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  #2731  
Old 07-05-2012, 01:01 PM
maidahl
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Although the list of saints for their various causes are long, almost infinite, maidahl prides herself on having come up with causes like: "black and white", inspired by the wrestling panda bears. maidahl realizes she bears a touch of madness, just as a Golden tugging a war with a 200lb. English Mastiff. Meanwhile, the Church remembers the patron saint of Accountants, St. Matthew, the patron saint of Actors, St. Genesius, and the patron saint of Advertising, St. Bernardine of Siena.


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  #2732  
Old 07-05-2012, 01:07 PM
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A god barks. Edit: A dog barks.

The reason is not the fireworks of Americans breaking the laws of Arcadia. It is the CUTENESS of a couple of cutiepies.

Anesthetists' patron saint St. Rene Goupil now has a namesake. The more appropriate namesake for Animals, St. Francis of Assisi, is the other. maidahl wonders if anyone has tried dong katsu quite like the kind she is headed out for in a bit. She smiles. San Gabriel is phenomenal.


Last edited by maidahl; 07-05-2012 at 01:11 PM..
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  #2733  
Old 07-05-2012, 01:15 PM
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maidahl is thankful she has never fallen into the toilet bowl. St. Helen, the namesake fo the patron saint of Archeologists, was not so lucky.
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  #2734  
Old 07-05-2012, 09:16 PM
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repost from elsewhere, about writing again

"...welcome to the modern day world of livewriting humans..." went the goblin, adding "...ah yes, well you may lament your hearts out at this point, but you'll only be joining those previous generations who lamented their present at the time who then decried their future too, but who couldn't actually turn back the clock...", simply, the goblin was a realist who understood that one has to compromise towards writing on forumland, incorporating it into one's writing then, saying "...have you ever stopped to wonder why so few writers ever build up any sort of forum readership across forumland, where you would have thought that their posts would have everyone, aka potential readers now, eagerly following them from forum to forum as if on to their books where instead, and without me saying more here, perhaps it's time to stop shooting the messenger, heeding the message instead, that one's posts need to show the flare of one's pen lest the reader wrongly thinks that the author's ebooks are probably as dull as his post are..."


140

Last edited by fleamailman; 07-05-2012 at 09:45 PM..
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  #2735  
Old 07-05-2012, 09:53 PM
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maidahl pauses after luckyboy's. she is not wasted. she is perfectly almost sobering up now. Tonight was pretty epic, she thinks to herself. She is smitten with a new character, a shadowy figure on the horizon of that which is life. Romance, aahhhh, romance is war. Here at war, all is fine and at peachy keen peace, she reflects, sipping Cognac with glee. She is in puppy love? Bah, she is in puppy lust. Temporary fleeting summer kind. But a first kiss like a bunny and a cat is pretty cute in a end of the night, pre-insomnia kind of way. maidahl wonders what the rest of the editing gang did, other than waste away on forum-topia. She plans on passing out soon, unless insomnia creeps its ugly rearing beast head.


In the interim, maidahl narrates from memory:

"A patron saint is a saint who, in Eastern Orthodox, Oriental Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Eastern Catholic practice, is regarded as the intercessor and advocate in heaven of a nation, place, craft, activity, class, clan, family, or person.[1] Patron saints, because they have already transcended to the metaphysical, are believed to be able to intercede effectively for the needs of their special charges. maidahl transcends madness in the next portion of her recitation.

Saints often become the patron saints of places where they were born or had been active. However, there were cases in Medieval Europe where a city which grew to prominence and transferred to its cathedral the remains of a famous saint who had lived and was buried elsewhere, and made him or her the city's patron saint – such a practice conferring considerable prestige on the city concerned. In Latin America, Spanish and Portuguese explorers often named location for the saint on whose day the place was first visited – that Saint naturally becoming the patron saint of a town or city which developed there. maidahl titters to herself, pausing for breath.

Professions sometimes get a patron saint who was himself or herself involved in that profession. Lacking such a saint, a profession would get a saint whose conspicuous acts or miracles in some way recall the profession. For example, when the hitherto unknown profession of photography appeared in the 19th Century and needed a patron saint, this role was assigned to Saint Veronica. According to Christian tradition, Veronica gave Jesus her veil to wipe his forehead as he was being taken to Golgotha and the image of his face became miraculously impressed upon it. maidahl chuckles with wicked glee.

