Mothers make physical babies. Writers make fictional babies. Make physical fictional babies & have it all

magic of the record button & the 1st video beakvlog

Hey you,

Last week, I hinted at change.

Name change.

Only because I have changed.

5 years ago, starting this letter was a push to hear myself.

5 years later, I am ready to hear myself audibly

Never have I heard myself, or seen my hands on a screen for more than a minute. Not even by 2025.

Last week, with cap and sunglasses, I sat at the window and made a lot of videos.

Actually, what I did was click record and chat with Lunarian.

Keeping the imperfections, keeping my humanity

I recorded way more than I wanted to show. I recorded way more to cut away, like nebulous socials winds suggest you should, because no one is interested in all the imperfect moments, the reality of genuine considerations and heart.

Except for crazy camera shakes, my shouting at lunarian for cluttering my mind with physical things, I kept majority of the minutes. Even the um and ahs. Because I am all the um and ahs.

Then, another horror.

Reviewing the videos, I sulked.

Everything i had to say was squeezed out of me by the power of the record button, I’d nothing left to type to you.

Do you read books? Lunarian said.

Yah?!? I snorted and twitched a nod.

Even after you watched tv?

I lowered my cap and turned my head, 180 degree if I could, to make him go away.

We ventured into a hall of mirrors

In the video playback, I see my hands picking up beakie after beakie, doll part after doll part. As Lunarian interrogated me, my hands drew circles, beakies figure skated.

According to Lunarian, I sounded exactly like I do in real life. Difficult and funny, loud and hesitant, shy and quick to temper, loving and scary.

Witness and be witnessed, that’s community

I saw how I, at once, had the compulsion to create from the rubbish that surrounds me, shape rubbish into beings, and welcome the shaping of myself by the same environment.

As the lump of cloth in my hands begins to individuate, as the fabric being stands apart from the rubbish environment from which it came, I begin to interact with the fabric being as an individual.

Now, the lump of fabric is a self determined individual. I stepped back, hands off, and shut up.

I want only to witness. I want to listen. I want to watch it grow. Do no harm.

Yet, I am needed. I am needed for my guiding hands, for connection, for songs, for love, for my witnessing, for my love. I am needed for it to become.

How much is too much how much is too little

I will aways be wrong because there’s no right.

TLDR; Do it. Say it. Cut the threads.

Some days i will do nothing, and regret it.

Some days i’ll do so much i haven’t had time to regret, but sure will later.

But all regrets end up in a pot called unreliable memory anyway. Might as well have it fresh. And, move on.

Move on to watch Koonung’s first walk in the park.

This is my very first video about a Koala beakie. I found her in a bag among unfinished doll parts. She was the only whole beakie. I questioned her place in the bag. I questioned my memory of the time I zipped her in the bag.

Oh, this space, I’ve said too much of what I didn’t plan, this substack scratchpad is now Beakstar Voyager.

I am lifting the anchor from the harbour, and going where the wind blows. More later, as the journey continues. See you, marn