He's excited when they get there.
He's still excited one day two days three days later.
(Before)-- before,
Ryan couldn't get the idea out of his mind for months. The idea of working in seclusion, away from the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas, away from-- well, everything. But, now--
After a week, the excitement's worn off, the desire to writerecordperform is waning, the alcohol is running low, and Ryan can't figure out why, can't figure out what's wrong with the picture.
It's going to be a concept album, Ryan decides a few days into the recording process.
He announces it to the others over breakfast.
"It's going to be a concept album," he says in between mouthfuls of cereal.
He doesn't look up to see what anyone's reaction is. There's just silence, so Ryan spoons more cereal into his mouth, stares down at the milk in the bottom of his bowl, the little bits of grain floating in it.
"It's going to be a concept album," he repeats. "A fairy tale."
No-one really questions him. No-one asks what he's doing.
It's going to be his words, and their music.
It doesn't even occur to him that there could be other ways to go about it.
It's not that it's bad. It's not. And it's definitely not that they're not having fun. They are.
It's more like (one:
It's not coming together in Ryan's head - not the way he had expected it to, nor in the way he wants it to, and definitely not the way the others are relying on it to.
And-- (two:
And, well, it's not coming together at all, really, if Ryan's going to be completely honest with himself.
Ryan's not very good at being honest with himself.
There's no framework, and Ryan's struggling.
Spencer tries to help.
It works for a while, and for a while longer, and then, then it doesn't--
Spencer starts spending more time with Jon (on the deck- in the valley- amongst the trees- on the roof) after that time where Ryan--
;after that time.
(maybe it was significant maybe things were said, hurtful things sharp and bitter and the taste of acid on his tongue as soon as he says them, but
Ryan can't even remember, not anymore. He wishes he could.
"You should get some sleep, Ross," Jon mumbles into his neck. He's half-asleep; Ryan should be too.
His mind just won't stop, though; he's tried, he's tried and--
"Stop thinking so loudly."
Ryan wants to. (Jon doesn't understand how much he wants to.) He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw and tries so hard.
Jon falls asleep shortly after. Ryan stays awake for hours until there's a crick in his neck shoulder back his whole spine from how they're lying on the sofa but he doesn't want to move because Jon might get upset--
(he won't)
--and Ryan doesn't want anyone else to be disappointed in him, too.
His own disappointment is bad enough, way too much.
Brendon mostly avoids him altogether after the first few weeks.
Brendon seems happy, at least-- (bright and cheerful and smiling alwayssmiling
--the way he should be. Ryan doesn't want to infringe on his happiness, so he just- so he doesn't interfere- so he leaves him alone, smiling to himself and for the others, less and less for Ryan now and it hurts but(
oh( he doesn't know how to fix it.
He burns his guitar one night.
It should probably be more of a big deal than it seems at the time (Spencer's wide eyes, his hushed But Ryan, you love that guitar-- mixed in with thoughts of his father of his first guitar of the first song he and Spencer learnt to play together, but- but at the time he hates it, hates that guitar so much.
It's been one of the most frustrating days at the cabin so far. Every word he writes seems wrong - too wordy not wordy enough maybe if he does it like that, then--;
--and even the few words he does like, the tantamount snatches of lyrics he can sometimes imagine being proud of one day - even those words won't bend to his will. They refuse to be strung together, instead just sit there on the page, clear and sharp but indistinct all at once.
So he burns his guitar (sets fire to it out in the courtyard first, after he's thrown it around a bit inside, then drags it by its neck- strings snapped, one of them cutting into his thumb as he pulls the guitar along -into the dustgrassdirt beyond the paving stones. He drops it there, sets fire to it (with surprising difficulty); he takes a couple of jagged steps backwards, and sits down, hitting the ground hard. He brings his knees up to chest and wraps his arms around them and just--
;watches.
Shane's there; filming, of course. Shane's always filming.
---(omnipresent constantly hovering asking what's that? what's going on what are you thinking hey do you mind if i film you doing that sorry missed it can you do it again or hey maybe if you.....)
Ryan frowns, his own thoughts getting away from him --more and more increasingly common these days, they just never stop but somehow never make sense either, sometimes he thinks maybe he's going a bit mad--;
but the point, the point was that:
Ryan frowns, ignores Shane, just tries to blink away the heat that's emanating from the flames that are slowly but surely engulfing his guitar.
It scorches his eyes but he doesn't look away.
Nine at night, seven in the morning( it all starts to blend he can't tell the difference;
Ryan finds himself climbing into Brendon's Spencer's Jon's bed-- )beds they all share anyway, comfort in closeness and proximity of skin(
--more and more often.
(How many days has it been anyway? Shouldn't someone be counting these things it could be important one day someone might need to know what if----)
Ryan, he;
(what if what if)
He just needs, sometimes. Needs but doesn't know can't say never knew what, so he keeps it to himself (all there is to keep to himself anyway--).