The veneration and recognition of patron saints is generally discouraged in Protestantism, especially Calvinism, as a form of idolatry." maidahl giggles.
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  #2736  
Old 07-06-2012, 12:33 AM
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have you ever taken a picture of a storm in Alberta with your iPhone? maidahl poses the question after many attempts to sleep. She assumes the goblin missed her phantom post on another forumland and wonders if he is tucked in, soundly dreaming, echoing a plethora of demons of the subconscious in dreamland as opposed to wasting away as maidahl is in cyberland.

maidahl sings from memory:
"Meeting you here
The night's alight with midnight cheer
Our dust still unsettled
I feel the plucking of our petals

I'm drawing circles don't you know
Protect the seed that wants to grow
To a garden, pardon my territory

I'd fight for you
I never knew that I could feel this way
I'm right for you
This kinda love don't happen everyday

Be friendly but cautious
You're gonna have to count your losses
Easily attracted
But dangerous to get distracted

I'm drawing circles don't you know
Protect the seed that wants to grow
To a garden, pardon my territory

I'd fight for you
I never knew that I could feel this way
I'm right for you
This kinda love don't happen everyday

I'd fight for you
I didn't wanna have to raise my voice
I'm right for you
You really leave me with no choice

So what do you want and what are you thinking?
Isn't it about time you stuck up for me?
But what you can't see is we're under siege
And I only fight because I believe
Not gonna share you, no

I'd fight for you
I never knew that I could feel this way
I'm right for you
This kinda love don't happen everyday

I'd fight for you
I didn't wanna have to raise my voice
I'm right for you
You really leave me with no choice

I'd fight for you
I didn't wanna have to raise my voice
I'm right for you
You really leave me with no choice

I'd fight for you
I'm right for you"

maidahl loves Morgan Page. House people are chill, she decides.

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  #2737  
Old 07-06-2012, 12:36 AM
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maidahl wandered outside for a smoke, then came back for a shower, then decided not to shower. instead she awwwed herself to oblivion over a german sheperd named Yankee Doodle.
She truly just hummed from memory:

Hmmm hmmm mmm hmmm hmm hmm mmm.

Translation melody: "Yankee Doodle went to town,
Riding on a pony;
He stuck a feather in his hat,
And called it macaroni"

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  #2738  
Old 07-06-2012, 01:04 AM
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("...it's many threads across forumand maidahl, quite a hectic pace too, and never enough me to go round now..." replied the goblin who would find it later, enjoying these posts here too, adding "...ah yes, romance mixed with drink, I envy you now...")

repost from elsewhere, new, introductions section

Hi yall! I'm xxxxx. I'm an endagered Appalachian Mud Squid. I like makin' pinecone liquor and blowin shit up. I hate stoopid goddamn Yankees! any questions? ask away.
and with that the goblin showed, welcomed the squid, and just said "...you sound mad so that makes you more than welcome here amongst us now, for none here would have it otherwise where normal just seems so dull by comparison...", whereupon the goblin dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a green carpet feeling that a red one would be too ostentatious and then just placed a coffee table together with some filtered coffee and a few home-made biscuits upon it, saying "...so help yourself then, I'm told that southern hospitality is what sets them apart, that that southern pride is hard to swallow, and that the south is in their bones still, so you'll write with me awhile, I'm good at listening if you'd care to explain further..."


xxxx

Last edited by fleamailman; 07-06-2012 at 04:40 AM..
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  #2739  
Old 07-06-2012, 03:59 AM
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repost from this section of the forum, new

