oh how I hate editing posts, so let's do it together

Storch thought about Embreezy's criticism of fleamailman's offerings. Experience had taught Storch that rewrites are always for the better. He, himself, would rewrite/edit material two times, finding that the third time was the proverbial charm.

 

I knew you would be wrong, this did not make 10,000 post by Christmas.

 

After thinking about the goblin's words, Storch came to the conclusion that all that any of us have in the way of meaningful meaning is that which we are able and willing to express in any given moment, which is to say that love and other such things are only what you make them, and that fame and fortune, not being expressions, but rather the result of expressions, provide very little in the way of peace of mind because after all, how much of a billion dollars can you squeeze into the moment? Lead us not into temptation, allowing the bait, whatever it be, to lure us out of the moment.

 

Storch remembered the days of being virtually locked in a room for a decade and a half, the only visitors allowed being his coffee, cigarettes, good weed, a Smith Corona word-processor, a dictionary big enough to kill a man with, and an old, fourth edition manual for writers of term papers, theses, and dissertations written by Kate Turabian. Together, they would condemn the world, and they would do it in a grammatically correct fashion.

Every morning, Storch would take a good long drink from the bottle he kept on the desk in front of him. The bottle contained one-hundred proof profound distaste for the human race in general, and relatives specifically (except during times of good weed, at which times everyone seemed to be at least innocent enough to warrant my not resorting to the dictionary when dealing with them). For reasons beyond reason, Storch became bitter to to the bitter end, drinking and smoking his way to a place outside himself because the moments when he could absolutely not bear to remain within his skin for one . . . more . . . minute were beginning to outnumber the moments of simple, chronic depression! The only question on him mind, really, was: how does it end? He knew the answer, but pretended not to. On top of that, he pretended to not know that he was pretending to not know.

 

After several year's of this, Storch decided that words and writing were not so much different from numbers and mathmatical equasions, though he would never make such an assertion in public because his knowledge and understanding of math was so poor that he couldn't say for sure whether the comparison was apt or not, and he didn't want to embarrass himself.

Em-bare-assed--what if? No way.

 

("...well, I think no one took me up upon my bet anyway..." replied the goblin excusing himself somewhat, wondering if someone would care to bet that this thread makes a 10,000hit by easter, adding "...I like your posts storch, where it often starts as a jest perhaps, and then suddenly becomes addictive, yet either way you write cleverly with imagination, and where here many will read you now...")

repost from elsewhere

"...you, me and baby makes three..." smiles the goblin somewhat reminded now, looking across the bistro at a triangle that the young child seems to form with its parents being the other two corners, "...their little world for them today, that was mine once too, but it didn't last then, no, always things evolve into something else, where everything gets stolen by the past in this passage of time..." remarked the goblin, at that slow change of seasons that had been his life as he had experienced it, continuing "...and how stupid it is to say to someone "your childhood are the best days of your life", or "enjoy your youth", or enjoy this "child-parents triangle", for when is there ever a now that one shouldn't at least try to make the most of...", at least the goblin knew that this moment was always the only now that he ever would ever experience, saying "...and my looking back at some past happiness will only make me regret today's whatever, and despise tomorrow's eventuality too, therefore at this point I have to live now for now, where upon my past I must throw a handful of earth upon its grave and walk on without regret...", yet forumland had changed things slightly in that the goblin saw his persona as just seasonless while here, concluding "...so between this adventure of forumland, and the sobriety of one's dailylife, the season advances only on my outside, just these early signs of winter in autumn still, where if so, then our choice is ever to look to it then, or to look away instead, but never to look back now, for looking back will only hurt you all the more..."


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repost from elsewhere

the road still winds it's way up the hill now, but on that dull day the driver had just mentioned that it was here, from this point then, that the mother had just left her child in the car, perhaps to watch or otherwise, and then jumped off the edge to her death opposite, without adding more detail than that then, so that now, each time the goblin looked down at the deep ravine below, a vague but dreadful image horribly conjures itself up in the goblin's mind again, one that changed with his imagination each time, and of course the goblin knew that the driver had no reason to lie or make up that story, only that this was his idle gossip here, something to say in passing as one curved along this road, "...so did she hate her child then..." asked the goblin of himself once more like so many times he had asked now, continuing "...or was she mad perhaps, drugs even, though I doubt we'll ever know for sure now, where I don't think that the driver knew either..." ventured the goblin knowing that all her belongings, those she had abruptly abandoned, together with her child, her purse and umpteen other signs of her ended life, would just be there around the passenger seat for the authorities to piece together here, somehow the goblin just placed coins on the ghost's eyes again at the memory of it then, and signaled to the ferryman to continue on his journey once more, but some ghosts escape back in association to the crimes, so here too, this was probably one of those returning types, just that the goblin for his part had given so many coins across to that ferryman that by now neither of them quite knew what good these coins ever did, just that it seemed befitting to place coins like that they supposed


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What would we bet?

