Lit blog

[unpredictablebijou]

I'd kinda sorta like to write a legitimate blog post, but bijou has me totally intimidated; tath and sabina hate my ass, and i've been black-balled by the literotica poetry editors. not sure what it is i have written in bismuth and vaseline across my chest, but it may be radioactive.

Darling,

Quit it.

Write. Just write. Law 1: Apply ass to chair.

This is a BLOG thread. In the old days when we scrawled on papyrus with paintbrushes, we called it journaling. That means there's no wrong answer.

Tath and Sabina do not hate you. They are busy drinking scotch and hate no one. The black-balling thing, well, I can't tell you about that but I bet it's something else. I still haven't managed to get one of my audios to go through, after 5 weeks and four attempts, but I bet it's not because they Hate My Personal Guts.

Might be demons, though. Or Blue Meanies. If you seriously need to be worried about something, worry about Them. They'll move your car keys and curse you with extra-long nose hairs.

Just write. That's all that matters.

oh, and sex. That matters too. But that's another thread.

bijou

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I went to one PTA meeting when I first moved up here.
They took my wife aside and told her it wasn't always necessary to have both parents attend
Maybe it was the Hawaiian shirt and the odd outbursts of " Oh for Christs sake" that did it

Nicely done. I need to try that with a couple of the meetings I attend. Maybe my partners will let me off the hook after that.

bj

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Does this mean I have to stop?

bijou

 

[foehn2]

oh, sex. i had gratefully forgotten about that, and there ya go, resuscitating the monster. sigh.

(hug)

 

[Tathagata]

Nicely done. I need to try that with a couple of the meetings I attend. Maybe my partners will let me off the hook after that.

bj

You'd look good in a Hawaiian shirt too


The place where I live you don't see a lot of Hawaiian shirts, unless they are designer brands

Mine are purposely not

Old rebels die hard

 

[Tathagata]

Tath and Sabina do not hate you. They are busy drinking scotch and hate no one.



bijou

I'm glad you explained this
thank you

 

[foehn2]

i'm too old to care.

 

[foehn2]

A Visit with Blondie, As the Sun Sets


I wonder, Blondie, how many miles you have run
in your twenty-seven years as a horse. For that
matter, I wonder how many years I have wasted
in my too-short time here as a man. Distance

is something that snags somebody. You’d know that,
Temptress, Non-compliant Mare. You were bad
with men, and hard to get along with: even with the she
who rode you and showed you, at least, how to conform.

Why? Why ask why? We all come to this end.
Now, the way things are, you being a horse,
I walk up to you in a little mist of rain-showers.
You lift your head, I rub your forehead: that’s all.

Down goes your mouth, Queen of the arthritic
pains in your fumbling legs, mainly the knees.
Diligently, after I rub your forehead,
you drop your mighty horse head down

once again, to nibble up ropes of grass
and snap them free from the earth
with an energetic side-snip. Why were you born,
Blondie? Why were you here?

We don’t know. She, who has loved you, will cry.
It’s a matter of pain, and circumstance.
She’s putting you down, Blondie. I have loved you,
too, and I’ll join you, soon enough.

I drive away, having said good-bye. You
continue to nibble grass, oblivious to the
rainbow: vast, wide, acquiescent with nature’s
curves – still there, in the sky, though the sun is not.

 

[TheRainMan]

A Visit with Blondie, As the Sun Sets . . .

really good read, f.

 

[WickedEve]

In the early 90s I was experiencing apartment life for the first time. bob bob was somewhere when they came. I checked them out through the peephole. Yep, I knew the black pants and clean, white shirts. Bible-toting boys, quivering to bring me into the fold.

I didn't mean to say it. It's just that I was watching the O.J. trial on T.V. and I didn't have time to be all Christian and kind. "I'm an atheist! No, you can't save me. It's too late." Then I slammed the door shut and from there it was a downward spiral. I lost my faith, stop believing in God and Heaven, but figured there probably was a Devil.

It took many years for me pray and to believe--believe just a little. Last night I prayed. It was one of those palms pressed together kind of prayers. One that starts out, "Oh, God, I swear I'll never drink again." I puked that prayer out on the side of I-81. It's good to have a little faith and to believe, just a little.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

In the early 90s I was experiencing apartment life for the first time. bob bob was somewhere when they came. I checked them out through the peephole. Yep, I knew the black pants and clean, white shirts. Bible-toting boys, quivering to bring me into the fold.