Writing and watching the story come to life in my very own mind. As my fingers pound away at the keys before them. That pleasurable clicking noise they make as sentences are then turned to paragraphs and soon a whole story. I can't quite describe the feeling...it's like a flame being lit within my heart, the warmth it brings can not even be bested by a fire from my own living room fireplace...This is the THRILLS and SATISFACTION of a writer's job!! THIS SENSE OF LIFE WE AS WRITERS CREATE!!
"...your best post yet for you are here this time..." went the goblin welcoming xxxxx again, adding "...I can relate to it too, save that for me my elation to anything is not so much at the work's creation as to its completion, the moment where I know I cannot change it further...", oft times the goblin wrote not so much to write but to slow down within, just to ponder then, and then to write it out of himself seeing the residue of those reflections he had had, saying "...odd that my anonymity means honesty here, I mean I would prefer that the reader likes what I write but I never actually need him to like it, yet I'm not for sale here, no books to flog nor links to elsewhere, instead this writing simply becomes a journey to me, my journey to self as I call it, really it's nothing more than me trying to know who I am by what I post I suppose, just a constant triangle formed by an open slot, a bittersweet coffee, and an old man, just all that it will ever be I suppose but enough for now..."


xxxx 2739 52215

Last edited by fleamailman; 07-06-2012 at 04:40 AM..
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  #2740  
Old 07-06-2012, 04:22 AM
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maidahl sips the wine of life and languid stupor of writer's high. She pauses for a moment of contemplation, thinking about the highs and lows that make life so messy, tumultuous, sensual, and profound. She wonders if heartbreak can ever be replaced in its ability to help us appreciate and discern the disparity between peaks in the routine of the mundane and the abyss. She realizes all humans are wired to derive pleasure and satisfaction from the contrast of events, not the ongoing state of things. She decides to enjoy her night of sleepless forum geeking. And she adds, Don't worry. Your vote doesn't matter.

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  #2741  
Old 07-06-2012, 08:00 AM
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(it's a mash of a writersbeat conversation)

“So my brother’s got these issues. He is an intelligent y’know… bloke with just as much ability as me, whatever that is. But we both have this problem with doing things we do not wanna do, authoritative issues I guess.”

John couldn’t think how they had got onto the subject, but there he was talking about something he never would’ve normally with his friends. It was a Georgian or Victorian building, high ceilings and eves and a fire place, and guys who wore tweed, had cuff links and a landlord who sported an impressive moustache, expensive gut, and braces. He was old-school like that. It was busy with conversation, and lacking in light and women.

“A stubbornness borne out of the idea that you can do it your way y’know, which leads to cutting ones nose off in spite of ones face. We are similar characters, two sides of the same coin...” The wine was flowing still, and John launched into full story telling mode while the alcohol began to make the force of gravity just that little bit more powerful and he sank lower into the stiff wooden chair he was splayed on.


“That aside we walk different paths; I do the nine-to-five thing. It’s nothing exciting, but everyone has to earn a living, I don’t really have much more to say about it than that. I like to smoke and drink a bit” (he was lying, he wasn’t sure he wanted Dexter to know all of his habits), “maybe an all-nighter on the weekend, my brother’s drug abuses far outweigh mine. He’s been banging Ketamine and a bunch of other shit for around three years, almost daily and the cracks are startin’ to show. I've sat down and had a few sessions with him and it only confirmed what I thought all along, the highs don't compensate enough for the lows and there are better ways to enjoy yourself out there.” he took a sip of wine and stood up.

A very wise but scornful frog seemed to jolt out of his drunkard slumber only to blurt out: “he’s just fucked!” and fell straight back to sleep.


John nodded in casual agreement with the frog and continued.

“He is struggling with the things that are presenting themselves. What he calls visions I would call hallucinations.”

Dexter straightened himself up slightly in his chair and puffed a small cloud of white smoke from his pipe. The smell was nauseating at first but as the night had gone on John became accustom to it. It was around two in the morning by now and Dexter had invited a few more people around. A flinching and sceptical-looking man who called himself Flea interjected… he was short and skinny, dressed in strange nineteen twenties attire, a waist coat and long comically pointed boots…

"...ah now, one's subconscious is often a repository of that which the conscious mind suppresses, only to surface within our dreams then..."

John was startled at first, cut off in full druggy story-mode, wasn’t prepared for something as perceptive as that… but yes, after taking a moment for the statement to sink in, of course it made sense.

“Yeah, I mean everyone has déjà vu, off the wall occurrences and coincidence. Life is a phenomenon in itself. There’s no sense in letting the wonderment get the best of you. I mean even if you found out that there was parallel universes, say, or that some mystical being was communicating visions of the future in your sleep, it wouldn’t make life any easier, more interesting… maybe. Take it with a pinch of salt and get on with it I say.”

