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

"But, how did we all get here?" said Dejavu, almost completely to himself, as he watched the goblin gobblin' and storch storching his possessions. "One by one?" But Dejavu was sure somehow they had, the lot of them, gotten there together, and not just because they were together now. He spoke, as aloud as he could, trying to perfect a tone that did not flavour his words with a riddle any more than riddle them with their own flavour: "More frightful than the endooming idea that has us craven to distraction! More wretched than sculpting the great escape, only to have it imprisoned in a gallery! More horrible than the hounds of habit that have us drooling after noveltys long gone nuptials... is... resignation." -- But then Dejavu cracked up, and delighted in the impending eventuality of everything we've ever questioned as to origins, backgrounds, fundaments and foundations. "Is there an error somewhere?" he said. "Something missing?!" :-D

 

Storch considered the new inmates in the thread. They were indeed cute. Of course, Storch was well aware of the fact that the attraction he felt for them might possibly be the result of a case of their absence causing his heart to have grown fonder of them. However, he also knew that assessing another's physical appeal (sex appeal, if you will, and even if you won't) should be done after grunting one's way to a state of neutrality. So, he would have to withhold judgement until such a time.

 

And to that end, Storch locked the front door of the thread, and then he hollered over to fleamailman to lock the backdoor. He had an idea for a reenactment of the scene from the movie "Deliverance" in which the innocent are made to squeal like a pig, and to endure such comments as "Ain't he got a perdy mouth?"

 

This was not the first time that Storch had had thoughts of staging a reenactment of that scene from the movie. The problem always boiled down to a lack of actors or a lack of desirable actors to play the parts played by Ned Beatty and Jon Voight. But perhaps there was finally some light at the end of that tunnel.

 

Come on, guys. You don't really have anything to worry about. Neither Storch nor myself are homosexual. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that Storch was pretty glad he wasn't one is all. Not that there's anything wrong with that, too.

 

("...nah, all welcome to post here whenever, yet the benchmark is high mortals..." replied the goblin, adding "...where if you are still posting with me after a few weeks your posts, and this posting too, will become clearer to you, your style will evolve into something that you might not recognise as you for your talent...", in fact, nobody ever took the goblin seriously at the start, but he knew too that writing in third person was an addiction and a pleasure and a torment that reverting to first person afterwards just would not quench, smiling "...goblins are not to be trusted, I want you to continue, I'm not the only livewriter on forumland but I'm one of the best at getting others to write for real...", and still no one ever believed him till it was just too late for them to stop, ah yes, not to be trusted indeed)

repost from elsewhere, the trolls site again

"...thanks..." repeated the goblin at everyone at the trolls site, somehow the goblin felt torn between the trolls on this thread and the ghosts of the past in the back of his mind "...ghosts, I would like you to meet these trolls who communicate in weird images, heckles and provocative material..." the ghosts smile, and then, "...trolls, meet my ghosts who communicate in past images, heckles and provocative memories..." the trolls smile back, introductions over, he lets them get on with it now


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repost from elsewhere

morning, and the goblin starts the day with the usual what have I forgotten, and then, when he's sure he has forgotten nothing, forgets everything right until his next what have I forgotten moment comes some time later, simply, it was as if he pops in and out his dailylife in this way then, "...ah no, I don't daydream during my day, for that is my normal state, no instead just I hit reality at times, pity..." joked the goblin while his body did its whatever unnoticed by him again


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At first, Storch wasn't sure how he felt about having become addicted to talking and thinking in the third pesron. After an incident, he would be surprised to find himself saying something like, "After handling his cup the thousand or so times that he had, Storch couldn't believe that it had slipped from his fingers."

However, he was sure about how he felt about one side-effect of this practice. It made him more aware of himself, and particularly that inner dialogue that usually goes by so fast and is unnoticed. He liked that.

 

Yes, everyone is invited to post here with us . . . as long as your first post is addressed to me and contains nothing but a request to post here!

_____________________________________

thedope, I said everyone is invited. So, why are you posting here, since I'm almost certain that I have at some time or another explained to you the difference between yourself and everyone.

