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

repost from elsewhere, the "my site is down" thread on the support forum

 

repost from elsewhere, to someone who had written sixtly lines as a reply on a thread

the goblin showed, read the whole post and appreciated its content, saying "...yes, you write well...", which was certainly true, yet the goblin also wondered if others would have actually read it too, continuing "...yes, it's a hard balance isn't it, between a short post which doesn't do justice to one's thoughts but gets read for its ease, and writing a justifiably long post that doesn't get read at all because the heart sinks upon seeing it, so perhaps the trick is to break up one's post into many now, making it a paragraph per post, or one point within each post then, and then double posting it since no one minded reading a couple of short posts..." simply the goblin had realised that a short post with an added picture usually got read, adding "...one is up against the ease of facebook here, where no one owes you their time now, and where, if they won't read your post because of its length, you'll miss out on replies and go hungry by it..."


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repost from elsewhere

the goblin reminded himself of something, saying "...members come and go..." but the goblin himself didn't mind who came or went or stayed, or whatever, no, for him only content mattered, "...selfish perhaps but as long as I am alive I will try for content as each post is proof of how I relate to my life..." explained the goblin, continuing "...but let's see it for what it really is, in that each one of us is actually alone on forumland with an unspoken tally known only to ourselves of what one has done against the time that one has had to do it in, so now, how does one other member here, or a million other members for that matter, change this simple equation in some way, no, this tally just remains constant as some benchmark of self doesn't it, simply, in life one might well be "whatever", fair enough, but on forumland one is ever what one posts pure and simple..."


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Not disputing the purity, but if only it were so simple, thought Dejavu after reading the goblin, that one could be whatever in life, even within reason. It was not that he didn't love that one only becomes what one is, or that he wasn't up to realizing the who of it, as everyone does in every benchmark of self whether in life or online. There was no sigh in his 'if only', but there was bemusement. Form is content, said Dejavu, knowing he was ruffling more than a few feathers by saying so. To be stranded in facsimile, to be caught up in proofs of ones good relation, this is something all writers spurn, no matter how romantic they are! He exclaimed, sensing, though not knowing how close to the bone he was cutting with such a remark. There is no true classicism of feeling, he continued. There is nothing of art we wouldn't give for life, but that is at once arts virtue and its demise, it is why we sing ourselves into submission over the creation and dissolution of culture, naively imagining history repeats itself whether we make meaning of it or not. It is why we rest and revolt upon all platitudes, it is the very essence of what we can ever know as origination, and it is why... he hesitated... why we will never make sense of death.

But Dejavu yet again held off going further, his posts, even the pithiest little smidgin of wit, were always too long, and so taking leave from the goblins book, leaving a leaving of his own, a picture he included that in some way go towards matching his words it would.

 

"...love the pic Dejavu, well rendered post too..." went the goblin knowing how matching pictures to one's texts was a good way to practice illustrating then, explaining "...nah, the point of this is not the external result that lands on the page but more the internal result that ingrains itself within oneself by practice, where none of this is real anyway, nor where any of this will last for long, but even so, one remains real to oneself just as is one's own benchmark if one reposts across forums is real enough, as is one's growing ability to post too is real then, all selfish and subjective I know, but the me that results from the practice is what matters here, where I'll befriend you yes, I'll like you even, but that doesn't make it reality between, simply we are all fiction between us here..."

 

Yes, remaining real to oneself. It seemed to happen in any case. It was not humanly possible for Dejavu to separate what he slotted down on the page from what held up as his understanding in doing so. There was nothing fictional about he or any other folk no matter what they thought, and he was apparently lasting at least as long as he lasted. Form was content inside-out, even if we wanted to deceive ourselves or others. He certainly didn't want to drive anyone mad whose hold on language perhaps couldn't accomodate the synonym that would, he supposed, appear to be an imposition, and so he hoped it could, from their perspective, be looked upon as something that would pass. They say nothing lasts, mused Dejavu, but nothing doesn't, everything does, and never stops lasting, never having come before it came. First or be firsted never applied to it. His reflection piped up at this point, to taunt and test him, just a little. What a decisive character you're acquiring Dejavu! it said, and turned its back on him just as he turned his back on it.

