Dejavu had almost forgotten to offer a little more from the ineluctable Zarathustra, who had always gotten by on such offerings, taking alone what was his own. Lucky had asked him if we aren't all just our own beast. He promised to himself he'd let her know as soon as he had one and could verify the matter with it.
"Thank you, Dejavu," said the little mouse and she smiles as she thinks of that inner most innerness wanting to come out and play. "Hold your horses, isn't that what 'they' say?" And she laughs as a vision of a human being led by his horses to certain bliss, bliss he mistakes for torture for it isn't his choice but his beast that drove him. Him and all humans alike often do so happily close their eyes when seeing mindless animalistic behaviour in others, let alone recognise it in themselves. So, their they are humans running towards the monetary abyss like lemmings of a cliff.
("...just keeping you company..." went the goblin) repost from elsewhere, new, the "I don't drink, am I odd" thread "...keep your alcoholic drinks humans...." started the goblin, who at most had one glass of dry white wine every so often, adding "...as that's just for those losers who want to sedate their brains away, whereas me I want a full throttle continental coffee with a lump of sugar and a laptop, yes a couple of them and then my brain is like ready for takeoff upon some posting runway in the bistro, just to write about economics, politics, climate change, etc., so that's my drug humans, no they want me all sedated up with alcohol, whereas me, I want myself stimulated with caffeine, and oh how they want me dumbed by self imposed inadequacy that has me misguidedly thinking that I can't write because I'm not a writer, or that I can't journal because I'm not a journalist, nor edit because I'm not an editor, nor illustrate because I'm not an illustrator, and finally that I can't publish because I not a publisher, nor have you read me because you're just a poster, oh but I can humans, why, because you have read this post by now, where there are more readers here than most elsewhere, just that most posters don't even see themselves here, and thus their posts are as you see them...", in fact, the goblin never forgot that moment that he actually realized that to post is to publish, shouting "...someone get me another coffee then, this posting is serious stuff indeed..."
"Yes, to post is to publish" said Dejavu, letting his word brumbies out to pasture as though they would not run free. "Are we four or five livewriters? Are we apocalyptic horses to the smallest hindquarter? Perhaps one of us does think we lead him astray from his first person? I would only believe he thought otherwise if he insisted we did the reverse!" Dejavu shook with laughter, and indulged another of Zarathustras discourses.
The little mouse smiles as she reads this. "No, not only to publish Dejavu, to post is to live, to be, to show, to feed, to hunger, to hear, to see, to feel, to numb, to hope, to despair, to seek, to find, to hate and yes, to love. For only all of the innermost innerness, the innermost self will show in each and any word posted/read while at the same time the veil of forumland is thrown over all there is, for most seek shelter behind their persona when the one isn't strongly tethered to their inner beast. Let it roar, let it roam, let it indulge, let it run wild for from the wild comes the most beautiful things one can ever imagine. No one cannot imagine what nature concocts for humanity itself is a figment of natures imagination ..." She laughs and thinks of seedlings and how one cannot force nature and her fickle ways.
thedope wasn't aware of any apocalypse and if his company be horses they were quartered pasteurizing where the hind was quartered in a field of viability.
:-D "Never for a moment thought you weren't one of us thedope!" said Dejavu, knowing at the very least that what we are is alive. He was in a wonderful mood, one where he might, and did then say "It is the strangest thing! How is it possible that everyone is the best person?!"
("...some great reads, you're all good in your own ways..." went the goblin, adding "...don't there's another forum of forumland that's doing this, so don't give up, it's not early days yet, it's early years yet where I'll do my level best to contribute...") repost from elsewhere, "...thanks xxxxx..." went the goblin, feeling he was addressing someone a cut above the rest, adding "...so I guess it's much as you say then, that there is always going to be those who like reading the posts of livewriters and those who don't even care to look at them, but the problem is never how one is received so much as how one is replied to, where a livewriter seeks engagement first, but instead will put up with confrontation where need be, however I doubt that any livewriter will stay on a forum that is only readership pure and simple, for its only those writers who will settle for a readership, livewriters try hard to build up a replyship, yes anyone can livewrite just they don't, whereas any livewriter could stop just they can't..."