John then shrugged to convey his general indifference towards the super natural. What he was trying to say was that, we – on this blue dot floating around the solar system – have no business being surprised by how strange and awesome everything is. He’d always thought, although he didn’t believe in the man-made image of ghosts, that if he saw one it wouldn’t surprise him. What’s so surprising about a ghost that can’t be found in the cosmos? Or in our own mind universe? He continued…


“He has two main theories, one that his dreams are revealing the future... which leads me to think what Joseph must've been taking. The other is quite matrix like, the idea that he is in the dream world and someone, or something… is trying to bring him out, like something is trying to tell him the truth. And just like in the Matrix, there are a lot of religious connotations... it is interesting to look into the mind-set of a founder, I can't help but think it arrogant. A mission has been bestowed upon them y’know. You could even say it’s just like the prophets of old… or new for that matter, it takes a big ego to believe you have been singled out by a higher power.”

The flea man looked at his pointed boots and seemed to snarl slightly before he replied: "...where one can offer it either mystical or scientific interpretation, because it deals with an internal here where no one, other than oneself that is, can say that it is not so for you..."

“Indeed… very hard to disprove what he's saying, impossible really.”

A sceptic will always denounce the supernatural, but faced with it I would embrace it, not allow it to affect me negatively.”


There was another pudgy little man, balding in his forty’s maybe, and dressed in tweed. He was foraging for food, I assumed, and mumbling with his mouth full.

“If people understood the true nature of space and time and what it means for true reality and the little we perceive of it, then glimpsing the future is not far-fetched at all. He's not alone, there are plenty of people who look at the norms with contempt and regard them as squares, corrupted by the media etcetera... Mankind get off your knees… like David Icke… some of it is compelling, some is absurd to the point of insulting. But he’s certainly not alone.”

John glanced over at his plump shuffling form and said…

“Maybe, but who really understands things like that? I don’t envy the states these astrophysicists get into… not to leave everything to the unknown… but I guess I’m some kind of absurdist when it comes to space and time continuums.”

“Whether his visions are glimpses of the future or not, the real problem is obsessing over these things. We still have to focus on the visible life of the now, so it's better for him to just take these experiences for granted without centring his whole life around them.”

“Exactly my point. What do you think Dexter, ya crazy old bastard?”

Dexter had slumped in his chair, he was facing the ceiling after perhaps one too many wines. He rocked slightly from side to side as his eyes rolled around…

“I’m not even human, John. I’m a body shaped demon, I wouldn’t listen to me as I have some sort of sociopathic disposition, and a generally dissipated attitude… unless you care to join me in these realms? Unless you REALLY want to know what goes on up here John!?”

“What have you been taking?”

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Last edited by JohnConstantine; 07-06-2012 at 08:04 AM..
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  #2742  
Old 07-06-2012, 08:06 AM
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OMG@JohnConstantine. You rock my world away.

maidahl realizes that the mystics are a deep sort of thread. Thsi earth of manking is godding, she says to herself. She is inspired by Mickey Dolenz here. Also, Fyodor Dostoyevsky influences her to think that all say we are sick when what appears to us is mere fantasy. Is that logical? maidahl poses the question to the ethersphere of cyberworld. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, quotes maidahl, but that only proves that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they don't exist.

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  #2743  
Old 07-06-2012, 08:40 AM
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maidahl wonders if the precious moments in life are the little things. She wants to play Peekaboo with a baby again. In fact, she decides no one is too old to play water in guns and have soda for wine. -Lights.

maidahl jams out to Ellie and decides to have another Latte at her local Starbucks. There is a man nearby who is sixty something and keeps turning around. maidahl had to check to see if her nose had something on it or a weird tentacle sprouted on her head. Turns out, she looks like his ex-girlfriend. Maidahl wants him to stop playing peek-a-boo and keep his caboose down.