If life went on, he could too.

 

Something is not necessarily everything but everything is necessarily something being of the thing variety. Some would suggest perhaps that everything cannot be because everything hasn't come into being but I would query, since when,
popped off thedope.

 

thedope here rang true, which unnerved Dejavu, who like storch was immune to the all-sticking glue of his words, as the tar childs, immutably mute, for the most part he added, not wanting dispute over what was decidedly gained, the exception, yes everything's here, let's commence its reception ourselves with eachother on ad infinitum, for fun then for joy and enjoyin'em not beat'em but overcome, wait what to give? Is the gift of the present, in never unwrapping, a rift twixt the essence of what's always held us together? He left off, best small up the talk, speak of weather until we're so stormy for lightning it strikes, we conductors of love over sum of our likes.

 

thedope had given up the conduction of various elements of like and dislike to compose and perform a symphony of appreciation only, not wanting to divide his loyalties or efforts.

If I do not decide whether or not the weather is to be liked or disliked I can spend all my time in appreciation he remarked. And oh my stars on a crystal clear night and other meteorological phenomena!

 

repost from elsewhere

the goblin explained something saying "...livewriting is completely different from book writing, first off, one's post can't be too long since one is competing with facebook here, next off, the hitcount is a pretty fair indicator of one's readership, and last off, "the work and it's author are just two sides of the same coin here"...", and yet this last point seemed too big to the goblin to explain in one go, even if he also knew that it was the most important and biggest difference between the two types of writing now, continuing "...perhaps it's the same difference as that between the cinema and the theater, where books, like the cinema then, seem some set record of the something previous , whereas posts, like the theater counterpart, have ones audience viewing everything first hand...", at which point the goblin felt there was something else he should add here, continuing "...the total number of posters to a thread tells one of its participation is big, and the hitcount divided by the number of posts gives one readership rate", meaning that some "last post" threads I do have a high "readership rate", while others have a high large "participation rate", and yet no thread can be high in both readership and participation...", but as much as the goblin understood the workings of these threads, the fact that he remained anonymous, simply meant that none of what he had actually written here mattered beyond the point that he enjoyed livewriting far more than he would perhaps deadwriting then


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repost from elsewhere, an admin's rant

"...oh no, its more like 50 "last post" threads, not just the two forum/venues now, and besides, if somewhere gets it first it's just full of typos, whereas if somewhere gets it last it's nice and tidy..." mentioned the goblin, adding "...but why should it matter, in fact I make the comment on one site, go through the pictures on some other site, and then post the combination across various sites in no particular order, where if anything only the most important sites, somewhere like the lupusbots site, gets the post last of all, because for them it has to exactly right I feel, since xxxxx and the others are fighting something big there..." but the goblin also knew that none of this actually mattered, he was after all anonymous, moreover everyone else here was anonymous too, and besides, who would remember what the goblin had written yesterday let alone last week then, so the dyslexic goblin's newest stuff was crudely written and full of typos, but the goblin also knew that if he and the admin were the last two remaining members left on the forum/venue, he'd still post on with her, after all he needed these edit threads for their feeling of deadline together with their sense of audience


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Then there are accidents and surprises, suppositions and surmises, thedope said.

Supposing we never surmise we would be left with only life.

Did you ever have an accident then, for all the world it appeared that our intention had somehow got away from us and a spastic glitch occurred. We would never in a million years have an accident on purpose especially if the seeming consequences were broadly affecting more than just ourselves.

It is probably not so that our attention had been consistent, drawn first by one thing and then another and from the perspective of intent, attraction/distraction or repulsion/aversion, seems counter revolutionary. Far be it from me to suggest that our desires are fraught with peril but I would say that our fortunes are fraught variously through desire. A whim then a kind of traffic control for the unintended.

