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

repost from elsewhere

"...nah, I am not lonely at all, for by the time I have finished writing out this post now, I'm aware that I will have to reply a number of others edit threads elsewhere, ranging across a spectrum of possible forum types and ages..." replied the goblin also aware that there was no knowing which of those edit threads would have an interesting post upon it, that is that a site, that had been quiet could suddenly become engaging like here for example, whereas another site, which had been full of serious imaginative posters could equally descend into a tag game meriting the goblin's exit, whereupon the goblin just explained it saying "...so this edit thread here is neither long nor short, for what does it's length matter where one is anonymous and when one writes alone to one's thoughts each time, life itself would be long then, and what does that change if there is one other person or a million other people reading the post after it has been posted, simply it's air/edit/backup of those posts that I feel merit it, that's all, where the context in itself never changes, but if someone replies like you have here then that means something to me and I thank you for it because you now share this thread with me..."


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Storch was pleased to see yet more material; material well worth carting off to his "reclaimed-post chop-shop" to be re-worked in such a way as to create the impression that Storch himself had written it. If it weren't for the coffee-filter collapsing in on itself like WTC #7 (shameless plug) this morning--leading to a mouthful of fu--fricking coffee grounds--all would be well in Storchville.

 

("...Storch, I've seen your posts, take whatever you like of mine but you already have a real writing talent within you, so keep at it, as nothing is new, everything has its roots elsewhere..." replied the goblin thinking Storch and dejavu would go far now, adding "...if I live there will be many many more post here, promise...", yet work pulled the goblin away now, the rush to reality was on)

 

( . . . I was just kidding, of course. I wouldn't steal you guys' stuff. Sometimes I can't quell the joker in me.

 

("...another livewriter might show now, since I gave him a link to this forum, you'll like his posts..." went the goblin, adding "...I love the anonymity of this forum and its freedom to relate anything it seems...")

repost from elsewhere

no his wife didn't know, because although the old fart had indeed promised her to remain anonymous throughout, he had then made it absolutely sure that the goblin was anonymous to her too, moreover, since she wasn't anglophone, the goblin doubted that she, or anyone else for that matter would click on as to who in fact was the old fart behind the goblin then, "...remember on forumland there is no proof of identity at all, and where's the point of being anonymous if one isn't honest to oneself while one is here, no, I regret nothing about what I have written so far, quite the opposite in fact, I know far more about myself today than if I had either been writing for that fame or fortune fake bookworld again or worrying about who was reading this, oh yes, someone might find out who I am even, but I will never admit it openly, so it just ends there in conjecture..." said the whoever that had written this in fact


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repost from elsewhere

the goblin turned up, he was never quite sure as to the reasons why, but somehow being poor with children just seemed better than being rich without them, and now, as the crisis hit deeper by the day, it would have been much wiser to have been childless from a "recession readiness" point of view, much as the decrease in the native populations of capitalist countries reflects this self evident conclusion here, though that isn't the whole story it seems, as it also seems that children form a flag for the whole family to rally around, where one finds oneself fighting on for their sakes alone, "...oh, it's all too easy to see how much more money one would have had without children, no, the harder part is how to explain to someone who has no children just how poor their life actually is without this battle here...", and yet, the goblin was such a hypocrite at the same time, for he still advised people not to have children during this recession since this battle, worth it as it was, could well end in defeat too


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Had the air grown stiller? Dejavu, humbled by the talent of his fellow raspiring live-writers, stilled the rattle of his keys, and put his mind to the grind of how to break it to them that there was no lock. For one thing, they already knew. For two things they were not, but exceptional beings. He was reluctant to wind out more verse as he'd heard people get made into poets by people who wanted their words explained for them. He shuddered. Rumours never usually made him shudder but rather clean his ears out. He put it down to the weather. Now about that pottery. One more amphora couldn't hurt. He stood, yawned, and

Committed, resigned, and in deed relocated, anon a mouse does, as it is, ere equated it isn't, a void of identity ain't, flow to form, runs at rhyme, here's no rough riven plaint 'gainst the offspring, on meaning, in origination, how elsewhere give meaning upword satiation? The new, it is true! It's not under your nose, nor even a nose, as in stinked out you blew - but yours elf, there's no health that more health cannot mend, why in all fair e-circles all's well that don't end.