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  #2744  
Old 07-06-2012, 12:41 PM
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("...I remember that thread well John..." went the goblin loving the penmanship now, adding "...it's coming together is this operative word for me, simply it's good to see everyone's progress...", the goblin too, had been very productive today, as he posted something)

repost from elsewhere

"...perhaps both forums are the two sides of a ditch that one wants to avoid falling into..." suggested the goblin as in xxxxx forum being too troll and yyyyy forum being too twee, adding "...where if one gives in to twee one becomes one of those writer clones of convention whereas if one gives in to one's troll leanings then one won't gain enough trust to build up some nourishing rapport with anyone, hence the path between the two ditches is called for here..."


xxxxx
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  #2745  
Old 07-06-2012, 12:44 PM
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("...one other, just sharing..." went the goblin)

repost from elsewhere

90% eliteist tripe in my opinion.Fmm's style is crap to me simply because it takes four to ten times the physical and mental efforts to parse and comprehend.Add to that, roughly 95% of his content is attention whoring - again, in my opinion. But, for any political correct-ites, I view him similar to the town drunk knocking on my door at 2 am. to inform me that my roof is on fire. In other words, my roof may well be on fire - and 5% of fmm's posts have some limited value to me.
"...nah, it's not my thread there, it's just communal place between us for anyone to edit their own posts on..." replied the goblin feeling he should explain a few points, adding "...so that floor is yours for whenever you would like to show me how it's done, so let's say call here, and go for trump it or lump it then, all you have to do is show me up now where I'll happily praise you for your effort, and where if I'm so bad it should be rather easy for you...", and yet, the goblin had no qualms about being an attention whore though never once did he not encourage someone else to write, saying "...after all, what you write is what I get to read, so I feed to read then, and need your posts in return, however, ask yourself something, what's the point of being anonymous if the gap between what one writes and how it should be written just tells the readers all they need to know..."


xxxx 2745 52302

Last edited by fleamailman; 07-07-2012 at 09:38 AM..
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  #2746  
Old 07-06-2012, 04:04 PM
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So. Early hours of Saturday morning then and Grace forced herself to type, trying to break the spell of nocturnal reverie. "I have traits that worry me", she wrote, " Like playing the same song over and over...and over. Not a selection of music - just one track played on a loop until the lyrics become a mantra and the melody becomes a body rhythm. And then there's the staring - eyes unblinking, locked onto middle distance - as if everything I want to see is behind them, not in front. And the loss of time... the clock hands can wipe away four hours with the same expeditiousness as four minutes." Grace jumped up to snap the kettle on for a coffee. Her sudden violent movement startled the dog to a standing position. "And this only happens in the small hours", she continued. "Sometimes I'll rouse myself and stumble off to bed like an automaton. Then after twenty minutes of lying in the dark, I reappear. Assume the same familiar position again, like Greyfriars Bobby. Play the same damn song. Over and over again." Grace shrugged. "The daylight hours render me normal like any other. Industrious.Animated.Vibrant. It's just a night thing." Grace watched herself from the other side of the room from an out-of-body vantage point that had long ago become her norm. "Yes, I could pass as catatonic like this" she realised, observing her own blank stare and motionless profile - almost waiting for the giant Indian to mercifully approach with the pillow.


http://youtu.be/ztEMIVuAbrM


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Last edited by Loz; 07-07-2012 at 01:22 AM..
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  #2747  
Old 07-06-2012, 08:05 PM
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Anyhow. maidahl dials the phone. Eerie silence, ragged tufts of gasping on the other end. Then: "How may I help you? Dootson's Home Supplies?"
maidahl is adrift with the sea of business meetings. Cabin fever is quite beastly, maidahl thinks. It is abhorrence, not to be maintained for long. She gets up from her batcave and stretches her eye muscles. She knows life is divided into the horrible and miserable, quite an outlook on life. She is a cynic most days.

"All of that which is alive is a rebus of mysteryon.
Of little porcelain animals painted coy and innocent,
Terrific colors, magnanimous and subliminally horrific ,
Meshed in plots, together."

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  #2748  
Old 07-06-2012, 08:09 PM
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maidahl has never done anything wrong.

Auden once said, "One of the most horrible, yet most important, discoveries of our age has been that, if you really wish to destroy a person and turn him into an automaton, the surest method is not physical torture, in the strict sense, but simply to keep him awake, i.e., in an existential relation to life without intermission."

maidahl no longer imagines herself to be tortured. She doesn't whine over the existential middle-class pain and type 2Deep4u.

It should be restated. Maidahl firmly, almost firmly, quite almost firmly, believes she has almost done almost nothing wrong... today. amen
Do you still love me?