I didn't mean to say it. It's just that I was watching the O.J. trial on T.V. and I didn't have time to be all Christian and kind. "I'm an atheist! No, you can't save me. It's too late." Then I slammed the door shut and from there it was a downward spiral. I lost my faith, stop believing in God and Heaven, but figured there probably was a Devil.

It took many years for me pray and to believe--believe just a little. Last night I prayed. It was one of those palms pressed together kind of prayers. One that starts out, "Oh, God, I swear I'll never drink again." I puked that prayer out on the side of I-81. It's good to have a little faith and to believe, just a little.

My turn:

Marry me.

bijou

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I'm glad you explained this
thank you

My pleasure. Buy me a drink, sailor?

Dammit, we're talking about single malt again.

Straighten up this minute.

bijou

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I am not Avalokiteshvara

It doesn't help that I've been with the man for nearly eighteen years and I've seen him sick maybe four times. By sick I mean a basic head cold, cranky snuffling, lasts a week and it's over.

Not like this. Never like this, babbling in pain, snarling at me, at the nurses, crying out whenever he is moved, never like this. And not, not, not letting me touch him, not letting me do something, not just jumping off the gurney and confessing that this was all just a horrible joke. I don't know what I think I would be able to do if I could just stroke his head, but he won't let me anyway, and for some reason that makes me crazy.

There is mercy in me, perhaps, but in the face of such helplessness it melts and becomes terrible fear, overwhelming frustration. I find myself crazy and desperate, after hours of watching him like this, waiting in hallways where doctors and drug reps bustle by as if the center of the universe weren't moaning in pain on a gurney right in front of them. I find I want to grab him, shake him, shout at him. Just stop it! Just STOP! You're scaring me, can't you see that? Stop hurting, stop being sick, just make it stop now. I know you can do anything, just please stop, for me, for my sake. Can't you see how scared I am? What about me?

I realize that mercy is a fleeting thing, impossible to define. Where is mercy when there is nothing to do but pray and watch and be terrified? When there is nothing to do? Is compassion an action, or merely a sensation?

And if some glowing god descended right now in this hospital hallway and offered me the opportunity to trade places with him, to take his place, would I do so? I have felt pain like that. I know the place he is. And god damn me, god help me, I don't know. I don't know what I would choose.




Journal entry dated 9-1-07. All is well now.

 

[wildsweetone]

It doesn't help that I've been with the man for nearly eighteen years and I've seen him sick maybe four times. By sick I mean a basic head cold, cranky snuffling, lasts a week and it's over.

Not like this. Never like this, babbling in pain, snarling at me, at the nurses, crying out whenever he is moved, never like this. And not, not, not letting me touch him, not letting me do something, not just jumping off the gurney and confessing that this was all just a horrible joke. I don't know what I think I would be able to do if I could just stroke his head, but he won't let me anyway, and for some reason that makes me crazy.

There is mercy in me, perhaps, but in the face of such helplessness it melts and becomes terrible fear, overwhelming frustration. I find myself crazy and desperate, after hours of watching him like this, waiting in hallways where doctors and drug reps bustle by as if the center of the universe weren't moaning in pain on a gurney right in front of them. I find I want to grab him, shake him, shout at him. Just stop it! Just STOP! You're scaring me, can't you see that? Stop hurting, stop being sick, just make it stop now. I know you can do anything, just please stop, for me, for my sake. Can't you see how scared I am? What about me?

I realize that mercy is a fleeting thing, impossible to define. Where is mercy when there is nothing to do but pray and watch and be terrified? When there is nothing to do? Is compassion an action, or merely a sensation?

And if some glowing god descended right now in this hospital hallway and offered me the opportunity to trade places with him, to take his place, would I do so? I have felt pain like that. I know the place he is. And god damn me, god help me, I don't know. I don't know what I would choose.




