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The Golden Boy with the Teflon Suit
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| A Prayer For Rain |
[27 Aug 2009|09:40pm] |
There was a time for me
when writing was easy
I just had to wait for the mood
to take me and
I could write forever
Well perhaps not forever
but I remember when
the words like melange flowed
Must flow
I would write and write
until I couldn't sit still
then I would walk and walk
sipping on caffeine
chaining cancer
writing essays in my head
actually no my bad
writing then editing
the whole thing
in my head
I kid you fucking not
Goddamn I miss it
until every word
exactly where it should be
I typed them out
every sentence
Like a composer conducting his own symphony
feeling every crest and trough
every theme
every idea
The worst writers block
is the realization that
writing always reveals
more about yourself
than what you want to write
I realized that
one of the many things I learnt
about writing back then
but now it's killing me
it's not just that the words
won't come
The few that do just
scrutinized rejected
until nothing is left
So stripped of all art
Then to craft I must turn
Like a humble mason
cutting then placing stone
Like a great architect
Directing that work
I craft
My wish... Granted.
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| Ok... Fine... I'm Bipolar... |
[12 Apr 2009|11:57pm] |
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So ummm yeah... I just got out of the psych ward, and heh... It looks like I'm definitely bipolar.
At least to the extent that psychiatric illnesses are an imbalance in brain chemicals that the meds fix.
First night they gave me I think 25 mg of seroquel to sedate me a bit and get me to sleep.
Bad move, it punched my mood up to a nice 20 out of 10 and then I spent several hours running around the ward trying to tire myself out. Next day they put me on lithium, and I swear, my neurons and nerve fibres reacted to the lithium ions as if, like starving people to manna in the desert, or drops of water to those dying of thirst.
I've fucked up my life, and far more importantly I've been a pretty shit friend.
Forgive me?
Anyway if anyone actually wants to get in contact with me or suchlike. I'll have a friends only post following this one with contact details. Or you could just reply to this post or something.
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[06 Oct 2006|03:49pm] |
Hi kids,
I'd just like to remind you all that...
Anyone who supports Torture is by definition a Pervert.
This Public Service Announcement is brought to you courtesy of Reality.
Hope that helped....
Have a nice day...
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| Clichepagetica |
[19 Sep 2006|03:40am] |
O writer, O author, O poet, O scribbler... Heed me...
In vain dost thou seek thine own voice. In vain dost though seek an audience even as thouest findeth it.
For, verily, there is nothing new under the sun, and if thou dost succeed at all it is not by thine own design but only because thou standeth on the shoulders of giants.
A curse be unto thee that claim sciens on thine own scrawling. Yea, a curse... Thine words will be but sound and fury signifying nothing. The world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Yet thou plays thine bit part as if thou wert Hamlet.
The tide riseth, and in vain thou sit before it. In vain dost thou cry stop. If thou moveth not then thou shalt surely drown. Yet thou sits. Fearing the mockery of the other fools arrayed beside thee... Coward!
Thine audience is the tide, and you moveth not with it. Surely O writer thou shalt soon be swept away. Out with the old, in with the new. Thus the wheel turns always.
Yea, O writer thou art thrice cursed; Thine audience moveth and thou see it not. Thine audience speaketh and thou hear it not. Thine rules bind thee and thou feels them not.
In much wisdom is much grief.
O writer, O author, O poet, O scribbler... How I sorrow for thee. For thou knows not the true power of words...
The light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not...
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[12 Aug 2006|11:21pm] |
Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.
Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth,
Now the living timber bursts with the new buds
And spring comes round again. And so with men:
One generation comes to live, another dies away.--Iliad, Book 6
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[29 Jul 2006|11:31am] |
From the Nuremberg Diary:
We got around to the subject of war again and I said that, contrary to his attitude, I did not think that the common people are very thankful for leaders who bring them war and destruction.
"Why, of course, the people don't want war," Goering shrugged. "Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece. Naturally, the common people don't want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship."
"There is one difference," I pointed out. "In a democracy the people have some say in the matter through their elected representatives, and in the United States only Congress can declare wars."
"Oh, that is all well and good, but, voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country."
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[16 Apr 2006|04:53am] |
Yeah, yeah, whatever. Now why don't you all go fuck yourselves or something.
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[15 Apr 2006|12:25pm] |
The city was laid out in geometric forms. Only hermeneutics could explain the twists and turns of the sewers, buildings, streets; their relations. Cantwell Crip woke up screaming and drenched in his sweat, as was usual. The dream of the fall already fading away. Rain on the window. Splattering water on the glass waiting for the sleeper to awaken and hear the noise they made. Cantwell ignoring the self-annihilating whispering raindrops, clutching his head in his hands, rocking like grass in the wind.
The alarm clock, a marvel of engineering designed to exacting specifications, flung against a wall moments after it goes off. The clock unharmed. Cantwell starts rocking again, but the motion is slowing.
"Incoming call. From Rosebud."
A genderless soothing voice says. Cantwell clenches his jaw then slowly counts to ten.
"Onscreen."
He grunts, and a shimmering square appears midair. It resolves slowly as a face appears within. Until a happy smiling young woman appears.