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  #2749  
Old 07-06-2012, 08:16 PM
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The aroma of fresh cut mozzarella and fettucini pizza hangs like a canopy over the dungeonous caverns of maidal's isolation slash temporary bat cave.
maidahl smokes her e-cig, long and pleasurable. "Whether talking about addiction, taxation [on cigarettes] or education [about smoking], there is always at the center of the conversation an essential conundrum: How come we're selling this deadly stuff anyway?" she wonders like Quindlen.
Creatures are disapproving sometimes.
Haters gonna hate. The pungent scent of Italy incites drool and mouth tingles throughout the house. maidahl must exit the batcave of forumland and venture out and beyond, over yonder, to the 3D edition: The Kitchen.

Kitten, kitchen, creature, kreacher. Ahhhh.
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  #2750  
Old 07-07-2012, 07:08 AM
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With a stealth attack, Loz sneaks in and snuggles up to the goblin, fighting back a sneeze as the pollen in the air threatens to make her head explode. She's too fleepy to write anything coherent, to grumpy to giggle without it turning into a cackle, and too happy to sulk. So she find the most bizarre creature she knows, and latches on for dear life, and until he shakes her off, she's made her home.

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  #2751  
Old 07-07-2012, 09:57 AM
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("...your posts are as you see them here, your improvement is both self gained and evident, where I am indebted to you by way of what I get to read from you..." mentioned the goblin, adding "...this is today then, just the beginning, imagine the level of posting you will attain if you were doing this for five or ten years, yet perhaps you think that's far away, me, I felt it to be like the cat in Loz's picture...")

repost from elsewhere, a writer's forum where the goblin's opinion not going down too well, leading to his eventual ban and all traces of him being deleted

I see your post as expressing your own unique view, flea. Helpful is questionable bearing in mind what the purpose of this site is. Primarily it's for workshop and critique and if those elements weren't here then no site would exist for you to post on.
"...no, I think it's getting people to actually write period, that is whether that be fiction/nonfiction/poems/prose/posts or whatever, that should be the primal motivation on this forum, where nowhere is it mentioned that the sole purpose of this forum is only to get would be writers to write novels here, especially where the fragmentation of writing techniques due to this internet is upon us now..." replied the goblin, seeing clearly that if he followed that old model of yesterbook by yestermeans, then he, like most of his writing contemporaries here, would soon be facing the law of diminishing returns, especially when more and more people were replacing their reading time with online time, so if anything, rather than trying to gag the goblin for stating some rather obvious facts, if you could come up with a counter argument as to why books are not being sidelined here, someone reading this post might benefit form your opinion, and then the goblin thought he had better clear up that other rather inept poorly hidden barb of "one's own unique view", which tried to infer that those views that were plural, merely because they were plural, somehow held more credence, saying "...any view is someone's opinion, where all views should be uniquely reached through one's reason, where no opinion regardless of however many people believed it to be so, actually makes it the truth now, so I should be thanking you for your barbed compliment in fact, btw as someone entrusted with the buttons, you hold it within your power to warn me yet again, to delete my posts and threads once more, and to ban me outright, where all I have for my part is a mind that thinks for itself, a voice that speaks outs, and a pen that writes honestly, so I simply accept my fate form you now, where no doubt readers will then read my posts elsewhere beyond your buttons..."


140 2751 52498

Last edited by fleamailman; 07-07-2012 at 09:48 PM..
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  #2752  
Old 07-07-2012, 10:36 AM
maidahl
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"I am continually fascinated at the difficulty intelligent people have in distinguishing what is controversial from what is merely offensive. It is not a fine line, sometimes, but the disparity can riot into uproar and mayhem." maidahl pauses for an "awwwwww" moment. She continues, after googling-eyes and stars in the daylight bright LA sky. "It is in conference with my personal perseverance, determination, and convictions, to refrain from aggression and build up an emotion and practice among people and readers alike, more favorable sentiments towards peace," maidahl says to herself. "However," break for cereal, Cheerios and almond milk, "not all denizens of the writerworld are like me." Maidahl says aloud, words dripping in the quiet of her batcave, "Ahhh, 'tis a shame. Shame indeed."