Journal entry dated 9-1-07. All is well now.

god does this resonate with me. and how cruel the feeling that Our Loved One is in pain, or is as scared as we, and lying on nasty uncomfortable beds in strange rooms to boot.

last Wed my 19yo had a tonsillectomy. we were in the hospital at 7am, no food since the night before for her, and after the initial rush of being seen and prepped, we were left until 1pm. she, being the eldest for the day, was last on the list for her op. meanwhile we watched others being wheeled along the corridor and being wheeled back.

we watched nurses with dark blue sprinkle-clad tops walk slow and speak on cell phones, we watched them walk brisk, with no glance to either side. all i wanted to do was lay across the hallway and trip them up. make them enter the room and take her for her operation. to get it overwith. look after her, so we could get her out of that place and bring her home.

i watched her for hours, watched the drugs relax her body, watched her eyelids droop. and then i watched her recover after the op. watched her wake, that druggy slow wake that is more sleep than life. i watched her grimace with the first realisation that pain was beginning anew. and i begged to be given her pain so she could recover in peace.

in some quirky answer to fate, the next morning i got the bronchitis part of the flu that's doing the rounds. my flu jab saved me the whole body collapse that comes with flu.

the worse part is, she's still in pain. i think i need to figure out a better way of begging.

 

[champagne1982]

I realize that mercy is a fleeting thing, impossible to define. Where is mercy when there is nothing to do but pray and watch and be terrified? When there is nothing to do? Is compassion an action, or merely a sensation?



Journal entry dated 9-1-07. All is well now.

It is so new and raw this most recent bout of pain in my life. I know I would take the pain into myself. I would swallow it and sacrifice my heart if I were allowed. I have been a close companion to death and fear and I have known pain as a part of me. It's never really absent from my day, you know? I would do what I must if I but could.

I'm glad you both are better and that you wrote of this. It helps to know there are others out there with the same agonies scratching at their character.

 

[foehn2]

yeah. good place to jump in and piss people off again.

[size=+2]Flawed Voting System News!*[/size]



I have it on poor authority, my fellow Literoticans, that we should practice, in the coming weeks, much less acuity than we have heretofore employed, learning at a minimum how to read between an author’s lines without being troubled to read the lines themselves, because, I am given to understand, it may become a requirement in the not-terribly-distant future to be a registered voter in order to vote on the literary value of things we find published here.

“What will that entail?” you ask. Good question, lector! I think there will be certain restrictions put in place, and certain qualifications that prospective voters must meet before being granted the privilege to vote.

Among the restrictions, of course, only registered voters will be allowed to vote on submissions. Registered voters who fail to vote during four successive viewings of different stories or poems will have their voting privileges revoked for one month. That is, a registered voter must vote at least 25% of the time, or the voter will be suspended. If this criterion is not met after three suspensions, the right to vote may be permanently revoked.

It all seems a little harsh to me, but I suppose one must make accommodations for needed reform. I fictionally checked with a number of those I consider to be accomplished writers here, and total votes for poems rarely rise above six, and votes for stories generally languish far below 1% of viewers. Percentage-wise, this would be tantamount to letting the citizens of Utah decide who the next president of the United States should be. Well, maybe I exaggerate. I definitely digress; there are to be other restrictions, and I haven’t gotten anywhere near the qualifications that will be required, yet.

Another restriction will be that when a voter votes a “1” on any submission, the voter will then have to fill out a short on-line questionnaire to validate the vote. I have heard rumors that a different questionnaire will be required, for the same reason, for any vote of “5.” That would only be fair play, to my way of thinking. And, although it would involve some unwelcome tedium, it is our duty as conscientious readers and developing writers to safeguard, by means of such arbitrary measures, the integrity and value of the voting process. Failure to satisfactorily justify an extreme vote on three occasions would be grounds, of course, for revocation of a voter’s registration.

Some other restrictions may already be in place. I’m not sure, because I and a friend of mine did a little experimenting, and they don’t seem to be. In any event, programmatical safeguards will be put in place that will prevent a submitter from voting for his or her own submission, and to prevent registered voters from voting more than once for the same submission.

Having covered the new limits that will be imposed as thoroughly as I am able, at the moment, I can now go over what I know of the qualifications that will be required in order to register as a qualified voter and maintain voting rights.