His headspace isn't right;
(he can actually hear Brendon's voice in his head, laughing but rough from days of singing in new ways soaring to new heights dropping to new lows, saying
--a mockingbird in mimickery--;
your mom's headspace isn't right
he can hear).
Pete doesn't seem to understand when Ryan hints (tries so so hard to drop a hint, many hints through texts and IMs and late night early morning phone calls).
Ryan can't explain himself properly, maybe, because he thinks Pete --Pete, of all people-- should be able to understand, but Pete tells Ryan to pull himself together and sort himself out and and just be himself and
(himself himself himself as if it's all about him about Ryan);
--it's not his words. Ryan's positive. It's not him, must be someone else.
It's Brendon's melodies that don't fit his words, that's it, surely, and oh-- oh maybe, wait;
Maybe that's it? Maybe that's what Pete's trying to say.
(this could be the moment where it all changes)
"Maybe this isn't working," Ryan concedes, one night, finally. It's taken him so long. The clock is nearing four a.m. but they've only been awake since two in the afternoon, anyway, so it's not like it matters, but;
Jon looks up, tilts his head curiously; like he's picked up on something. Spencer smiles, small and secretive; like he's known all along. Brendon smiles, too, open and easy; like he doesn't know but it doesn't matter because he knows someone will (hopefully) tell him in the end anyway.
It doesn't matter;; it doesn't. Because-- (because he's burnt his guitar got tattoos grown his hair but it hasn't helped with the songs, none of it has, in retrospect hasn't achieved much of anything at all but how was he supposed to know? he can barely keep up with normal conversation about weather breakfast plectrums animals that visit their cabin at night)
Because--
They all look ready to listen, and Ryan decides maybe it's time to talk, for once. (Once just this once-- or again, if it works will it work Ryan can't tell yet, because--;
(because because because)
(wait for it)
Ryan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he sees his band mates, his best friends, sitting there and looking at him expectantly, so he--
So he opens his mouth, and starts to talk.
It's the first time he's tried to voice what's in his mind for days; weeks, maybe, and-- it's all a bit of a jumble, but, when he exhales slowly, everyone smiles again, encouraging, and;
It all comes together. Just like that.
Ryan's head feels so much clearer already, and he thinks-- maybe, just maybe, he can do this;
No, wait-- Not he.
They.
They can do this.
And they do.
ryan-centric gen, pg
1521 words
by girlintheband
title by kimya dawson. much stylistic inspiration from e.e. cummings. this is something that is very experimental but i'm in that mood where you just have to put things out there regardless. thank you to softlyforgotten, alchemywow and miznarrator for looking at this in its various stages of existence. ♥
The poet becomes a seer through a long, immense, and reasoned derangement of all the senses. All shapes of love, suffering, madness. He searches himself, he exhausts all poisons in himself, to keep only the quintessences... - Allen Ginsberg
He's excited when they plan it.
He's excited when they get there.
He's still excited one day two days three days later.
(Before)-- before,
Ryan couldn't get the idea out of his mind for months. The idea of working in seclusion, away from the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas, away from-- well, everything. But, now--
After a week, the excitement's worn off, the desire to writerecordperform is waning, the alcohol is running low, and Ryan can't figure out why, can't figure out what's wrong with the picture.
It's going to be a concept album, Ryan decides a few days into the recording process.
He announces it to the others over breakfast.
"It's going to be a concept album," he says in between mouthfuls of cereal.
He doesn't look up to see what anyone's reaction is. There's just silence, so Ryan spoons more cereal into his mouth, stares down at the milk in the bottom of his bowl, the little bits of grain floating in it.
"It's going to be a concept album," he repeats. "A fairy tale."
No-one really questions him. No-one asks what he's doing.
It's going to be his words, and their music.
It doesn't even occur to him that there could be other ways to go about it.
It's not that it's bad. It's not. And it's definitely not that they're not having fun. They are.
It's more like (one:
It's not coming together in Ryan's head - not the way he had expected it to, nor in the way he wants it to, and definitely not the way the others are relying on it to.
And-- (two:
And, well, it's not coming together at all, really, if Ryan's going to be completely honest with himself.
Ryan's not very good at being honest with himself.
There's no framework, and Ryan's struggling.
Spencer tries to help.
It works for a while, and for a while longer, and then, then it doesn't--
Spencer starts spending more time with Jon (on the deck- in the valley- amongst the trees- on the roof) after that time where Ryan--
;after that time.
(maybe it was significant maybe things were said, hurtful things sharp and bitter and the taste of acid on his tongue as soon as he says them, but
Ryan can't even remember, not anymore. He wishes he could.
"You should get some sleep, Ross," Jon mumbles into his neck. He's half-asleep; Ryan should be too.
His mind just won't stop, though; he's tried, he's tried and--
"Stop thinking so loudly."
Ryan wants to. (Jon doesn't understand how much he wants to.) He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw and tries so hard.
Jon falls asleep shortly after. Ryan stays awake for hours until there's a crick in his neck shoulder back his whole spine from how they're lying on the sofa but he doesn't want to move because Jon might get upset--
(he won't)
--and Ryan doesn't want anyone else to be disappointed in him, too.