 

("...that would be a hard one because nothing is real here..." replied the goblin, adding "...I'll let you think up something though, but things will speed up from this point, I only have to post on as I have been doing, and the bet was only a way to get people to accept me, that's all...", yet who ever knows, perhaps the forum might fold or the thread might get locked before then, much can happen in a few months)

 

repost from elsewhere, a "last post" thread where the admin becomes xxxxx here, and where everyone just posts smileys

and then the darwin goblin suddenly faced the stunned audience in front of him, he had just mentioned why, in his opinion, he had to draw the conclusion that all members were descended from the "one admin species" he continued in the abated silence of the tentative lecture room "...in fact not only do I put it to you gentlemen, that we are all descended from the admin species here, but that since admin had mentioned that the winner gets a date with him, slightly omitting to mention that the second price was probably that second date with him too..." to which the darwin goblin waved the cut/pasted copy of the text in his hand to prove it, continuing "...that it could probably read and write now, so therefore gentlemen it has to be later, by some evolutionary mishap perhaps, that the other members of this forum had devolved backwards from him into simply posting smileys on the goblin's pristine edit thread here..." the audience pondered the idea deeply, slow silence, and then a sudden rush to their smiley boxes once more


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Storch had determined that humans tend to believe whatever is necessary for their version of reality to make sense to them. For instance, he knew from experience that he himself had quite mistakenly--though somewhat logically--believed that urine is stored in the bag until it is emptied out through the thing (yes, vocabulary was severely lacking during Storch's stint as a tot, and he hated it). Eventually he came to learn that it was the bladder that held the urine, and that the scrotum actually housed a couple of hurtful things.

And in a completely related story, Storch learned the hard way about those couple of hurtful things when a broken bicycle-chain resulted in more than just a broken chain! Bicycle-chains always broke when you were standing up on one pedal applying as much force as humanly possible on the down stroke. When that happened to Storch, and he was finally up and around again, he inevitably found his thoughts centering around the question of just what that bar on boys' bikes is doing there anyway?? It wasn't on girl's bikes. He reasoned that if it were going to be on either boys' bikes or girls' bikes, you'd think they'd have put it on the girls' bikes since girls had the least to lose in the event of a massive-chain-failure, but no, they put the bar on the boys' bikes instead.

Storch's best guess as to why the bar was there was that the original engineer in charge of designing bicycles was a fucking sadist who by some freak accident of freaking space and time ran into the original engineer in charge of making bicycle-chains who also happened to be a fucking sadist, and together they set out to do something in the name of something they both believed in--sadism. They weren't there when the chains broke, but they didn't need to to see it happen when it happened; it was enough for them to just know that it was happening.

 

("...you write well and it shows..." observed the goblin again thinking storch would make a name for himself soon enough, adding "...just what others write here is what I get to read by them, meaning I'll do my level best to encourage someone without critique, why, because that way the individual developed individually whereas an educator as such would just produce clones here...", somehow the goblin guessed that storch was for real then, adding "...keep me company now where nothing would please me more than seeing you become known by your posts too...")

repost from elsewhere

"...my trying to give the impression of sanity on the outside always then...." replied the goblin who had a some idea of the criteria that fitted the bill here, where alas the man in the mirror was a real paragon of sane sobriety who never once strayed from being his normal everyday dr jekyll self, in short, the man in the mirror on the outside and the goblin's persona within were two sides of the same coin perhaps but quite different from one another, though perhaps this then that is what made them conversely crazy together, simply they just hid each other in their turn, craziness indeed


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repost from elsewhere

the goblin's mind went back, the weekly changing voice went "...you are number six..., ...", "...I am not a number, who..., who is number one..." repeated patrick mcgoohan, but only a mocking laugh came back as the theme tune of the prisoner cut in, and with that just goblin remembered that all engulfing strange sensation of not knowing and yet desperately needing to know, who in fact, this "number one" actually was, which was something totally new for the young goblin at the time, for surely television just didn't do this to people, leave viewers in the lurch like that, and for week after week too, remarking "...funny how, for a whole season in my school days life was all synchronized to this one television program, nothing else seemed to matter..."

[noparse]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKjFgdgp7yY&feature=related[/noparse]


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Storch knew that it would take him a little time to get the hang of this live-writing thing. But that was ok because for once in his life he was made to feel no pressure concerning punctuation, grammar, and other such self-inflicted binding spells, and instead was just allowing the flow of himself regardless of how others greet it. He thanked the goblin for the invite to freedom, and decided to walk that direction for a while.

 

After giving the matter some thought, Storch chastised himself for thoughtlessly assuming that the engineers of the bars and chains on bicycles were men. In all likelihood, they were a couple of enterprising, though highly disgruntled, women. After giving the matter some more thought, Storch decided that they were a couple of men, since, at the time of most chain-breaks, the victims hadn't yet had time to become male enough to have offended any woman to the point where she'd actually contemplate such a thing as bringing the bar, the chain, and the boy together to form some kind of axis of pain, so to speak. After more thought still, he decided that it probably was a couple of disgruntled women who just happened to believe in preemptive strikes when the enemy was most vulnerable--when they were young, innocent, and unsuspecting. But whether it was a couple of men or a couple women was really neither here nor there in Storch's mind. The point was: where was the CTPA (Consumer's-Testicle Protection Agency) at the time? Where was justice when you really needed it?