In addition to being a member of Literotica, naturally, and meeting those requirements for membership, it will be required that in order to successfully register to vote, one will have to prove that one is one’s self as a unique identity. This will be effected by substituting a DNA profile analysis for the currently-employed password. Periodically, the analyses will be run against a database, and if any two profiles match, the offending party will have both memberships revoked.

I have heard another rumor that there may be a test which would bar applicants with severe cases of aixelsyd from voting; that, however, seems to me to be unfair (and perhaps illegal) discrimination against the innocent handicapped. I believe that rumor may be discarded as being unlikely in the extreme.

Certain, however, will be the inclusion of a mandate that in order to qualify, a candidate for voting rights will have to satisfy whoever is put in charge of overseeing such things that he or she is as willing to be voted upon as to vote. Therefore, anyone who votes on a submission will have to have published submissions themselves, and the voting option on all submissions must be enabled for so long as the prospective voter wishes to maintain registration in good standing.

These all seem to me to be logical and fair requirements. But I have learned that a test will be given, in order to determine whether an applicant truly deserves the distinction of being allowed to vote. I am not sure whether I concur with such a test being given or not. Nevertheless, I have obtained (though I will not say how) an advance copy of the test being proposed as a prototype, or model for what will eventually be the test, and the reader may decide for himself or herself whether or not it would be appropriate. I will reproduce it below:



Literotica Applicant for Voter Registration Test


1. Wit is:

a. the opposite of witout.
b. evidence of intelligence or clever humor.
c. a blonde.



2. A protagonist is:

a. the most important character.
b. someone who suffers in a professional manner.
c. someone who studies atomic particles.


3. Punctuation is best represented by which of the following?

a. a flat tire
b. a worker arriving for work a minute early
c. an ellipsis


4. Look at this letter: [size=+1]ü [/size]–The marks above the “u” are called:

a. an umlaut.
b. a diacritical mark.
c. two small dots.


5. In the sequence of numbers, 1 through 6, which number lies precisely in the middle?

a. 4
b. 3
c. 2


6. Which of the following words is misspelled?

a. definately
b. concurr
c. grammer


7. Should the above question have been phrased, “Which of the following words are misspelled?”

a. Yes.
b. No.
c. I don’t give a rat’s ass.



8. A poetaster is someone who:

a. tastes poetry.
b. has written a poem about star-like flowers.
c. spills the ketchup.


9. What is wrong with the following sentence? “None of the people who answer this question incorrectly are going to be allowed to vote.”

a. Nothing.
b. It isn’t fair!
c. It is grammatically incorrect.


10. ”Non-erotic” means:

a. casually sexy.
b. surreptitiously pornographic.
c. you’re weird if it turns you on.


* * *


That, then, is the sort of thing that is being proposed as a qualifying test. It is fairly simple, but in case anyone looking at it was unsure of the answers for certain questions, here is the answer key:

1. – b; 2 – a; 3 – c; 4 – a, b, c; 5 – no correct answer; 6 – a, b, c; 7 – b; 8 – c, or no correct answer; 9 – c; and 10 – c.

I’m not sure how soon or how late these modifications of the Literotica voting system will be studied. Not long, I expect.

Nevertheless, I feel an ineffable sense of pressure to write as much as I possibly can before any modifications are or are not made. And so, my dear reader, I humbly ask you to please go and vote me a high rating for this superior piece of literature. Please, before it becomes impossible! After all, I have done you the great favor of conveying to you the news that everyone else was circumspect enough not to mention. If I have failed to be of service to you thereby, I have at least made up for it by being less than veracious.

 

[foehn2]

* – In the title, the adjective “Flawed” is meant to modify “News” and not “System.”

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Funny stuff.
And I passed the quiz, but I think that means I failed.
But darling. Please:

Stop caring about voting. I used to. Then I stopped. Now I am happier. There seems to be no way for the folks in charge to create a really valid system that feeds everyones desires while making sure that drama queens and trolls don't screw up the numbers, and therefore those numbers are pretty much meaningless and if you focus too much on them you will end up like Scouries and I will make fun of you as I do him.

The Buddha counsels losing one's attachment to success and failure. It is best to be unable to differentiate between gold and a stone.

My momma and the Fat Lady always give me 5's, and they're the only ones who matter anyway.

