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

Storch awoke this morning thinking about the story of God and Satan. This surprised him because it was such a deviation from his usual morning wake-up routine of straining on the toilet,* and then straining to come up with yet another way to kill a human being in a single move. Some practiced yoga. Some contemplated the teachings of Jesus. Storch did this. But this morning, he was struck by the similarities between the story of God and Satan, and the story of democrats and republicans; of liberals and conservatives; of catholics and protest-ants; of rednecks and . . . whitenecks; of white-collar and blue-collar; of black and white; of rich and poor; of A-students and D-students; of etc. and etc.

*Storch has no problem with irregularity, but reserves the right to take literary liberties, however unflattering.

He found it interesting that people became convinced of the wisdom of following God even though Satan offered the better life plan as far as having a good time goes. Sure, you could still do highly enjoyable things under God's rule, but when it comes to the things you really like doing, God's position appears to be that you can do that thing, but not so much that you come off looking like you love it more than him. But that's a dangerous line to ride. Best to just steer clear of those kinds of activities.

 

Dejavu was moved, and moved himself to consideration of loves finding its way into and out of the bounds of duty. As he tapped the type you see here into the slot to let his friends know of this particular consideration, he felt an aversion to delve into the particulars. Not for personal reasons, as they might be called, and not because of any reluctance on his part to know himself in the matter by the words he'd issue on the subject, but the thought that no-one else wanted to know of loves affair with duty. That this aversion he felt was felt by all, like ones reflection in moving water; one knows it is ones reflection, but one can't see oneself clearly in it. It was like looking into a marriage where the couple have played by all its rules and look longingly outside of it. The racehorse had become a nag. Love had flared its nostrils, bucked, and galloped, unsaddled as ever into wooded hills. But love becomes many things, said Dejavu with a smile. As ones children, it flees just as readily, the joyous faces saying laughingly to the fond following, yes, we love you, but did you want to be us? Dejavu had lived long enough to learn love can't be fixed, that it is never broken, he was, at the time of posting these letters through the slot, over half-way through his allotted three score and ten, and had not yet found his calling. He was certain this was in no part due to a problem with irregularity, but regularity. He promised to call once this liberty had been addressed.

 

Tar baby was somewhat familiar with sticky situations having earned a reputation, and consequently his name, through a viscous desire to break free of superstition. That is super this or super that. The ratings game a dating game as we spend our lives in habitation with the denizens of our subjective fancy.

Tar baby could be found thinking it might be better not to program the potential enjoyment of his trip in this fantasy land of the abstract mind by putting conditions on his apprehension of phenomena, like love for instance.

 

Oh yeah, and then there's love. God-damned love. Throughout his life, Storch was asked by various humans whether he loved them or not. He could never, as he wished, ask them to first define love; though in retrospect, he now wonders why the frick not? The thing was, if he simply answered yes, he would feel that he had insulted the integrity of his very being. If he answered no, he knew that he would insult the integrity of another's being. What could he do? Some choices were easy.

 

Ahh, went Dejavu, exhaling politely. Vintage Tarbaby! But he was not going to smack it around the chops today. Long had he discussed and discoursed, and even just dissed thedope, who purported to give love no condition, not even his own, ( despite his calling himself love ) and he was not about to stick himself, ( for he would never be stuck ) down those same lingual avenues which he ruled, and was not amazed about. He thought feeding thedopes apparently ever-present wonder at his doing so was not a decent enough reason to repeat himself, and so he encouraged a little more indecency from thedope, in posting the following above, as follows, thinking, this is what's wanted! We are all encouraged into the third person! Whoever it is! May this grand literary device lead us all to glory! This last sentence he said aloud for the humourous effect upon his own ears, and then promply closed his own slot.

 

To love is to not give a damn.

 

"Well", said Dejavu to storch, "On being asked that most importunate question, the best answer is always yes, unless of course you don't. If someone else is asking, the onus of definition is never upon oneself."

 

Was it possible, asked Dejavu, that to love is to give so much of a damn that the damn is burst? But as he was finishing asking, his cup almost escaped his clutch and he had to perform a dance move to rescue it, and then another to make it look like it was intended, and the two seemed so seamless, it was as if he had wanted to almost spill his drink.

 

Storch thanked Dejavu for once again helping to clear things up. Still, something was troubling him. Even more troubling than what was troubling him was the fact that what was troubling him was not thedope. But there was nothing to be done about that. However, it was Storch's hope that Dejavu would agree to never use the word "onus" again in this thread as it is just one similar looking vowel away from being something kind of offensive. Storch knew he was coming off as a little eccentric or just plain quirky, but he had needs.

 

What sinister past had visited storch, tar baby wondered for just an instant until he remembered it was most likely not the voice of a real affection but of a baseless accusation.

What had accusation proved except that sincerity or innocence if he would allow it of himself, was useless in the face of those who had judged against him. It behooves the groove to forgo the overt attack against otherwise acceptable foundations like for instance our common humanity. The more we love the more we experience love.

