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

repost from elsewhere,

"...well I did promise to return this morning then..." mentioned the goblin in passing, yes, while also feeling heavily those moments till the kettle would boil in the unlit kitchen alcove once more, "...first the coffee, then the post, that's my way always..." voiced the goblin reminding himself that there was no need to rush, far from it, each post had to be in tune with his muse's pact, continuing "...or else, what's the point in writing at all, we know that, don't we slot...", the slot just opened its mouth again where by now it barely needed to say "feed me" to the goblin, saying instead "...goblin, when you look at the posts, you are with the others and it's all fun and games, but when it's your turn to write you are alone with yourself, that's all, so discard all those external motivations to write as writers do for their cheapness that makes you cheap with them, forget trying to please then, instead, think of your writing as your journey to self here, and write to know who you are by what you post while you still can, oh and while you're at it, do hurry up and make that coffee goblin...", the harlequin felt the need to add the settings again even if the dull advancing day hardly seemed worth mentioning at this point, preferring instead to point out the fact that the sun today still ruled in the bright sky, even if the moneygod ruled our city of geneva below it trapping him tightly, leaving the goblin to contemplate whatever he might post next, his sole freedom then, though there was no rush he knew, after all, the post would just come in its own time


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One night, Storch decided to go for a moonlight walk with his dog, Shep, and so he grabbed his flashlight and off they went down the dirt road. An oncoming car wouldn't dim its headlights. Storch hated that, and so he did what he always did when faced with it; he turned on his flashlight and pointed it at his best approximation of where the driver's eyes would be. Some would dim their lights, and some wouldn't. This driver not only failed to dim his own lights, but also took enough offense at Storch's light to interpret it as a battery-powered middle-finger.

Just as Storch was thinking heh heh to himself, the driver brought his car to a gravel-grinding halt a little less than a quarter-mile down the road and turned it around in a blatantly aggressive and obviously practiced manner with engine raging and gravel flying. Storch didn't care. He didn't even bother to turn around. He understood human nature enough to know that ninety-nine people out of a hundred will not choose to leave the safety and warmth of their car for the opportunity to confront a stranger and his dog on a dark and lonely dirt road--not if given a choice, anyway.

As storch wrote the word "warmth," it triggered a memory of how he had learned the hard way that warmth was not spelled "warmpth." He was thirty years old at the time, and it bothered him that such a thing could have gone on unchecked for that long. That memory, in turn, reminded him that it was only a year before that he had come to learn--also the hard way--that the word "their" is not spelled "thier." I before E except after C, was all he had to say for himself, though he knew that was no defense.

And that memory, in turn, reminded Storch very, very little of the time he was in fifth-grade, and the teacher, Mrs. Denov, came to stand beside his desk, applying her presence in a way that none could deny or ignore. But Storch didn't notice her standing there. He was totally immersed in the book he had checked out from the library. Mrs. Denov had taken the class to the library so that everyone could check out a book about something they wanted to know about. Then they were to read it for no other reason than to enjoy it instead of for the usual purpose of a doing a book-report. "What is that?" the teacher asked, breaking his trance-like state. Her voice was different, Storch noted. It was monotone and subdued. The whole classroom noted the change, and the vacuum created by their collectively held breath was palpable.

"My book," replied Storch, fully understanding the need to take the innocent route.

"What is it about?" she asked, the ominous monotone still present.

"It's about mammaries," Storch answered. He quietly and frantically tried to calculate what her next question might be, as well as how and where this . . . event could possibly end. There was no pecedent for such a thing in the memory files of his young mind, nor in the minds of the rest of the class judging by the continued absence of audible breathing on their part. Nobody dared move!

"Why are you looking at that?"

It was clear to Storch that the ominous monotone thing she had going was to remain a permanent fixture in her approach to this thing and was not going away until it was resolved. However, when he looked up at her face, her head was turned slightly away from him, and her eyes were so downcast as to be virtually closed. He sensed her implosive response to the subject, and somehow felt safer. "I wanted to know about 'em," was all he said. And by god, truer words were never spoken. What would she do when forced to deal with the truth about young boys and their feelings about mammary glands? Could she possibly ask the only logical follow up question: "Why do you want to know about them?" Already Storch was calculating an answer to that question should she pull the trigger and ask it.

