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*waggles bum* do you like my reason for editting?
 
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two wonderful words... two fine reasons in tandem. a bicycle built...

And poetic! Poetic. Yes, Poetic.

Actually, the new idea sounds like something that the Mind Control writers might have already thought up. But I don't want to look. Because really, I don't think there's too many really new ideas left. Just different treatments and approaches and combinations. Think?

I really gotta skedaddle...
 
unpredictablebijou said:
By all means. Being blamed for shit is one of my most stellar skills. I'm quite good at it. And being blamed for really good things is my favorite part. Have at it, doll.

bj
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By all means, feel free to cash in a generous helping of scapegoat credit on yer ol' pal tihmmnmm if you ever need it...
 
hmmnmm said:
By all means, feel free to cash in a generous helping of scapegoat credit on yer ol' pal tihmmnmm if you ever need it...
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Interestingly, that theme is one I've been writing about lately. The whole concept of the sin-eater in cultures, and how that ritual purifies cultural consciousness. It's abstract and wiggy enough as a theme to fit right nicely into this thread.

But it's not poetry, and it's not anywhere near finished, so it will have to stand as a vague reference for the moment.

Which may fit even better, as it turns out.

But here's the link that got me started back onto a theme I wander into regularly, just in case you're interested. Another version of the ritual of the sin-eater.

enjoy,
bj
 
A. I started to watch but this machine is like, prehistoric, so videos tend to go realllll sloooow. I'll try again in the near future. I got to spend some time in Japan, long time ago, courtesy of the air force. hated the air force, loved Japan; right outside Tokyo. Actually I loved it a little too much; uncle sam got jealous... ahhhh... memories.

B. you bring up a couple points that I find interesting, which I'll expand on later.

C. This thread exemplifies how I personally think would be the funnest way to create stories or poems. Because it began with one general intent, then changed course, changed again, and now it's trying to twist around and climb up a tree. I really really want to come up with stuff like that: but all the dos and don'ts must undergo complete eradication, which is hard because some of them cling practically to the skin and others are invisible. but someday, I will. I will.

forgot D.
 
This seems significant. Otherwise I would not take the time to share it. You know, it's true (this is not the significant something). Something I've been meaning to get into, but won't now; maybe just this: A frequent word of advice you hear passed around a lot out there in the word construction racket, is that there needs to be a Why. Especially those who wear badges of authority in storyland. Double especially in sex storyland. They'll tell you right out with the most completely convincing deadpan, that if there will be sexual activity between two or more persons, they should or even must have a reason. Must be a why. Which is complete bullshit. Because there's always a reason for everything. Anyway. We don't always know reasons. It may not look like a reason we recognize. but no more on that. It is bullshit though. I once believed it. Only in recent days did I see. So... we all make mistakes, sometimes repeatedly, because we think we're doing the right thing. Maybe another time when the new year has grown a few weeks.

But the reason I came up into this awake state this hour was because of a phone call. Had the phone call come just thirty minutes earlier I would've gone back to sleep. As it was, I just decided to stay up. Love these early winter morning dark moments. So quiet. Well the caller was calling from overseas. The call was not for me. It was for my wife. Her native land is not this one. And her tongue did not originally speak the language I consider my native tongue. The caller heard my inquiring voice of 'hello' (in english) and responded in kind and in quite commendable english. The caller was a she, having known my wife long before I did and wished to trade new years wishes, mainly with her. Cool. Unfortunately the wife was not in the house. I told the caller as much. And agreed to pass along the caller's identity to the wife who was requested to call when the time was right.

Well. We came to the portion of the telephone exchange that even an uncultured american brute such as I could surmise that the exchange was near to severance. I had an idea. Which I had little time to think about. Had to act fast. The idea was to wish the caller a happy new year, but use her native tongue. So I did so. I used the caller's native tongue to speak a familiar phrase.

Guess what happened?

there followed from so far away a moment of silence, after which the caller then attempted to repeat something, like who she was. I interrupted (politely) and repeated the phrase, slower and clearer. Then she understood. Ah! And I could feel her smile from far away. We ended our telephone episode on a happy note. At least it sounded happy to me.

But I did entertain a curious perplexity as I fixed the first pot of coffee. I spoke her own language (maybe not perfectly but well enough I thought), but she didn't understand, at first. I had to repeat.

Then it came. The answer came: She wasn't expecting it. Her mind was not prepared. As soon as she heard my voice answer the phone she flipped a mind switch that said, 'english... american english... speak and hear, english, american english' so when I spoke the non-english phrase, it was practically another language to the caller, if only for five seconds.

Beautiful metaphor huh? Perfect timing too. For the new year. Damn. What a great day.
 