He scoffed at this, and then laughed out loud. The live-writing he'd once known had mushroomed from him, there had been no pruning, the only real editing a happy impatience to see where his keys appeared to lead him, that is, until the bored manager saw "drugs" and removed the lot. Dejavu was secretly appalled that people might not want to make sense. So naturally he made out that he marvelled at it. :-D

 

("...I'm enjoying your posts humans, aware that if I had been alone in this venture the posts would have become as repetitive and as narrow as I am, yet this way I have no idea of who or what is coming next, so either I edit stuff here that I have written long before in waiting for your posts now, or I might put my latest post marked new here to see if it works across forums as some posts don't travel, yet either way then, what really matters is not these posts that result form their personas but one persona that results from these posts, for the posts are on their own once posted, a byproduct then, yet the persona remains within one as one's alter-ego, an alter-ego that only grows more capable with the practice...")

repost from elsewhere, new, a music forum's "edit thread"

"...nah, it gets worse humans..." started the goblin asking to be excused for the way he wrote, then continuing "...in that, due to obamacare most corporations are reducing their low level staff to a 30hours a week employment status, thus avoiding the insurance bill to cover them, resulting in unemployment figures that might look better with less actual work being divided up between more people, yet for the individual concerned it couldn't be worse because often that person then had to work two jobs where the two separate employers who might not wish to share their employee between them...", yet either way then, everyone knew that the american unemployment figures were a farce, where being dropped off the register after two years regardless of whether one had actually found a job could hardly be reflective of the true unemployment figures, whereupon the goblin just sighed, saying "...the only reason why no one sees this as the greater depression of the 2010s as opposed to the great depression of the 1930s is that the media has been corrupted by its paymasters to turn a blind eye towards it and its moral obligation to speak out, not forgetting the fact that those all too obtrusive soup kitchens of yesteryear are now neatly replaced by the unobtrusive food stamps of today, moreover back then it was 1 in 10 who lived in the cities whereas today it's 1 in 10 who doesn't...", simply, it had come to the stage where ourdearmedia was without conscience here, and that something that had started out as too big to fail had then become too big to prosecute and was now too big to mention even, where the goblin felt that the excuse of war would be their next tool to suppress even more unreported dissent at home, that america would in effect move onto a war footage against an enemy, imagined or otherwise, if only to hide the depth of its own shortfall and corruption, so the media would in effect offer the audience what amounted to that audience itself then, while hiding behind that media would be that which actually was that audience's reality without coverage


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repost from elsewhere, the what are you thinking thread

the goblin was thinking that the bistro was to his dailylife what the edit thread was to his forumland, saying "...well they're both just communal places I suppose, just somewhere to chat with others or else just somewhere to reflect by oneself alone..."


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This is, by the way, a true story, picked up from post#322 . . .

When we last left our friends Storch and Shep, they were taking a moonlight walk with their backs to a car that was rapidly burning up the distance between them in an even louder and more aggressive manner than before. As the car sped by, the occupants hooted and hollered out the windows. Storch, being Storch, wanted to get the last word in, and so, despite his new understanding that the driver was not alone, he once again converted his flashlight into a battery-powered middle finger, and he stuck it in the driver's face via his rear-view mirror. The car continued on for about three quarters of a mile where it ran into a main road. Storch walked on and watched as the car sat there motionless and blinkerless at the stop-sign.

He was thoughtfully congratulating himself for having once again predicted the outcome of a situation using his superior understanding of human nature when the car suddenly pulled a U-turn in classic hellian style and the driver stomped on the gas, highbeams a glarin'. Storch knew that such a thing was designed to unnerve him, and that the car was simply the vehicle through which the driver chose to channel the bull-essense of his personality. And so, for no other reason than to prove to everyone concerned that he was anything but intimidated, he waited until the car was close enough for his not-so-powerful flashlight to have an effect on the driver's eyes and, hopefully, his state of mind as well. Then he hit the switch.

As the car went by, the occupants were hollering over each other in an attempt to have their insult heard over and above their buddy's insults. Storch knew that if they hadn't escalated things beyond simple barking by now, their would be no biting. Then he heard the car once again come to a gravel-grinding halt behind him and pull another U-turn. Storch knew what he would be taking from the driver if he didn't show enough concern to even turn around to look, and so he didn't. As they passed by him this time, Storch hollered the words "chicken shit" as loud as he could. That's when they'd had about enough of Storch. The driver turned around, pulled up beside Storch and asked him what his problem was. Storch said, "You couldn't dim your fuckin' lights?"