So how does accident figure into the working out of the whether/weather?
As the world turns, thedope remembers the sauromond describing, it does so at the rate of an octave, each tone corresponding to a day of the week.
Depending on which day you started with, say sunday. Sunday would correspond to do and monday would correspond to re and so on until we come to Sunday or do, once again, except that the following do is an octave above or further along, in time. As this applies to accident and surprises, an octave has a peculiar sonic feature and that is between mi and fa and and between ti and do are a half step. These half steps in between a series of whole notes or steps alter the trajectory of spin slightly so that instead of going in an entirely straight line, there is little kink that causes space to curve.

Then thedope ran out of battery life.

 

thedope returned after he allowed his laptop to suck on a power cord for a while as strange as that might sound.

So accident and surprise both seem to overwhelm our intent so much so that we may question whether/weather or not we have any, intent, or whether/weather seeming intent is just the coincidence of imagination and dew point. We certainly find ourselves in a fog over many things.
=====================================
a trick thdope had begun to learn
repost from a repast:
The storms in the atmosphere reflect the storms in our consciousness just as the storms in our consciousness reflect the storms in the atmosphere.
=====================================
We are composition in a spectral array. We are a note in a symphony plying our consonant relations. Sing along song or song sung and sung along with, all in all we set the tone while the cadence is circadian.

 

repost from elsewhere

once more the bistro claimed the goblin on the outside while inside his mind was thinking back to the point where bill gates had predicted the internet will be the top media where all others will bow down to it, and how at the time he had been laughed out of court by the medias, "...ah well, they don't laugh so loud now do they..." blurted out goblin seated almost alone amongst those many mostly empty bistro tables around him, whose newspapers upon them went unread under an unwatched television, there for free but ignored even, so the goblin just followed his thoughts, saying "...so yes, they may point out that their internet counterpart is far inferior in quality, which is true enough, but can they really claim that their market share hasn't been eroded by its jack of all trade'iness...", just the goblin felt that bill gates prediction had been premature then, though not entirely incorrect here, for the assimilation of the mediums by the internet was at hand where the only question left was how to adapt oneself to it


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repost from elsewhere, someone who had written about a death in her family

the goblin just offered his condolences knowing that he would read anything the poster wrote here now, saying "...I am good at listening then..." and somehow the goblin knew that each happening like this was just wrestling an angel, and these angels were not there to be nice, they were there to help one shine in ones reflection against them, "... and of course one's reflections doesn't have to be shared here, but they do have to be formed, don't they then, or that angel, whichever one it was now, would have been wasted on you..." mentioned the goblin listening as ever


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Rounded with a sleep, our little life to die need not.
Said Dejavu, who willed his quill to flow, not be a blot upon his deepest will, that life's no page, nor book, the whole chromatic. Unplugged pitch is perfect, airs effect not just the static, so what was this mystic kink, lost link, to which thedope referred? Why speak in semi-tones? Was he afraid of being heard?

Now dance! He sung out, popping off a few at thedopes feet. The swerve and sway, he'd soon find out, always the twain would meet.

 

Bounded with a leap, our little life breaks free its back. By that I mean its past, said Dejavu, to stay on track and keep on tracking, since his wont was wanting not to be unwanted. Fortunate in this, he loved, his every grace unhaunted by the fear that our desire could leave us out too dry, our height... too high for what we were... his courage in fine form to smite it from all others too, but there's the glitch, just as thedope surmised. Though only for, laughed Dejavu, our love of being surprised!

 

Too high for what we were.

 

repost for elsewhere, someone loosely using the term forum addict

the goblin really didn't know what a forum addict was, where it was true that he was across many forums now, if only because he needed those threads to allow himself to run deeper on-line than his shallow financially concerned dailylife ever permitted, where the question remained "what in my life is worth posting", at which point the goblin repeated "...yes, I could either post to a blog receiving minimal feedback occasionally, or chat in a chat room which has no record whatsoever, so no, my compromise is posting to a thread while storing backstage, that's all...", yet somehow, in explaining it once more, the goblin felt his age weigh down upon him, though soon he would bounce back with another post, just eternal youth was simply this being here without form, where one's details only aged one under their constant weight, no details then


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