Meanwhile, a kitten in a far off place hungers after warm almond milke, and would probably enjoy a side of honey Cheerios, maidahl wagers.



maidahl is in a musing leaning as of late. She mentions Emerson: "Life is our dictionary." She adds, "Life is also a handbook of how-tos. Try, fail, venture, and learn to call some attempts successful." God's voice answers to her. "YOUR ONLY PATH IS YOURSELF."

maidahl screams, afraid she has gone mad. Then she realizes the man in the sky is a big, fat softie, feeding her sagacities like a muscle-man feeding infant tiggie-pies.






maidahl wonders today why Heminway killed himself. For her friend, suicide is a viable option as well. He is a man with PTSD from Iraq and finds suicide a consolation prize at night. Well, maidahl muses, "Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. I used to think, "maidahl grows introspective, "organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness, but I doubted if they improve writing. However, forumland has improved me immensely. A writer grows in public stature as once sheds loneliness and often the quality of work deteriorates. For one does said work alone and upon being good enough writer, must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day." maidahl realizes the profundity of Hemingway's eloquence once again. Somedays, she too, like all others at times, wants to hide from life in the washer.


maidahl has never seen true innocence except in the face of a babe. She knows all things alive that are pure in wickedness have started from the commencement of a birthed innocence. Evil may dress it cuteness and a tie, just as much as the pedophile's sunglass and cane, just as much as the wicked witch of the west's wart-nose and black magic hat.



maidahl hates photos of red-eyed demons. She has a photographer friend who spends his time taking pictures of her and editing them, mainly to mock them in comparison to her royally awful yearbook photos. As a result, maidahl has a sh!t ton of pictures of herself. Yet, she is never quite the center of attention to her photographer friend as pup Al Gore.


Last edited by Firefly; 07-08-2012 at 08:27 AM..
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  #2753  
Old 07-07-2012, 10:52 AM
Nadja
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I'm gonna hunt down that elusive thing called success. Elusive? That's putting it mildly. It runs away screaming every time it comes within sight of me. I gotta hunt it down and find out what's its problem. It isn't just elusive, it has a positive phobia of me. God damn it. It'll sneak up on me one of these days precisely when I don't want it any more.
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  #2754  
Old 07-07-2012, 10:53 AM
maidahl
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maidahl laughs, thinking of her brother's party foul three weeks ago. In retaliation, a group of rebels shredded his bathroom. Ahah!, maidahl exclaims. She has caught the rebels! Caught in the act!

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  #2755  
Old 07-07-2012, 10:56 AM
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As maidahl reads more of forumland editor's post, she is continually amazed at the plethora, the deluge, the flood, the glut, the many, much, the overabundance, the overflow, the overmuch, the plenty, the profusion, the superabundance, the surfeit, the surplus of exquisite posts. She feels she can never quite finish them all. She poses a question: "Has anyone seen a sleeping rack of four huskies?" She knows it will change lives and create world peace if the angry nations' greedy leaders caught a glimpse of this.



maidahl has only just realized what it means to miss home and dive is a sea, a deluge, a torrent, a current of love. She attemps to define love. "To love," she declares, "is to cause, to affect, and to be disturbed." maidahl realizes that by loving some people, she is not of sound mind.



maidahl shrieks in horror. The trail mix she has been enjoyed is covered with small ants. AHHHHH! She has only just realized a worst fear of hers: to eat BUGS!!! She needs some comfort.



maidahl wonders in the midst of daily afternoon chaos, "Are the @ssholes still in charge?" She fears the answer will be a resounding yes for all of eternity in this world of mankindred @asshats.


Last edited by Firefly; 07-08-2012 at 08:28 AM..
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  #2756  
Old 07-07-2012, 09:45 PM
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repost from elsewhere

and then the goblin turned the focus on himself a moment, and jokingly said "...me, I'm a victim of my persona now, knowing that I am caring about the wrong forums for the wrong reasons too, in that I like posting my better stuff to friendly forums like this one here, yes but I'm also posting the to near hostile ones too, where my biggest stress comes from a writer's forum where my point is proved and my readership gained, and yet, none of that endears me to them for all their avid reading of my posts, where if I were to retreat from there at this point, my work would be undone with that old barb of "see, he ran out of posts so he just left", meaning I feel a victim of my own success and shunned by it too, with the readership prize going to usurper there, me as king troll perhaps, hardy what I had in mind when I started out of their forum..."