"Well maybe my dims don't work."

Strorch said, "Yeah, ok, then you can go." Then he continued walking.
The driver continued keeping pace with Storch. "Hey buddy," the guy in the back seat started in, "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're kind of outnumbered here."

Storch stopped walking and moved over to the driver's door. The driver stopped the car, at which time Storch could see that there were three occupants. "You mean it'll take all three of you?"

The driver pulled the car over to the side of the road and all three of them got out. The driver walked up to Storch and got right in his face. "Hey fucker, let's go. I'll fuck you up right now."

Storch could smell beer on the driver's breath. "Well then why don't you tell your friends to go take a drive so that you and I can talk about things alone."

"They ain't gonna jump in."

"Well then you won't mind if they take a drive down the road while you and I talk."

A pause. "They don't have the keys. I've got the keys!" the driver finally said.

"Well then why don't you give them the keys? That way you and I can talk alone."

"You think I'm afraid of you, fucker?"

"I think you're afraid to talk to me without your friends."

The guy stood there for three seconds without saying anything. "Fine," he finally said, reaching into his pocket for the keys and throwing them to one of his buddies. When his buddies started getting back into the car, the driver suddenly came at Strorch, saying, "That's it! I'm going to fuck you up right now." Then he hit Storch in the chest with his palms to knock him down, but Storch kept his balance and moved backward with the push. Shep ran to between storch's feet, barking and growling. Storch had the leash in one hand, and his flashlight in the other. He was considering how he might defend himself if it came to that. He knew that he was going to shove the flashlight into the driver's mouth and nose area with enough force to keep him out of the game at least until the game was over and the final score announced. He also knew that he would almost simultaneously plant his boot into the midsection of the one standing just to the side of the driver, and then have fun with the sole survivor for as long as the others' injuries prevented their return to the game.

The driver hit Storch in the chest again. And again, Storch braced for it and remained on his feet. "I said come on!" the driver hollered.

When this happened, Shep bit Storch's leg just below the calf muscle. Storch couldn't believe it at that moment, though later, upon deeper reflection, he realized that Shep's actions were not so unpredictable after all. He had come to be in charge of Shep when his neighbor had decided to euthanize him, using starvation as the means. Storch offered them a quicker method, and they accepted. And now he was learning the hard way that two and a half weeks of good food and rehabilitation is not long enough to undo two and a half years of solitary confinement under harsh conditions. Even the wound around his neck from his former chain was just now showing the final stages of healing. How much longer for the other wounds?

 

Even so, Storch had a long talk with Shep the next day as they sat on the shore of a large lake, soaking up the healing powers of the water and the sunshine. Storch started out, "Damn it, Shep! When the time comes to choose who you're going to bite during an altercation, always bite the one who never feeds you; it's a goddam no-brainer, Shep." After turning to make sure that Storchette was well outside of hearing range, he said, "And if it comes to it, you bite the one who feeds and loves you least."

When Storch had finished with his discourse, he was dismayed to see not even a hint of shame on Shep's face. In fact, there was nothing about his countenance to indicate that he was thinking anything but happy thoughts and feeling anything but happiness. He thought that perhaps he might be guilty of expecting too much from Shep in the way of being human.

 

"Morning is a good time," Storch said to himself, "until you add U to it. Then it becomes mourning."

He wondered how he could have lived for all this time with that son of a bitch sitting on his shoulder. But then he recalled having insisted upon it.

 

("...very moving and well written too, I'm so glad you decided to join in then..." went the goblin pleased to be here, adding "...most anything that gets reposted gets edited in doing so, where I seem to remember that the line goes something worth reading twice is worth writing twice, so this thread is exactly for that purpose then, one's editing that is, but unlike doing it by oneself alone, here you feel a sense of audience together with a feeling of deadline, simply the higher the hitcount goes the more one understands that to post is to publish, welcome to my world then, we are livewriters between us...")

repost from elsewhere

no, the goblin never asked anyone to post in his way then, saying "...the man in the mirror is just another mask determined by external factors, where the more one is on forumland the clearer this disparity between one's external and internal becomes, so if one knows that the external isn't really oneself either, then surely one's purpose here is to find out who one really is by what one posts...", in fact, much like dailylife too, each forum seemed vetted by the reader by some qualification, for example on writer's forum by "are your published", the goth's site by "what makeup then", the troll's site by "how rude", etc., etc., so the goblin just remained anonymous, he simply remained a goblin wherever he was then, and foiled anyone trying to find out, feeling that on the forumland that vetting had no importance whatsoever, whereupon the goblin then smiled, saying "...so which external factor of my dailylife should determine what I am supposed, or not supposed, to post this forum I wonder, for surely if my chosen persona is a mask, which all personas are, then it's a mask that is a more apt one because it doesn't hide behind those externals each time..."