 

("...it's coming together, your posts are class storch, I'm so glad you joined in here..." went the goblin)

repost from elsewhere

the goblin didn't trust himself with clocks then, "...you see when one starts looking at the slot here, either thinking up some reply, or anything new, its tediously slow until that inspiration crosses the mind whereupon it becomes a rush to see if one can write it down before it escapes again, which is normally where those problems of the "right words and misinterpretations" step in, thus what looks so simple in itself, simply isn't, and where by that time the clock is up to its old trick of jumping that minute hand behind one's back agian..." said the goblin knowing that the real win was actually landing the post for oneself, just adding it to the one's tally-benchmark perhaps, repeating "...so it's forum/venue, thread/stage and you/act across forumland, where those who post on eventually come across that sense of audience, and feeling of deadline too, that builds up upon these livewriter's threads, so you verge upon our world humans but only your pens decide things here, for reading our posts alone will not make you one of us by it, no it's you by your pen here..."


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repost from elsewhere

"...actually, I can only be on a certain number of edit threads at any one time, so I stay where the pull is and leave where the push is, which creates a turnover that is never high yet naggingly constant, in fact, this turnover compels me to join new forums then, well if I were to think about it rationally now...", and yet the goblin never thought rationally about anything much, no, more to the point, he simply enjoyed that amazing sensation of just landing somewhere completely unknown, and then seeing if that forum could accept having some goblin persona writing in third person in a random thread upon it, so the goblin confided "...actually, it's very much like jumping onto a stage, and seeing if I can win over the unknown audience with little more than one's wits, no no, it's never a foregone conclusion here where it could go either way now, but what a prize it becomes by it..."


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repost from elsewhere, a british "last post" thread

"...alas poor brits I knew them well horatio..." mused the goblin seeing no replies as yet, but then it had rained a lot so perhaps they were still waiting at the bus-stop under their umbrellas in a huddled mass day dreaming about whatever else possible, "...ah yes, that's the solid british way of going about it then..." mused the goblin not quite as dismissive as one would suppose here, for home really did feel like home when one finally got home to it, and where all those years of their british weather had fostered within him a power to daydream second to none, no in fact, the goblin owed much more to that soggy semblance of sanity they called commuting in london than he ever let on now, as he too daydreamed off once more


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repost from elsewhere, someone replying on a long dead site that sent a notification recalling the goblin there

the goblin slowly typed the reply to the "last post" thread that the stranger had called him with a simple "I win" post, saying "...I guess that we are the only ones here now...", but that was fate then, that some sites worked while other didn't, and now, here looking across these dead posts, the goblin saw fun usernames which read like "here lies so and so, RIP" and living texts reading like unanswered epitaphs to a time before, "...so this site becomes a cemetery now, and sobriety has seeded in what remains of it..." ventured the goblin leaving this lone line as his reply as he walks on in silence


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Storch sat back and considered the wisdom of grabbing his pen and painting the picture of daily life that he had in mind. It was a picture from his early daily life. He supposed that it didn't matter whether the picture he had in mind was drawn from early daily life or contemporary daily life since he had some time ago come to an understanding--or was it a conclusion--that when you even just temporarily forget to give a past incident its proper place in your mind, the veil of time begins to thin, and that the further you go into the depth of the details of the images found on that particular page of your own Personal Book of Incidents, the more thin the veil becomes, until you find yourself presently preparing to respond to something said or done twenty years ago. Storch knew that sometimes the mere thought of putting half a lemon into your mouth and biting down on it will stimulate the saliva glands. He had to wonder at the effects of putting a past incident into his mind and biting down on it.

He wanted to tell about the dog. He sensed he would be destroyed by recalling it. He also realized that he did leave a few cliffhangers in his previous post, and felt somehow responsible.

 

("...you can post how you like to..." replied the goblin, adding "...where what you post this time is the first take of something you will repost elsewhere I imagine, and where there you might recount that you had come across a goblin who had litstened to you as you became one of us then...", in fact, the goblin guessed that storch would go far now, for forumland was yearning for those who wrote in their posts)

 

Several of the regulars had seen Storch deal with similar types in similar situations. They knew that this is the part where Storch says, "Fuck it. You can drink your drink, but then ya gotta go." They also knew that he would turn away with his hands in his pockets, pretending to be backing down, and then pick up a beer bottle--full or empty--from the next table, turn suddenly, and nail the patron in the head with it. In the time it took for a guy to fall off his chair, hit the floor, and regain enough of his senses to prevent Storch from delivering a well-placed kick to their head, Storch would deliver a well-placed kick the their head.