It's upsetting, I know. I wanted the numbers to mean something. I wanted to be excited, but I merely set myself up for those highs and lows that are the price of passions.

I believe now that the voting system may have been actually created with that underlying purpose in mind: it is an invitation to evolve out of a desire for success and a fear of failure, and letting go of the numbers will make you capable of focusing on the writing as itself, and eventually you will get to go to Nirvana. Laurel and Manu are actually the Buddha, trying to give us a reason to evolve beyond the numbers game of our basic lives.

The sooner you just let go, and say to yourself, hey wait, that system is silly and broken and I don't care about it anymore, the closer you are to the lotus bliss of the Diamond Realms.

I'll be your mama and give you 5's all the time, 'kay?

bijou

 

[foehn2]

i'm way past the voting crap, but i wanted to see my funny essay in print. and besides, i wanted to see bijou pass the quiz. (somehow, i knew she would). i'm serious, i think, ... if not, maybe my phlebitis is acting up.

2nd paragraph. however, in hindsight, i do like it that you thought i still cared. i don't, but it seemed to upset a couple of other erstwhile friends. actually, i never would have noticed, probably, but a fledgling darling of a poet girl revved up the model T, and since she inspired me, i jumped on.

 

[foehn2]

lol, i love your momma, bijou. sorry, not at my grammatical best, right now. trying, tho.

 

[annaswirls]

am exhausted, I have been substituting and LOVE it! It has been over 6 years since I have had my own classroom... and being back, even as just a sub, makes me realize how much I really miss my lost profession. I got to work in the special needs pre-K today, good lord I loved those little kiddos, and they are having me back tomorrow and Wed. as well. Seems that it is difficult to find subs for the special classes, so the other teachers were frantically writing down my name when they saw me with the kids today... I don't understand why people would not want to work in these classrooms. I guess it can be intimidating if you are not experienced with the population, but I feel sorry for the people who do not get to know these awesome kids.

I have not been writing, just working, making dinner, homework, play, bed, packing lunches, going to bed early.... Working mothers, I do not know how they do it full time. I don't. My hat is off to all of you. Especially if you are reading this, goodness, how do you find the time

 

[foehn2]

Seems that it is difficult to find subs for the special classes, so the other teachers were frantically writing down my name when they saw me with the kids today...

takes a special heart, anna. thank god or the stars for those such as you. i couldn't do it. not that i don't love them; i just couldn't do it. i mean, i can barely put up with myself.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

I'm glad you explained this
thank you

I don't hate anyone....


even though I am irish, uuhumm Tath.

 

[foehn2]

this will seem odd.

having come after the "quiz"... but it wants to be birthed.

[size=+2]Peper and Solt[/size]

“fouder mister printer the Nowing ones complane of my book the fust edition had no stops I put in A Nuf here and thay may peper and solt it as they plese
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................ ................ ................. ................... .................
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
..............................! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !.............................
................................... ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ................................
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.............................................!............................................
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
...............????????????????????????...............”

”Lord” Timothy Dexter in A Pickle for the Knowing Ones (2nd edition, circa 1802)


crazy rich jeenyus A solted by gostes whoo
tould u wat to do was it maybe some odd
kinection with a spirit from On Hi or more nether
like maybe had you ship kol into town just as the
kol stryke hit howd u Now what potry was going
to do howd u Now to ship warming pans to the west
Indeez to sell like hotcakes as sirrup Laduls along
with a ship Lode of cats just in time for the Mous
epedemmik o where is thet woodin likeniss of
yersef thet u put with the woodin likenissis of washington
jefferson napoliyon franklin on top of yer house
i meen yer manshun Sar well i gess thet
maybe it is in the semitary of Nport now adding
the bold pirriod we all seem to come to

 

[WickedEve]

My apologies to Charles, Ida and Bobby, but you guys had the biggest stone in the graveyard.

Anxious is 70 mph on Bratton's Run, running hot toward the General Dollar, to the meeting place, to the adventures--leaves, lichen, long forgotten country cemeteries. Beyond the swinging bridge, a trio of trees are marred by i-hooks, up high enough for a tall woman to grasp. In the field, three no longer rest in peace. I lay across there names and dates, beaten and bruised and beautiful in my own mind, odd in the camera lens.