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repost from elsewhere,

the goblin thanked xxxxx, but felt his goblin persona here was hardly any worse than that other mask he wore in dailylife, and far better than all that loneliness that most old people suffered for their being old then, something usually interpreted as what then, their being stubborn, ugly, cantankerous, unclean, etc., amongst other adjectives so often voiced behind their backs, "...ah, but what if inside me I wasn't really that person in the mirror at all, what if it was just some external conditioning that had no truth beyond those social dictates placed upon one because either that was how one looked, or as expected for one's age, and no, I'm not saying that one should adapt to some fake teenage persona either, only that all to often that one sees the other extreme here, those people who go out of their way to mirror themselves here, only to wonder why they don't attain that which they were looking for, the actual appreciation of the inner selves behind their outer ones...", at which point the goblin just sighed, feeling that his only real failing was that he couldn't repeat, in his dailylife too, this ageless changeless goblin persona now, but no, alas in dailylife the goblin remained simply whatever those around him viewed him as, just his externals each time, but that was always humans for you, and ever such superficial creatures aren't they


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Dejavu had been a little absent, but forgave himself knowing that he wanted to be right here in forumland over elsewhere in it. Humans, Dejavu thought, were deeply superficial. But he didn't love them any less for it. Their instincts were to appear, and go on appearing, even if only to themselves. There was something about it that smelt distinctly superhuman, and Dejavu, while not relying on his nose, could hardly deny it. They would bite your leg one day, and kiss your feet the next, but he refused to be disheartened. He loved as they loved, even when they were confused actors, or worse, defused reactors, for he was attracted, through his own humanity to their appetite for excess. They wanted more, because they loved. He was concerned for them. He despised himself for it, but the fact remained they had not yet transformed war, or more correctly, their warring nature to their advantage. How were they to do this on the whole as it were? He did not want to speak out of turn...

Facile, fickle, fell when fettered, man, through sheer elan has vetted self, and all of his effects, to find himself the stronger... sex? Futility could not be sweeter, womans, fairer, loves to seat her, life - for that her reason stands, alone through all that it demands of unreason, and war, and change, by her, man does avoid derangement of the senses, our extremes - that life exceeds (not only seems to) expectation, makes instead, the woo with which the world is wed.


What a lot of dead lines to have to meet, Dejavu acknowledged to himself, having already met them in meting them out to a meter that produced but neglected to publish. Live writing should be so much less convoluted! He blurted out, but since it was the live of live writing that held him to it, he made the subsequent reparation of imblurting as best he could. There.

 

Storch wasn't stupid. But he was a victim of his own anger, which sometimes made him appear to be stupid. He was angry because the world held no real meaning or value for him; he didn't know what it was for and he didn't want it. In the simplest terms, he thought of life as like a car. The gears turn, sure, but why? So that the car can go down the road. Ok, but once again, why? So that the human can get from here to there and then back again. But why? So that the human can make a pack of dollars? And why? So that they can keep the gears in good working order. And why? . . . .

The proverbial rat-race.

But it went deeper than that. It was a rat-race within a hampster-wheel inside a squirrel cage. Some cage dwellers, by virtue of their ability to play reality's version of the game of Monopoly quite well, have the finacial means to create the illusion of being outside the cage--of being free. And once in a while, young rats are enticed into hopping off the wheel and exiting the cage to go fight for the interests of the owners and operators of the cage. They are promised a decent wage, decent meals, a decent education, decent housing, decent insurance, and other decent things in exchange for doing indecent deeds in the name of the indecent cage owners. It all really smelled like quite the indecent affair.

It certainly appeared that populations were being led--willingly--to believe that they are part of a moral and humanitarian response to wicked witches of . . . anywhere but the West. It seemed to Storch that the most dangerous thing in the world is a population of people pretending to not understand that the murderous response of their hired servants to rumors equals their own non-response to their own murderous servants. What was the answer? And whose responsibility is it to come up with it?