Then he'd set them back up on their chair at their table, posed to look as if they had just passed out, the bloody gash on their cheek a mystery. Then he'd transfer some empties from other tables to his table and place them all around the guy's head. Finally, he'd call the cops, and the converstation would go something like: "Uh, I think you guys better get down here. This guy comes in here lookin' kinda beat up and actin' pretty ornery, and he drinks until he passes out. I don't know what to do with him. I just don't want the guy who did this to him to come looking for him in my bar. Ya know?"

And so, as anticipated, Storch said, "Fine! But after that drink, you gotta go." Then he turned and walked. As he passed the next table, he grabbed a half-full bottle of Miller Lite, turned and nailed the bastard right in the forehead. The guy grimaced slightly before collapsing to the floor. Storch promised two regulars a couple of free drinks if they'd set the guy back up in his chair at his table and pose him to look like he'd just passed out.
After he and Blossom had cleaned up all of the broken glass and spilt beer from the shattered bottle, Storch checked to see how the two regulars had done at situating the man in a convincing pose. He was more than a little impressed with their job. Of course, as many times as they'd seen someone passed out at a table, it would have been remarkable had they not gotten it right. Then he called the cops and reported a man passed out at his bar who looked like he'd seen some kind of trouble. The cops came and dragged the guy away.

This method failed only once out of the eight times he was forced to employ it during his three and a half years as co-owner. On that occasion, he missed the guy's head with the bottle. In response, the guy picked up his own beer and threw it at Storch, just missing his head. Then in movie-type fashion, Storch ran back toward the bar, diving over it and landing on the other side where he had access to much more ammo than the enemy. In the end, Storch nailed him in the ear as he was heading for the door. He went down, and just as quickly got up and turned toward Storch with murder in his eyes. But before taking two steps he went down again for the last time. Storch thought, ah, adrenaline, the great deceiver.

Later, Storch wondered why the guy didn't pick up a chair and throw it at him, or even a table. Maybe there was some kind of code of honor among bar people that stipulates that you can't change weapons in the middle of a bar fight.

 

Dejavu was a familar stranger. Always happening to arrive at a departure from the accepted, to which he did not so much take exception as feel its suffocating sadness, the revival from which liked to take the form of his recalling laughters roll, and continued rolling, a thunder from the thought flashing our shared perspective. But what an overbearing sentence. Its length, what it attempted to cover, and couldn't, possibly. Was it live writing? The words, if not dead before him, didn't even struggle to stand, and the keys had no life of their own. I think he must have meant thinking, which can't help but make fun of meanness in our generosity. The kindest kind of fun, the wildest and most carefree. Making meaning his pleasure, so long as it was his pleasure. Mockery, his greatest reverence, really only ever taken for a criticism on life by critics who were a little at a loss for their critical best. He'd always help out, since he'd never had a true sense for derision. Either his laughter wanted to pour and resolve itself in more, or he was his pen as had been suggested through fleamail. In any case, he was also his gate, and field, and while he wouldn't have wanted to have been laughed into thin air at the thought, he was the sky above too...

 

Dejavu had never been possessed as a pig. His self-interest had always been innocent of any grunting, there was no Circe against his circumstance. A terrible curly tail of a discovery however, resulting from this fortune, left him pre-occupied with it. That he was alone. That 'we' are alone to the depths. He chanced to snout out though that hope is a funny thing. That our heights want to and do have us laugh.

:-D

 

what is hope to a pig

 

Where there's swill there's a whey.