Oh and before this year finally slips away... this ain't got much to do with poetry, but I do my share of lurking too. Partly for entertainment, okay mostly for entertainment, and I usually just get aggravated and then get aggravated at myself for letting myself get aggravated at people I don't know, and never will know nor meet; people who are probably wonderful and fun and full of every love-inspired ingredient.

But I'd just like to say, that this philosophy of 'stand alone' stories, is complete and utter bullshit, even bigger bullshit than the 'requirement' that a 'story' must lay out in third-grader clarity why two or more people suddenly start to rub their genitalia against each other.

It really is.

But. Why should I care? Really. Let 'em do their thing. :)

There.

Happy New Year.
 
Because if there is no real beginning and no real ending there can't be a fucking middle. Beginnings and endings are human inventions. For the sake of understandability, for the sake of academics, for the sake of something for students to memorize and pass tests. That's why, in reality, stuff like whys and determination of what stands alone is bullshit, just to name a few bullshit stuffs.

Okay. Stop. Stop. Sorry... not really. Fuckit, stop. Why should I care, because I don't, wait I really do care but I wish I could quit. Quit caring. Just... forget it.


Happy New Year.

:)
 
hmmnmm said:
Because if there is no real beginning and no real ending there can't be a fucking middle. Beginnings and endings are human inventions. For the sake of understandability, for the sake of academics, for the sake of something for students to memorize and pass tests. That's why, in reality, stuff like whys and determination of what stands alone is bullshit, just to name a few bullshit stuffs.

Okay. Stop. Stop. Sorry... not really. Fuckit, stop. Why should I care, because I don't, wait I really do care but I wish I could quit. Quit caring. Just... forget it.


Happy New Year.

:)
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If it doesn't feature either a birth or a death, it's the middle. In medias res, as it were.

bj
 
um hum. You would pose something provocative wouldn't you? You couldn't simply provocatively pose? Fiddle with a fella's fuse why dont'cha... okay I know, there are such things as beginnings, and endings, between which are middles, yeah yeah I know, but, but... Request permission to be excused so to ponderously mull such a pendulous matter. Please.
 
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Every word, every deed, every thought, every speck of every segment of every... thing does have its own beginning and end and middle. True. So it is the one who presents the thoughts in written form who has the option of making plain or making messy or not making at all, where those beginnings begin and endings end. Yet. Every beginning comes from some seed and every ending opens or connects or reaches for the next... the next... you know.... thing.

So there are but there aren't, is but isn't depending on how you hold the It.

Last night's private self-exploratory pleasures will prove any of this to be true.
 
The poet known as live4passion sprung to mind a minute ago. he kind of exemplifies what I'm meaning. His stuff gives me the feel of, well, how to say it? Like he's got all these plants... vines. Veins. Vines. Maybe several different kinds. And he just grabs a handful of leaves and they make their own poetry. And he doesn't bother trimming the ends or edges. You can tell they came from somewhere but they also work on their own... Now whether that's what he really does or just makes it look like that's what he does I don't know. And really don't want to know. But I don't mind saying I found it incredibly inspirational. It was kind of like I like to do or did but forgot, got lost and stuck in places that I didn't really belong. So I've lately been trying to go back to that. And what I really really really get off on, is to take a random piece and pick out a random place and see what I can coax or grow from that. It goes against the convention that says to cut cut cut but I don't care, and I guess it was good to learn a little of that because it's all good, I mean, I want as many options open as possible, for real; but this kind of way, extending and winding and going off into the unknown, it just turns me on... and what I'd really like to grow the balls to do - in fact I'll add that to the 2009 list of goals - noted - is to continue that way, and then just imagine they're... like stuff, living stuff, kinda plantlike... but just grab a handful and rip it out and make sure it's at least 750 words and then plop it in the submission box and send it up. As is. Gets me excited just thinking about it.
 
miss bijou, you force me to suspect that you sprinkle in some special seasonings in your posts here, because like yesterday you got me thinking and questioning and thinking and all, and I do believe some answers that have come would not have come if not for your specially seasoned posts that make engines sputter and wheels crank. Really do think so.
 
I have a general desire to inspire good writing and good thinking and happy noodling of all sorts. If I have done so, then that is beautiful, and means I've been doing my proper work in the world.

I do like the way this thread lets me peer into the little corners of your brain. If I've made any of those corners more interesting, I'm grateful.

bj
 
And I'll extend a second helping of gratitude that you didn't take it upon yourself to tidy those little corners of all the clutter. Talk about conflict and struggle. I mean yeah, I know it isn't good to have clutter around all the time and all the corners and tables but it's even worse when someone comes along and steals the joy of another adventure to look forward to.

The thought that developed pertained to what is more erotic. Or what causes more agonizingly sweet erotic tension. Because that's a word that gets thrown around a lot. I mean, there's what we think would be and then there's what really is. Or, say if you're without something you want it, but when you have it and you don't have to struggle or yearn for it...

Hm, wait... something in the corner. Something bumped. Will return. Yes.
 