"We are all equal to any virtue", panned thedope considering the virtue of posting. "If we are up to posting perhaps we post up on a post and we post a notice we might notice a post standing in the post hole we had dug post hence that a post might stand in a post hole posting notice. Turns out to be the perfect post for the posts of the poster." thedope was thinking there are no imposters as they were never posthumous at the time although a post can be humorous at any time.
Dejavu doubted it. With a passion. "No, it's that we're equal to our own!" he exclaimed. "As flea says, in our own way" he continued, knowing we're not eachother, but that through love we can know oneanother utterly. "I like this post about posting thedope, where it must be said too that posts can take on new meanings post what the poster meant, since we're posting amongst oneanother after all." Dejavu would have liked to have seen thedope rewrite the smallest quarterback, even help him write it despite his little knowledge of grid iron, knowing it wouldn't have to be long to be funny.
thedope wondered how Dejavu could miss his use of our. "Ours is not mine by itself nor yours by itself", suggested thedope. "Through utterance we communicate one thing or another but we never fail to commune." Schizophyllum commune
"Is any though ours? Could be I'll concede, but that's could be, not is, I'll not freezeth thy steed." he replied.
"None, but I cannot give another what is theirs thedope, only what is mine." Dejavu was thinking about Luckys words, of her entreating us all to explore our wildernesses. "We will Lucky! That our words may be bound to nothing more than our mouths!" He laughed. "And free to the imagination!"
thedope was curious now as to what Dejavu might consider his in our world. Proprietary as an ism is analogue to specialness and it just ain't so although many are taught to want it to be. There are no separate estates in life. "If you give something to someone do you regard it as theirs also or do you wait to inevitably retrieve what you had given for whatever reason because it is yours and you are's alone?", pondered thedope. "There are no objective constituents accompanying exceptional as an ism and therefor vast amounts of energy are focused on trying to separate the inseparable, defending borders, trying to take from the world what the world had already given on an abundant basis creating the impression of vulnerability, fear which shunts the capacity to give appreciation and therefor find value. The proprietarian pays others to entertain him and between paydays sometimes can't afford to enjoy ourselves. Some feel as though they give and give and get nothing or less in return. No wonder the betrothed so often part in unfriendly fashions wondering how they could have fallen for this fucking jerk. The specialist tries to teach love to himself and the world and in trying to earn it or extract it's payment, life at times looses it's interest and suffers depreciation, depression, desolation, darkness, and it all sucks donkey dick. The measure we give being the measure we receive, giving and receiving are the same truth. In archaic terms again he who gains his life shall loose it and he who unloosens his life shall gain it."
"We are self-possessed." said Dejavu. "The argument that we are only so in ending being so must in some measure suffice as wisdom to those who find the self to be a sort of sufferance." He went on. "Giving and receiving are not the same truth, but of the same truth, that is, exchange." he said, almost solemnly. "The difference between bestowing and offloading is in love, the self given to life overall." Dejavu then thought of thedopes curiosity regarding him and said "I see what I give as mine before I give it, and why give otherwise? Life is not a blood-letting. I give that which is mine so that it may go on belonging, because I love to, not because it isn't mine, as though it weren't already shared by myself in my undertsanding. How could life find its full pleasure in sharing itself if it were only obliged to?!" He thought then also of thedopes marriages, and of his strict objection to life for whatever reason dreams itself in some way special, or 'apart'. "Why should one expect wisdom of the fool if one would not humour him his foolishness?" he said, with no archaic taste in his mouth, but a view to imbue the brevity of wit with the breath of something even greater.