 

("...give me more..." replied the goblin, liking the post/s, adding "...everything gets improved upon in the reposting but first it must reach this slot here be improved upon, where the point my dear humans is never whether others approve or disapprove, so much as whether you would care to gain this ability now, where those who declare that they can post to the full of their potential already without practising even, moreover, those who see no point in that which makes no profit regardless of whether it is their own thoughts and their own feelings and their own memories too, those who won't experiment with writing styles for a bland acceptance of some given norm now, well let's just say here that they are not me and that they are free to miss out then, for I do learn from my mistakes but first I do need to make those mistakes in experimentation in order to build upon the bedrock of experience, where I repeat everything gets improved upon in its reposting...")

repost from elsewhere, the "what are you thinking" thread

"...well I'm thinking about one's internet-self again..." mentioned the goblin, continuing "...where the question remains how to create a persona which counteracts the demise of one's externals here, as summed up in that idea of the act replaces the actor, where writers too, replace themselves by their creations"...", in fact, although the goblin clearly understood that no one could ever escape their dailylife, he wondered if someone felt their age while creating something, since that creating was all engrossing, so the goblin just confessed his madness here, saying "...for me, everything remains possible while creating something within my ageless vivid imagination now, and, since this creating has no age, then neither do I while doing it, well not until I take off this mask and return to dailylife once more..."


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Storch felt that Dejavu's narrator was perhaps being less than honest about the absence of grunting during Dejavu's adventures into . . . self-interest. ;-)

Storch believed that "Dejavu had never been possessed as a pig," but what about as a human?

 

Fleamailman, don't underestimate thedope. He says very little, but what he does say is packed with enough meaning to fill seven times the space that he used to say it. For your future reference, here is an example. But after this, you're on your own.

_______________________________________

What is hope to a pig?
A pig is hope to what?
Hope is what to a pig?
What is a pig to hope?
A pig is what to hope?
Hope is a pig to what?
To what is a pig hope?

 

I may have come off a bit piggish in presenting Dejavu as he is, or was, but the narrator of ones own person, whether in daily or out always does, or did, relatively speaking. His adventures into, the results of, the fruit, the leavening of his looming lustiness, certainly were and still are snortingly gruntifying. In relieving himself of the liability to linger upon lifes lesser lassitudes could they be otherwise? But his self-interest itself? Innocent of its grunt, as a grunt at the front gone to ground at first shell shock. As dawn in undithering rise above bedrock.

 

Yes Fleamailman, it's true as storch says, thedope springs external.

 

(the goblin simply knew that whatever someone posted was what he got to read by it, saying "...it starts off as fun and games, that then suddenly is aware of something one has missed out on till now, keep me company then, a cigarette seems a minor distraction till the moment one feels that one's day seems dull with one, one's posting habit is a good habit I believe yet it is like that cigarette...")

repost from elsewhere

and then the goblin turned up, saluted the posters again while feeding on their posts, saying "...sorry, feeding is a strange habit I know, but I guess it's the only way I am ever going to be able to judge for myself, not that I'm really judging now, perhaps something more akin to following then, forgetting myself within someone else's post that is...", outside the bistro, and as if to underline this concept, the evening's traffic just passed down the street in some reassuring monotonous stream, while inside too, seated alone in his usual spot, the goblin could feel his mind within him say "get a life goblin", but the goblin could only ever offer it distraction each time, "...sorry no, for on the menu tonight my hungry friend is fiction again, mine, or someone else's, ah but at least that's not our constant dailylife is it..." replied the goblin checking the distance of the clock that could clobber him with that minute hand in a moment's distraction, continuing "...you know, it's funny how reading seemed just like perfecting one's ability to distract oneself, whereas writing seems more like perfecting the ability to escape on one's own, the former is following then, the latter is leading perhaps, where both are fuelled by imagination, and where both seem preferable to one's dailylife..."


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repost from elsewhere, the troll's site "last post" thread

"...oh no, don't bother to read my stuff please, a troll's golden rule is simple, "one writes for oneself, reading, well that's optional isn't it", lose sight of that and one risks becoming normal, and we hate being normal don't we trolls..." said the goblin, adding "...in fact, you trolls should turn off the notifications here, vow not to look at the replies, and above all, not post back at all, and yet the only luxury in this life is simply not doing what one should be doing for that which one wants to do instead isn't it mortals MYAHAHAHAHAHAHA...", and with that the goblin knew that the trolls couldn't resist themselves to read this thread nor to post back neither, mind you, the goblin was no different, for he too, hated that which life had lined up for him, and simply he posted on in spite of it


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