 

("...nah, nice try, but that's not going to stop them..." ventured the goblin commending storch's bravery though, adding "...I'm really enjoying this thread now, lots of talent too, join me and keep the posts coming because what you put into your posts today all goes into what you will produce later on...")

repost from elsewhere, a writer's forum

the goblin never hid who he was, just he didn't believe that his dailylife-self was really him while here, that's all, saying "...actors, who do not believe in their parts, while acting, are unlikely to have the audience believe in any of their parts either, yet where the storyline engulfs its reader is probably where the storyteller too is possessed by it..." the goblin then tried to bridge it, continuing "...ah, but you writers all know that much I guess, I mean you've been there yourselves, in your stories that is, ah no, don't even try to tell me that it was by some cold calculating thought process that you wrote your stuff, no you waited for it to come, it's that funny gripping sensation isn't it, in which you type on following something unfolding within your mind, building upon it as you go along, and above all being it in its total, oblivious to all else, especially time that is..." ventured the goblin now returned to the bistro where he had been before he had started writing this, "...ah, is that the time then, my point indeed..." mentioned the goblin as dailylife intruded upon his digression once more, and yes, like everyone else, the goblin was owned on the outside, yet inside it was up to him alone to bring those visions to life where their portrayal, just in so many written words here, were merely like wand movements to an actual spell now, for it was for these thoughts and visions within, and not their portrayal outside, that was the whole point of his writing anonymously now, just whatever one did did him back in return, smiling to that old line once more, the one that went what you do does you


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Dejavu had gone back some way, and forwards as well through the pages of the editorial that ensconced his ageless friends, when he drew off and put fingers to keys to see what might come of it. He was, for a start, wondering whether he might not have chosen the word couched over ensconced, which to his mind, though connoting some kind of a coddling, suggested something short of a cell. Were they trapped? Was he now too? Had the goblins talk of insides and outsides gone to his head like two duelling banjos struggling to wrest eachother to oblivion, a slate of neutrality, through the medium of what was still only a chamber music? The um of all spheres here hit him like reality, not above or below the belt of his abandon, but in the buckle of what he could in any way reason to be his own reason in anyone elses sphere of the same. Was he a writer after all? His solitude and his company did at this moment seem to be indistinguishable, yet he had always fancied himself to be a dancer despite his lack of training and inability to spin on his head. He paused, or at least what he liked to think was his pausing, half expecting a queue of spectres, of ghostwriters to appear and assemble before him, requesting he simply resign to signing their bits and pieces and get the business over with. Dejavu was in fact a playwright, though he'd never found the time, or lack of it, in which to write a play. He was perhaps altogether too playful a personality. An actor in his own right. A genius that saw through the see-through, finding the genius of everyone to the extent that he disdained to work his own to where it could become his income. It was too out-going. But was he outgoing enough for it? Even now, he shunned the thought of looking back over what he had here put forth in the third person, the course of what threatened to seem not the stream that it was, but a leak, a malfunction, a sputtering dribble. Bravery had been mentioned, and as he had known times when that was alone what he had been able to distinguish in himself, he hit the quick reply button. :-D

 

("...keep them coming..." went the goblin, adding "...self-doubt is what I fear the most, where most posters are cowards who conform to blandness in order to be approved of by those whom they don't even know here, resulting in the very compromise that one's sees across forumland today...", simply they all play safe then, and society embraces their gullibility and makes them dumb by it, why, because they follow the crowd, and want to be recognized for it, yet the goblin was anonymous, he couldn't be recognized so he didn't need to conform where if anything the banhammer just spared him from wasting his time on somewhere that wasn't worth his while)

repost from elsewhere

the goblin noted that even on these edit threads, both the subject of mcdonald's and one's journey to self were appropriate because it underlined two impossible ideals here, one of finding one's true nature through posting and the other of losing oneself in mcdonalds, "...ok, it's agreed then, neither of these are truly possible, for one can't live on forumland any more than one can stay inside mcdonalds forever, but for me at least they do show the concept of my being anonymous on forumland and invisible in dailylife, for what other freedom are there where one is ever just some being surrounded by its reality under a clock that ticks away one's moments, so in practical terms then, it's not really freedom per se, but it's the closest that one gets to freedom when one thinks about it..."


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repost from elsewhere

"...so what are friends here anyway..." sighed the goblin who had had to slowly let his real life friends drift away since years back after the captain had asked him to choose her instead, the goblin explained it, saying "...well in marriage one does these things of course, the compromise of which friends then, but like going through a recession, or through an illness then, or some other bad experience, one never quite goes back to the innocence that one had before it had happened, just pain to open the eyes perhaps...", and so the goblin now understood something, that as sad as that truth may seem, those friendships had, up to a point, been replaced by all this virtual socialization here, by our masked ball of forumland so to speak, where a person's details didn't matter nor mean anything, because nothing could be proved, "...amazing, when you think about it, it's all just someone's written words replying to someone else's written words, simply a gathering of written words across forumland here...", the goblin laughed at thought of it now, continuing "...in fact, one would think of this to be far too surreal even to be true if one wasn't so used to it by now that one forgot that nothing and no one is actually here now..."