His own disappointment is bad enough, way too much.
Brendon mostly avoids him altogether after the first few weeks.
Brendon seems happy, at least-- (bright and cheerful and smiling alwayssmiling
--the way he should be. Ryan doesn't want to infringe on his happiness, so he just- so he doesn't interfere- so he leaves him alone, smiling to himself and for the others, less and less for Ryan now and it hurts but(
oh( he doesn't know how to fix it.
He burns his guitar one night.
It should probably be more of a big deal than it seems at the time (Spencer's wide eyes, his hushed But Ryan, you love that guitar-- mixed in with thoughts of his father of his first guitar of the first song he and Spencer learnt to play together, but- but at the time he hates it, hates that guitar so much.
It's been one of the most frustrating days at the cabin so far. Every word he writes seems wrong - too wordy not wordy enough maybe if he does it like that, then--;
--and even the few words he does like, the tantamount snatches of lyrics he can sometimes imagine being proud of one day - even those words won't bend to his will. They refuse to be strung together, instead just sit there on the page, clear and sharp but indistinct all at once.
So he burns his guitar (sets fire to it out in the courtyard first, after he's thrown it around a bit inside, then drags it by its neck- strings snapped, one of them cutting into his thumb as he pulls the guitar along -into the dustgrassdirt beyond the paving stones. He drops it there, sets fire to it (with surprising difficulty); he takes a couple of jagged steps backwards, and sits down, hitting the ground hard. He brings his knees up to chest and wraps his arms around them and just--
;watches.
Shane's there; filming, of course. Shane's always filming.
---(omnipresent constantly hovering asking what's that? what's going on what are you thinking hey do you mind if i film you doing that sorry missed it can you do it again or hey maybe if you.....)
Ryan frowns, his own thoughts getting away from him --more and more increasingly common these days, they just never stop but somehow never make sense either, sometimes he thinks maybe he's going a bit mad--;
but the point, the point was that:
Ryan frowns, ignores Shane, just tries to blink away the heat that's emanating from the flames that are slowly but surely engulfing his guitar.
It scorches his eyes but he doesn't look away.
Nine at night, seven in the morning( it all starts to blend he can't tell the difference;
Ryan finds himself climbing into Brendon's Spencer's Jon's bed-- )beds they all share anyway, comfort in closeness and proximity of skin(
--more and more often.
(How many days has it been anyway? Shouldn't someone be counting these things it could be important one day someone might need to know what if----)
Ryan, he;
(what if what if)
He just needs, sometimes. Needs but doesn't know can't say never knew what, so he keeps it to himself (all there is to keep to himself anyway--).
His headspace isn't right;
(he can actually hear Brendon's voice in his head, laughing but rough from days of singing in new ways soaring to new heights dropping to new lows, saying
--a mockingbird in mimickery--;
your mom's headspace isn't right
he can hear).
Pete doesn't seem to understand when Ryan hints (tries so so hard to drop a hint, many hints through texts and IMs and late night early morning phone calls).
Ryan can't explain himself properly, maybe, because he thinks Pete --Pete, of all people-- should be able to understand, but Pete tells Ryan to pull himself together and sort himself out and and just be himself and
(himself himself himself as if it's all about him about Ryan);
--it's not his words. Ryan's positive. It's not him, must be someone else.
It's Brendon's melodies that don't fit his words, that's it, surely, and oh-- oh maybe, wait;
Maybe that's it? Maybe that's what Pete's trying to say.
(this could be the moment where it all changes)
"Maybe this isn't working," Ryan concedes, one night, finally. It's taken him so long. The clock is nearing four a.m. but they've only been awake since two in the afternoon, anyway, so it's not like it matters, but;
Jon looks up, tilts his head curiously; like he's picked up on something. Spencer smiles, small and secretive; like he's known all along. Brendon smiles, too, open and easy; like he doesn't know but it doesn't matter because he knows someone will (hopefully) tell him in the end anyway.
It doesn't matter;; it doesn't. Because-- (because he's burnt his guitar got tattoos grown his hair but it hasn't helped with the songs, none of it has, in retrospect hasn't achieved much of anything at all but how was he supposed to know? he can barely keep up with normal conversation about weather breakfast plectrums animals that visit their cabin at night)
Because--
They all look ready to listen, and Ryan decides maybe it's time to talk, for once. (Once just this once-- or again, if it works will it work Ryan can't tell yet, because--;
(because because because)
(wait for it)
Ryan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he sees his band mates, his best friends, sitting there and looking at him expectantly, so he--
So he opens his mouth, and starts to talk.
It's the first time he's tried to voice what's in his mind for days; weeks, maybe, and-- it's all a bit of a jumble, but, when he exhales slowly, everyone smiles again, encouraging, and;
It all comes together. Just like that.
Ryan's head feels so much clearer already, and he thinks-- maybe, just maybe, he can do this;
No, wait-- Not he.
They.
They can do this.
And they do.