There are no idle thoughts, no discrete moments, you cannot escape the effects of your own thinking, you cannot help but emerge, we teach and learn in shared being without ceasing. Is this obligation, wondered thedope, and why Dejavu would present it that way? thedope himself would say of his inheritance, "it is precious, and I find no exception to that in any special guise" Dejavu hadn't actually thought on thedope's marriages but instead imagined what they must be like. thedope hadn't always seen the tapestry of life on the bright side, before it had been as though he saw the negative image or the side not facing with no distinct images and loose threads and what not. thedope at the time of his first marriage had no idea what he was becoming and came to do as he had learned from the example of others and as he looked backed he could say of that time, a marriage of slightly more than one solar revolution, "I got married and fathered a child with consideration no greater than excitement and because that is what people did and talked about and I in no wise considered the potentials of life or my own." thedope returned from his work one day to find his young wife and daughter had vacated the premises without any forewarning and no explanation of why they left in retrospect save, "it is not you, it is me." They both had special causes after all thedope being cult-ivated to believing himself above all things the provider and protector of the family. He had imagined security in life and family far into the future. She was still looking to find her happy and since thedope was gainfully oriented his young wife sought elsewhere thinking him to care more for his job than his family . This was deeply perplexing to thedope as from the way he was culturally programmed, it was his love of family that found him so dedicated to it's maintenance. What would thedope's reaction be to this perplexity, well laughter of course comprised of his own sincerity and her suspicion of neglect, yes and no in the same place. She would misinterpret laughter however to be a lack of serious concern on thedope's part, laughter taking on an especially sinister character simply because of the hierarchical demand for special arrangements. This experience fundamentally shook thedope's confident outlook and he began to question whether he had really been insincere because that was the only complaint he could remember her making about him. His life then became about making up for his mistake and he found a second wife who he privately pledged to more thoroughly accommodate than his last. Poor her as despite any of thedope's sincere feelings he would defer in every instance to her. As it played out thedope discovered she loved her complaints more than the hope to be rid of them and thedope had no way to satisfy them even though she would land them directly at times on his shoulders and he couldn't prevent his offspring from sharing the load recalling his daughter asking of him, "why is mom so mean?" Suddenly the historonic narration thedope's passe life found him profoundly bored and he broke it off only partially revealed.
"But surely, to the ears of those who listen and must hear they have to be bound, with each letter, each syllable, every vowel, consonant, and tone they stick first to the ear to travel through it into the brain where the human's inner most self awaits awakening to be set upon a path, to be freed from its box, to learn, to live, to love and find ..." The little mouse smiles as she hears the fire roar its song and she cannot resist the sounds of water flowing and songs sung. She rises from the sofa and prepares for the dance of love for water and sounds and things unbound. "What a perfection this existence," the little mouse sighs to laugh out loud. "How foolish," she giggles, "for perfection doesn't exist. Only life." And like thedope she breaks off this written live, this very alive life. "No, not bored at all." Laughing she disrupts the harmonic flow of water raining down on enamel.
"So not bound at all little mouse!" Laughed Dejavu, "Not to the mouths that form them then, nor ears that receive them, words want the perfection of kisses!" Dejavu now wanted into the water he loved, having heard the mouse, even just to run his hands in it. He thought of the large clear deep river pool and the big round stones on its bed, thought of how long it had been since he'd swum there...
"Ah, but ones words are ones self and are as bound or as free as ones inner most self is allowed to be by ones self." The little mouse laughs for she remembers something. A repost then even if a new one would fit too, the old must never be forgotten. The little mouse sits opposite xxxx and stares at him. She shakes her head and says, "Giving account is almost as being bound. Red tape and all. Remember, life is to be lived. Be it in ropes and lust or love and hope, never leave debauchery and lust behind or you'll get tangled up in that red tape with which society tries to strangle us all." She laughs as xxxx holds up his injured hand. "I know," says the little mouse and breaths a kiss on the wound. "But in the land of the crippled the one handed man is king. Seize what chance you have and not let the tape get hold of you."