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How long had it been, he suddenly wondered, since he had walked down that road on that sunny summer afternoon listening to Montego Bay on his transistor radio, and scanning the ditches for returnables? It had been forty-five years. Yet Storch could easily recall the sense of satisfaction his younger self received when walking home from the local country store smoking on the five-cent cigar that the three pop bottles he found had paid for. The extra penny bought two little squares of foil-wrapped chocolate called Ice Cubes. It was the smoothest chocolate he'd ever had. First, he would have one of the Ice Cubes, which he never bit down on, but would suck on till it was gone; and he urged others to do the same, rhetorically asking: why wouldn't you want to extend your period of pleasure? Then he would smoke a quarter of the cigar, and he would finish with the second Ice Cube. Nothing was wrong on that day. There was a moment of silence taking place in Storch's mind in memory of what was . . .

 

A letter from a stranger to a blackmailer who trusted a couple of talkative sisters with details of his illegal activities, much to his detriment!
__________________________________________

Dear Mr. Ceath,

Intelligence dictates that one's foresight must exceed one's penchant for wreckless inclusion of testimonial timebombs into one's . . . affairs. It is no measure of intelligence or resourcefulness to find oneself in a position of needing to effect, and enforce, the silence of others.

Intelligence also dictates that blaming and punishing others for one's own poor choices is the hallmark of an underdeveloped intellect. For example, the poor choice to expose details of one's own illegal activities to the aforementiioned testimonial timebombs must be said to be the brain-child of an underdeveloped intellect. I am being kind here.

To paraphrase: Dude, what were you thinking? I believe you'll find that horomones were the culprit on the day you offered up your balls--freedom--to ones who do not, as you had imagined, share your undying concern for, and devotion to, yourself. Evidence to that effect is staring you in the face at this very moment! Needless to say, you may now count me among those who do not share your devotion and loyalty to the thing you call "you."

 

Dejavu, that moment, decided to resign from his position as playwright. Since he'd never properly taken it up to begin with, he found it to be a breeze. He found it just as refreshing resigning from boatswain, first mate, and even captain in the moments that followed. Now adrift, there was nothing to be done and everything to be desired, a shocking compromise by some standards, but none that he could bring properly into focus, so he set about as an idler, and rafted a poem together from his imagination.

Ode to the post

Never clocked under, nor set to times train, being ours and ours only, no minutes remain to the second - life beckoned, love came, "Mail for me? I'm amor, does your armour close fit?! You are free to insist though in bliss it will just mean undressing." But life interrupted, impatient with guessing games, or so they seemed judging love by loves pride, "Now off!" suited up life set love out to ride into sunset, "Love does that so well" life reflected, but peerless night left life alone undetected by any who might herald loves great return... in conclusion I ask, will the sun light or burn?


Dejavu stretched, still carried on the swell, trusting his ersatz shanty wouldn't be taken tragically, like a pill, or a shot, any more than a hamburger done deserve wot it got. You see there was was that breeze! That lightest thing apart! :-D

 

("...I like your style, and appreciate your posts..." smiled the goblin quickly, adding "...so this is what posting could and should be, where simply one keeps writing on till something one posts hit one's own benchmark, and then one wants to keep it,perhaps to repost it but more likely to exact it to oneself again...", where the goblin was a culmination of this practice then, adding "...yes, it takes a certain type of madness to do this over the years like I have done, are you mad too, hope so because sanity to date has short changed you...")

repost from elsewhere

the goblin was always anonymous, so really whether he was liked, hated, or whatever then, didn't matter to that goblin persona he always portrayed himself as, so he just explained it, saying "...sooner or later, I am just haunted by the same old three questions again, "so goblin, what have you actually written for all this posting then", "and what has one learned from their replies and comments too" and "moreover, what have you seen of yourself by way of what you have posted"...”, pausing for a moment, the goblin went back into the kitchen to make another coffee, a dull workday's morning was his unavoidable encroaching reality now, so the goblin's only method of escape would be to cast his thoughts elsewhere since his family depended on his continued surrender to dailylife, and to this society, and even to living on too, even if all those were just so many compromises to dailylife all on their terms and for their rewards, yes, that much was unavoidably clear to the goblin now, "...ah, but as strange as it may sound, my mind up to a point has a choice of being "aware", "unaware", "here", or "elsewhere", so, what if one could master this choice as something against that all too mundane reality of ours, while also slowly producing a stored body of posts somewhere that thwarts those three haunting questions again, surely that would be reason enough to post on here..." concluded the goblin as the clock just ushered him on towards society's bidding once more, as the goblin retorts back to the clock in time "...lift anchor boson, rig the mind to elsewhere, and steady as she daydreams now..."