Tar baby didn't know that love was not giving a damn but knew regardless that we don't love those things we damn. Love is giving, without purposeful reservation.

 

Ironically, Storch just heard the voice of that baseless accusation again.

 

A comfortable habit perhaps. The accusation wasn't tar baby's, he only wondered and remembered. Might we suggest that a sense of humor makes the skin impervious to pricks?

 

Dejavu had never been a figure of speech. He didn't even cut much slack as a thinker, he thought, when it came down to it. He knew when such a time came, he'd ask when what comes down to what, but probably too late, and so be consigned to understudy. This was only a probability though, and in his time of having taken his time to be mathematical without getting much further than calculus, he was able to comprehend that odds are never really against one, being odd. To be fair to himself, he had been lying when he said he'd dissed thedope, or rather, in suggesting he'd done it intentionally. But he knew thedope had felt dissed by him, for thedope had said that if one defends oneself one is attacked. A damn nonsense, thought Dejavu, both then and now, knowing thedope liked to place his cart so far before his horse that it was not to be seen, and that what was seen was a horse pushing itself to pull itself off. Now, thankfully, this horse of thedopes was no gelding, as he wouldn't have known what to say, but it was no stallion either, and so what he did say was rather awkward, though he felt thedope would at least agree with him for a change: - The onus is never upon the ponies! He then made a solemn oath, made less solemn by the fact he'd keep by it, to never again use that word where storch might hear or read it. He'd needed to use it one last time, and the onu.. responsibility was now his to see that that need stayed relieved.

 

One man's comfortable habit followed by another man's comfortable habit . . . perhaps? Hmmm? Storch could see that thedope was better at ping-pong than he would probably ever confess to, being the humble fellow that he is.

Storch wondered what it was about past moments that intrigued thedope, and he wanted to hear more. What was thedope remembering? The onus was on thedope to explain.

 

Storch just finished the Storchbeck novel "Of Coons and Men." Good reading . . .

 

Hey! I was just playing around. Come back and I'll give back your ping-pong ball. It might be cracked though.

Storch's skin had always been impervious to pricks, but that never translated into a reason to not hassle them. He could recall times in the past, however, when he was pervious to their proddings.

 

"Now now", said Dejavu, in the meekest school-marm manner he could manage, "this talk of pricks isn't giving any of us an erection. Let's leave ping pong to the cunts."

 

Storch had witingly confused himself thinking thedope was tar baby when tar baby was a third person altogether.

thedope suggested to tar baby however that he pass the assurance along to Dejavu that it was memory that inspired the words, if I defend myself i am attacked, as he recalled how he thought to lock a door lest someone would divest him of his interests.

Nobody came. It turns out he had imagined a villain and so thought to imprison myself behind said and in fact locked door. Fortress and prison tar baby, are the same vain response Tell him, (thou art,) that, thedope said.

thedope suggested also that storch would probably have an opinion if not a third person/al anecdote regarding the idea that if we don't protect against the thief the thief will run amuck.

thedope would counter by relating that he has had experience with those who are invited to take unsecured property but the experiences have been few and far between, certainly owing to no lasting concern, and most assuredly no where near amuck. The articles were my beloved fly fishing outfits. Not once but three times the articles were stolen from unlocked vehicles and were summarily replaced. Had thedope learned a lesson it was that life is effervescent that way. You can't hold it down and it's damn near impossible to get rid of the stuff.

 

But de tar baby, she ain't saying nothin', Dejavu noticed, thinking perhaps it was thedopes mandible that needed unsticking for tasting such a lady. The suggestion that he, Dejavu, was a fortress and a prison, seemed neither a compliment nor a slight, and since it didn't even seem to be an observation, he put it down to jealousy. He didn't know what it was he had that thedope wanted, but he guessed it was a certain je ne sais quoi, especially on thedopes part. He was remembering, being the in thing it now was, that he had placed a bet with thedope as to who'd be first to tickle a trout, and he didn't mean the unsmiling woman who says the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. thedope had not indicated whether he was taking part in this wager or not, and Dejavu felt something like despondence as he pondered how lucky thedope was to have thieves that replaced what they stole from him.

 

(the goblin returned, looked over the posts and marveled at the thoughts they provoked within, saying "...deepest thread on the forum, but it's likely to get better still I believe, it only has to continue as it is...")

repost from hopefully elsewhere, the "are you a true troll" thread, usual infighting,

and so the thread had petered out to it usual conclusion of no conclusion, insults had been exchanged, barbs to counter barbs too, but no meat here, nothing to actually prove it as case true or case false on to case closed that is, "...so trolls, how does one prove the brightness of a troll then, that is, where the idea in itself doesn't seem very bright to begin with, surely the brighter one proves oneself to be the more stupid one looks by it...." mentioned the goblin over his coffee before work, in fact, it was as if somehow this exact same paradox faced the goblin too, in his dailylife, that of one's being held up to one's own expectations that is while thinking surely one isn't what one has now


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