Storch sat and thought about writing for profit. He had often considered doing what Stephen King does. He could conjure up tales that would scare the shit out of Stephen on a Sunday morning in a well-lit room! But he understood very well what it would add to the atmosphere.

 

("...well, all you have to do is draw those readers to your pen so to speak, where your posts will act as your ambassador..." smiled the goblin, adding "...you see those readers don't have time nor the patience to read at length today, instead they just want in, that is they want this interaction with the author, so they feed you replies to be fed then, where you write something for them here and then you'll post it elsewhere for someone else only to notice that more and more people are reading you, and that your repost is better than the first post, and suddenly all this posting becomes purposeful, where one then sees that the humble post as "writing" pure and simple right up there with the book or the poem and the prose...", yet the goblin was lying slightly, for he didn't see posting as writing, no, more it was like painting to him, and as with painting then it had to be done many times to exact it's contours, adding "...nah, it's not because something is written well that ever makes it pulling now, far from it, it's because you make it pulling through reposting that it then becomes perfect for your purpose still, so it's always ongoing however many times one reposts something...")


repost from elsewhere

"...life is ever a series of shocks to me..." mentioned the goblin, only a day or so after the hold up at the "money exchange" across from his work place, one with that usual someone just walking into the exchange, asking for the money at gunpoint, and then escaping on a stolen motorbike, no, what was unusual was that it happened where events like these don't happen in safe switzerland now, so times had changed it seemed, and yet, what with the gathering of the gypsies in their ever larger numbers, the lack of snow in winter, and summer's insufferable heat, geneva, the goblin had to admit to himself, was different again, "...it's as if this accumulation of little changes over the years that, although insignificant in themselves and too gradual to really notice, had suddenly had him waking up to the shock of it all...", somehow the goblin's life simply seems ever to straddle a mental fault-line of his own complacency, time passes and then bang, a new landscape appears out of the old one, and his bearings have to be reset to the new norm now


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("...almost 7000hits, you know your being here makes all the difference..." went that goblin, adding "...for nothing would make me happier than for you to become known by your posts now...")

repost from elsewhere

the goblin wakes at six each morning, an hour or so before the rest of his family giving him a short period to be alone with his thoughts, where the sky outside this morning was of unbroken cloud, somehow the goblin equates himself to being under that type of cloud in his dailylife too, where it was ever his wish to think beyond his work and family, no he loved his work and family, just that there were times that he remembered that there was also something above that cloud however black and pressing those clouds became


42

 

Storch was remembering a day from long ago when he incurred the wrath of his sister Gloria for having instructed her young kids on how to swear and get away with it. He and his sister Gloria were having coffee at her house when her eight-year old son came to the table and said, "Hey ma, Joey bissed his pants."

His sister, Gloria at first shocked, turned to her son. "Bobby! What did you say?"

A look of panic replaced Bobby's grin. "Uncle Storch said it was ok," was all he said.

Gloria then turned to Storch, glaring at him. "Do ya know what kind of shit you've started?

If Storch could have resisted, he surely would have. But resistance was futile. "Well no, but I know what kind of chit I've started."

Bobby's grin was back. Gloria's scowl was more pronounced. She told him to leave and to not come back until she'd had enough time to get the worms back into the can he had just opened. Storch wondered how she was going to keep the worms from coming back out once she got them all back in. You can't reattach the lid of a can; it's not like they come with screw-tops like mason-jars. If only people would think to keep their worms in mason-jars instead of cans, there would be no problem with getting them back in and keeping them there. But as it was, Storch was on his way home wondering what the vuck just happened. Was he really such an esshole?

 

("...yes, it reads well..." mentioned the goblin liking it)

repost from elsewhere

the goblin was thinking of the glaciers that push down from the mountain tops, and liking them to various factions in history that have vied with one another until only this one seemingly stable present day glacier remains, "...two factors then, make up man's history for me, they are power and authority..." ventured the goblin, understanding that there are countless examples where power alone has failed to become any resulting authority, and where authority has come about seemingly without power, the goblin continued "...oh, it is so easy to see how power works, but authority, my dear humans, is more subtle as it works on gradual change to the status quo to its own advantage while feeding us with distractions and fears, authority is our acceptance of it and we are bonded to it, in that where there is no authority things simply fall into anarchism, a power struggle and then back to some authority once more...", the goblin was only pointing out here that to understand the workings of history, this society, or even where one fits into this situation then, one has to ask oneself where is the authority in this


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