Justice?

Storch looked out at the justice system and considered the simpleness of it. By his mid-twenties Storch had seen enough in the way of the ways of the world to understand that when a crime has been committed, be it a violation of the rules of the family-unit or the laws of the land, the public demands satisfaction in either case. Satisfaction, according to the public, amounted to being privy to what was done, who did it, and what their punishment will be. And there was no shortage of prosecutors who knew what to do, how to do it, and who to do it to.

Because of this sense of . . . justice shared by the masses, Storch once felt that he could convince them that the god they believed in could and should be held to its own ideals and laws. After that, it would be a simple matter of putting their god on the stand and tearing it apart before their eyes. An associate had told him that what he was attempting to do was disrespectful. When Storch inquired as to whom would be disrespected, the people or their god, he was told that the disrespect was inherent in his intent. Storch went ahead anyway and put God on trial.

However, Storch found that he was up against not only the god, but the collective mind of alleged brothers and sisters who continually sing songs of praise and worship to this creator of sin, judgement, and punishment. He was saddened to see so many looking for their hearts outside themselves. But the line between sadness and anger had long since become not just blurred, but totally dissolved. It was at that point that he realized that he, too, was looking for something outside himself, and he was looking inside others for it.

 

Still, after giving some thought to the idea that he was being disrespectful of believers, Storch couldn't help but recall having been disrespected in ways so real as to make the religiously-disrespected appear as whiners; and not just simple whiners, but petty whiners. As the flood gates opened, there came the memories--memories of disrespect--one after the other, each one bigger and more demanding of attention than the last. He had to shut the gate. But it was too late. The wall surrounding the issue had been breached.

Now he had to try to take the goblin's advice and place the pennies upon the eyes of these things. But he feared he might have to purge himself of a thing or two before he was finished.

 

Storch had no trouble conjuring up scenes from his childhood in which disrespect was the primary theme, and in which he played the starring role. Once, his mother had come to feel so disrespected by his bed-wetting that she hung his sheets out early enough for the kids on the school bus to see, which wouldn't have been so bad, but she felt disrespected enough to also forego washing the sheets before hanging them on the line. When hounded by the kids on the bus as to whose sheet it was, Storch disrespected his little sister enough to blame it on her.

His other sister told his mother about his bearing false witness against the little sister. Whatever disrespect Storch's mother felt at having to deal with a wet bed was now doubled because, in much the same way that a pregnant woman is said to be eating for two, Storch's mother would now be avenging for two. The following morning, Storch woke up in a wet bed. Truly, there were times when he would have given anything to be somebody else in life. Upon seeing the yellow stain, his mother came to the logical conclusion that the problem was that the consequences were not enough of a problem for Storch to motivate him to cut it out. She determined that Storch's threshhold of humiliation was indeed high. Not to worry. She loved a challenge.

 

("...makes very good reading too..." went the goblin both grateful and reminded of his childhood, just he could relate in his way, that's all, as he listened in promising to read whatever storch offered, adding "...I chat in brackets then, and then add the stuff that I'm editing below it, btw if you continue down this path with me, you'll steal the show on each forum you are on, where at first they'll not understand you, but in time you'll simply entice those readers to your pen with ease, why, because the reader wants in today, where it's more like forum/venue thread/stage and persona/performer here, yes you're good but wait till you see what you can post in a year from now, moreover, whatever, you learn here you take with you till your last post, just it's yours for the gaining now...")

repost from elsewhere

and with that the goblin could only agree, "...well, the difference between me and a madman is that I try to make the most of my madness, for only a dyslexic, one such as me then, would swim out across this open sea of the written word now, yes that's me then, and what an ocean it is for sure..."


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repost from elsewhere

"...how I would love to be by the sea right now, I have mountains and the lake each day in geneva, but the sea is endless, and the rough sea seems alive almost trying to tell me something over the sea breeze that muffles it's message out each time..." yearned the goblin, who hadn't touched salt water in years, "...no, not some warm mediterranean sea, give me the full atlantic, somewhere like cornwall then, and always I promise myself that one day I will go back there again, yet I never do though..."


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Storch had seen a couple bullies in his life, but nothing of this magnitude. Once, when hollering at him for having such a high threshold of humiliation, she accused him of wetting the bed because he was lazy. Of course, right away Storch's mind went to work creating a chronological order of thoughts as they would have to occur to him if the wet bed were the result of his laziness. It went like: "Oh man, I gotta piss. Damn it, that means I gotta get outta bed. Or . . . does it? Maybe I'll just piss right here without moving a muscle." Though he really didn't give a crap about what she thought, he did nevertheless take issue with the fact that she must have also believed that he didn't mind, or maybe even enjoyed, laying in his own piss. What in hell kind of a mother did she think he had?

Once, he asked an overly optimistic friend where the silver lining was in his particular dark cloud? He reminded Storch of the fact that he doesn't shit the bed and should therefore be grateful. Storch said, "You mean people shit the bed?" His friend assured him that they do, but that they gotta be pretty old and sick, or suffered some kind of injury in a car accident--the kind of injury you don't brag about to friends and relatives.