I read somewhere where someone said that we tend to discount or denigrate what comes easy or seems like it would come easy and look to and strive for the more difficult. I think there could be something to it. Example: the hugest chunk of any day's amount of awe I happen to have at hand, is easily given without hesitation to great guitarists. So becoming a better guitarist has always held greater attraction to me than writing, anything. But writing comes easier. I could spend twelve hours a day for the next year and my guitar abilities might increase a notch or two but nothing really significant. I think I'd become twice as good a writer if I spent six hours a day for half a year just focusing on written expression. Isn't that crazy?

And then I had this thought: do you think (since this is Happy day) that if we see happiness as being too easy to obtain we unconsciously do things that make us unhappy so we can engage our energies in a struggle towards a happiness that we deep down fear will be anti-climactic?
 
I think the trick is know when we are truly happy, yet still we strive for more but then again nothing however good and wonderful lasts forever change must always come and we just have to start again. You my friend I know have known some pretty hard knocks and survived so may I hope for you to always be a survivor and to know some chunks of glorious happiness on your journey
 
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Hard is relative. I mean, I wasn't a jew in austria in 1939 or watched Rwandan hoodlums massacre my family... and plenty other horrors I can think of that I could never begin to imagine that degree of pain, that kind of nightmare. I just had to put up with being perceived as flawed or in need of fixing, which is really peanuts... if my parents would've had something else, just a little something in common besides good looks and raging hormones, that might've helped. But you know, in a way, it's been beneficial, because it taught me the value of rebellion and bucking systems just because it feels good. And they were complete opposites and came from completely opposite environments so I learned to see at least two sides to many things, which on the downside also tempts indecision and second-guessing, and doubt and... you know. So I can't really complain. Actually I can. It's one of many talents... but what good does it really do? :heart::rose::):kiss::cattail:
 
What would it be like if you could only feel anothers pain and not your own? Well I suppose you wouldn't know you had pain would you? Some other poor sod would though
*think I overdosed on 'woulds' there* :D
 
well that's something for a weeklong mull. might get intimate with opiates. reminds me of a story I saw on tv long time ago, forget the series, not twilight zone but something like twilight zone; anyway, this couple they're having trouble, like financial and domestic and all. and a guy comes to their door and gives them a box with a red button, says all they have to do is push that red button and they'll get a whole lot of money (forget how much, like a million or something), only the catch is that when they push that button someone will die. It'll be someone they don't know, never heard of. Well that's a bit heavy for the couple so they put the box away and go on with their lives, but it's a constant temptation. Finally things go so dire for them that they push the red button. Sure enough someone's at the door with a briefcase full of money. Hands the briefcase to the couple, they're all happy; but then the guy takes the box and they ask what's he doing; he says he has to go give the box to somebody else: somebody they don't know. Then it's the end. Always stayed with me, that story.
 
Oh tomorrow's Friday? Can do. Can.

But I do think It is Happening, and it's live. Found it. Pretty sure. Feels pretty dang good. It'll totally bomb on Lit, but it's It. I think it really helped to consider this sort of secondhand thought shop. Browse, take or leave, dicker... holy shit! That's an idea! Hey? Huh? Huh? Secondhand Thought Store! Oh... oh.... oh. Secondhand Thought Store. opening soon. Hey? Sheeeittt.
 
but where would it go? the secondhand thought shop. it ain't really poetry-specific, though it could certainly be poetry inclusive, must be inclusive, even spare lines, or not spares but lines that don't match, or they once were parts of others (couplets? ha, I know poetry, couplets). Yeah that'd be some swell fun, a secondhand thought shop.

but wait... oh. oh yeah, oh yes, oh god.
 
No new poems yet. Hungover? Huddled? Hesitant? Oveslept?
Check back later. Go think on the latest. Maybe even do bits.
 
Wake up!
There are new poems.
I assumed. Because LadySheila's Bound Wrists appeared at the top of yesterday's list. But it appeared without the picture, being it was meant to be an illustrated poem. So, what do I do. I see Bound Wrists at the top of today's list and do not bother to look below or to look at the dates. Which I just did. So there are new poems. Which I will tend to in the very near future. How about another evening review?
Sorry for the blip.
 
Angeline, I wish to give a big wraparound thanks to you for your Top Ten thread. You probably didn't mean for it to have the effect it did (I'd participate but I could no way write a poem about my list). You started the list with movies. Which got me to thinking about which movies I'd list. You know? Such an obvious idea, but I never thought of it. They're all comedies. Every one. Comedies with tits. In fact, they'd probably take up the top 15. Animal House would probably top it. The rest? No real order. But comedies all.

Had something else in mind to yak about, but this is a showstopper. Gonna meditate on this.

Sometimes the answers are so obvious and near we overlook them. Hm?

Thanks. :rose:
 
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