"Hey hey! Cripster, you're awake! and I was wanting to ask"
Cantwell cuts in.
"Yes, and what did my availability icon look like? Was it a red angry face with a storm cloud above it? Now what does a red angry face with a storm cloud above it mean exactly?"
Rosebud deflates for a split second then brightens.
"It means you're no longer asleep, and I was bored and got to wondering... Why weren't OPEC nations in the 20th and early 21st century..."
Cantwell stands up and starts pacing backwards and forth the large luminous square following him like a dog.
"... politically dominant? I mean they controlled the main physical economic resource of that period making them a prime candidate for a hydraulic empire."
Pausing to glare at the luminous square for a moment as if its mere existence was a personal insult, Cantwell sighs.
"If I tell you to go do your own research you're just going to play SomaCrack for an hour then come back and ask me again aren't you?"
"Cripster, my most cunning boojum. However did you guess?"
Rosebud flutters her lashes, blinks and leans into the screen. Cantwell relents.
"Ok. Ok... It's because OPEC were never a political entity. They were are cartel, and the ruling elite of the component politicogeographic entities were more interested in maintaining their wealth and social position than reshaping the politicoscape of the era."
"Oh how delightfully Marxist of you Cripster! You're such an curious anachronism. You know that? Oh! and you're grinding your teeth again. Why do you do that? It's so... primitive... And dare I say it?... Anachronistic. Have you heard that back then people used to dress up and conduct these things called renfairs where they pretended they were in an earlier era?"
Mid teeth grind Cantwell catches himself.
"How many times have I told you I'm not a Marxist? It's merely that the Marxist-Hegelian dialectic combined with Nietzschian analysis is the best metanarrative within which to approach the Second Axial Age. It's impossible to be a Marxist in the modern era, the economic assumptions behind it are irrelevant. And..."
Cantwell realising that Rosebud is sniggering stalks over to his bed, sits down, and rests his head into the heel of his palm, elbow propped against knee.
"Why did you call me anyway? Really?"
All of a sudden serious Rosebud replies.
"Well, it's just that the various Lunar and Asteroid mining Corps are having joint board meetings. Rumours on the line say that they're putting together a merger agreement and will be bringing it to their respective Stakeholder meetings within the fortnight."
"Shit!"
Says Cantwell Crip, and walks through a wall.
To be continued...
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| Poets in the oddest places. |
[15 Apr 2006|01:10am] |
Three years ago, I was a Marine Corps captain on the Iraqi/Kuwaiti border, participating in the invasion of Iraq. Awestruck, I heard our howitzers thunder and watched artillery rockets rise into the night sky and streak toward Iraq — their light bathing the desert moonscape like giant arc welders.
Coming home — disillusioned
By Christopher H. Sheppard
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| Us Kids Say The Darndest Things. |
[21 Feb 2006|12:09pm] |
Sometimes you just have to have side-splitting exchanges with people you don't know from adam.
The comment:
In other terms... (none / 1)
Anyone who thinks dialectically is an enemy of liberalism, hence a supporter of totalitarianism? Get a grip!
by Hoipolloi Cassidy on Mon Feb 20, 2006 at 03:24:05 PM PDT
My reply:
Only if (none / 0)
Only if they forget the hegelian dialectic and produce an antithesis based on ressentiment.
Yes yes, I'm a horrible person; But if you don't understand what I just said then you probably don't understand what you just said. ;)
Don't be a fuckhead! HTH k thnx
by kraant on Mon Feb 20, 2006 at 04:09:19 PM PDT
The punchline:
Kant-rant, (none / 1)
You remind me of a favorite graffito exchange of the '60s: "Bourgeois, tu n'as rien compris! - C'est parce que tu n'as rien dit..."
by Hoipolloi Cassidy on Mon Feb 20, 2006 at 04:17:31 PM PDT
It took over an hour to stop the sniggering fit.
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[08 Nov 2005|04:50am] |
Have you ever had the sinking realisation. The sinking realisation that your mother named you after a cyborg superhero with a stupid insectoid helmet that rides a motorbike?
It all adds up. The character was considered a teenage heart-throb right around the time my mother was a young impressionable teen.
And look at this foofy sequence it is exactly the sort of cheesy crap my mother loves.
Ai! the handwavy! The handwavy! my eyes!
I'd practice it and do it in front of her except that having no shame she'd probably just cheer me on.
I win!
My mother is more fucked up than your mother!
I don't care what your mother did to you...
She didn't do this!
It is the ultimate indignity!
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[01 Nov 2005|09:48pm] |
"You ever seen a dog fight? Not the kind with airplanes. The literal kind.
Its awful. They put the dogs in the pit and right away they start tearing pieces out of one another. They train them up on pain to make them vicious. Soon the floor is covered with blood. No one seems to care. They're too busy placing bets. Some leave poorer. Some leave richer. But the dogs always lose. I've heard people say it's awful. I've heard people say we oughta put an end to it. But I've never heard someone say, `Sure, no civilized person thinks it's a good thing; but I think we should shut up because we have to support the dogs.'"
-Rico
VFP chapter 72 member
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