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repost from elsewhere

"...ah yes, the world of adults wants lies far more than it actually wants the truth, since that innocence of childhood is no longer acceptable to our reason, so instead we just seek loopholes again, where for example, we can see that yet another financial crash is coming since their given sums, if given at all, don't add up, yes but we think, that if we just sit tight it will blow over or go away, somehow knowing that, even at best, we are probably just stoking the fiscal flames with yet more investment for an even bigger crash later, the loopholes being "bailouts", or "someone else's problem", or "I could be wrong too" but no, your reason simply isn't buying it..." voiced the goblin who used this as a clear example of how one lies to oneself to calm oneself down, in fact, without these lies and loopholes the goblin surmised that the world of adults would actually collapse into a chaos of honesty and despair, so he continued "...ah no, so just lie to me please, as my mundane dailylife is ample proof of the truth of my slavery to it, and yet one can't escape from oneself can one, so instead one ignores the signs each time, hoping loopholes and distractions will suffice against one's own reason here..."


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Dejavu heard the goblin as an elf. How to tell him that he wasn't mad? Neither he nor himself? He wondered if there was comfort in madness and not only cover, that perhaps it wasn't truth that is inimical to human being after all, but the insistence upon it, its being sought at any cost. It doesn't tax our reason to seek a loophole, he noted, but to jump from a non-fiscal cliff would be an affront to it! Our reason, not the cliff, he quickly added. Sometimes, he thought to himself, it is enough just to extend gratitude, no matter where, or to whom, though he did feel the goblins warm welcome demanded something as directly personable, or rather, something he could in some way give in return over his anonymity, which is the commonest commodity in forumland. He sauntered slightly aft as though the wined had been taken out of his cells, but then, with unprecedented gusto sallied out with the following:


What had been writ after all, and what learned, by its readers, and what to our retainer burned, for the choice, to resist or persist with our work rests in questioning, conquering, and it will irk us until we want here above elsewhere, weigh up! We are moving, and moving remain, as our cup keeps on filling, its overflow can't be bailed out, so let's quench it! No future we don't love to scout!


Dejavu, after a few theatrical scans of the horizon, sat down against the bulkhead and reclined just exactly as much as he felt himself inclined to at such a time. If he had had a hat he would have pulled it down over his face. If he'd had a fishing line he would have cast it keeping his end nearby waiting to see if a fish or a snooze would overtake him first. Something about this clock business was still haunting him. If he'd had a pipe he would have puffed the phantom aside as he thought how wonderfully child-like it is to want time to stand still for us, of its signalling its passage as nothing more than our own. Being a heaving great grown-up, he saw both the blessing and the curse in this, but the blessing alone he found he could give face to, a human one, a smiling, laughing, human expression! How could he fail to countenance his own foresight in this matter?! :-D

 

("...I like that one too..." went the goblin, adding "...there's talent on this forum and clearly the posts are coming together now, I'll be here months still, and by then you'll be a dab hand at livewriting...")

repost from elsewhere

the goblin felt that these forums were much like individual trees in a forest called forumland, each one having a different set of creatures on them, so the goblin simply explained it now, saying "...you see, whereas most people on this forum see one edit thread amongst the many other threads here, I see it as one of the many edit threads in my email inbox...", and with that out the way the goblin felt he had better explain the rest too, adding "...just that, in the end, the point of this exercise is to create matched posts from raw replies here...", simply, unlike a blog, any raw reply in brackets that the goblin liked he then edited adding a matching picture too, whereupon he then reposted it to somewhere else as a matched post now enticing him to edit it once more, concluding "...just these edit threads push me to produce matched posts from my replies, that's all, but it gives my posting self purpose...", plus, unlike a blog that is more like a one man show, the "edit thread" often built up rapport between the posters upon them, "...why so silent humans, remember that your journey to self is but once now..." smiled the goblin as he laughed seeming to remember just how many banhammers had failed to impede his progress across forumland, saying "...to live against death then, and to post against one's silence too, is just winning the unwinnable while one still can I suppose, but it is still winning all the same, so what do you witness now with what has been given you..."


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