140 2763 52565

Last edited by fleamailman; 07-08-2012 at 05:28 AM..
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  #2757  
Old 07-08-2012, 01:21 AM
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"Yesterday was our Sunday in all but name", Grace murmured. The rain had pounded relentlessly like an African monsoon, and they had kept to the house after a disastrous walk in the morning. The river had swollen, brimmed and spilled like a bath left running, and as they turned the corner, their footpath vanished into water. The dog ended up swimming, losing his bearings. Disorientated, he had steered himself deeper and further into the river - no landmarks visible to show him where to climb back out. The water had submerged the raised path along the bank and poured down into the fields on the other side. A huddle of bulls stood silently, knee deep in water, watching them miserably. The dog had kept paddling in confused circles, panicked by the sucking mud and choking reeds every time he reached the shallows. The little lad was sobbing, pushed up on to a tree branch for safety, both wellies lost. Knee-deep, Grace had gently whistled and crooned, trying to navigate the panicking hound back into shallow waters - the lure of a tennis ball winning the day. It was a bedraggled family that squelched their way home. The rest of the day was given over to the gentle Sunday pursuits of painting, and rocket-building. "More of the same then", Grace sighed, looking out of the window.





(thanks Loz! You're a gem.)
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Last edited by Grace Gabriel; 07-08-2012 at 01:43 AM..
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  #2758  
Old 07-08-2012, 04:24 AM
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("...your posts were what I needed to read today..." said the goblin unsettled by work today, adding "...please let me escape into your world now, mine is too me for comfort...")

repost from elsewhere, new, the subject of his reposting

"...imagine a bookstore, no one ever complains that the author sells his books there, nor that those same books are being sold across the street in the other bookstores too..." mentioned the goblin who clearly marked his post as reposts when they were such, adding "...the whole point of an edit thread and is that one is editing one's posts upon it, where what one edits is obviously a repost of its original, where again, the core difference between a usual poster and a livewriter is that the livewriter polishes the post into to something more true to self than that post and discard practised by most people it seems...", in fact, the goblin was just another livewriter, no big deal there as there were quite a few of them around by now, repeating "...three goals, a writer's way with words, an illustrator's eye, and a credible persona, yet none of these goals are going to come to one without first taking it upon oneself to keep at it each day and for the rest of one's days too, moreover, reposting is just air/edit/backup here, I mean imagine for example if the admin at xxxxx forum, who just happened to warned me again today, were to suddenly delete all my posts banning me as has happened often enough in the past, well nothing would happen to the posts, I'd be unscathed with all my posts intact, why, because it becomes delete me read me elsewhere, though I'll let you fill in the spaces again, it's basically airing to readers, editing to oneself, and backing up against the mishap fairy..."


xxxx

Last edited by fleamailman; 07-08-2012 at 04:26 AM..
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  #2759  
Old 07-08-2012, 05:00 AM
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"So. Sunday afternoon then. We made soup for lunch, and fresh baked rolls to go with it", Grace reported, dusting the flour from her jeans. "Nothing makes a four year old happier than pulverising things in a blender". Waist to shoulder, they had worked side by side at the kitchen table kneading dough. Sharing the rolling pin. Sharing confidences. "The girls at school keep cuddling me", he mumbled, face clouding over. "That's ok - they just like you", Grace had laughed. He thought about that for a moment. "Girls smell and they like pink stuff", he growled, "and Jessica keeps kissing me". Grace had ruffled his hair, leaving slicks of white flour through his tangles. "You'll enjoy the attention when you're older", she'd chuckled. They had both looked up to the sound of a horse stampede - which was hailstones pounding on the flat roof. The latest weather onslaught roared outside the window like a waterfall. "Fuck me", Grace sighed, lobbing dough balls on the baking tray. "Whatd'ya say Mum?" he asked, wide-eyed - knowing he'd caught her out using bad bad words. "C'est la vie", she repeated, "it's French darling - now pop your oven gloves on." Grace looked for suitable music for them to tidy up to, loving her son's lack of self-consciousness when it came to shoulder shimmies and gyrating hips. Nothing like a bit of Mambo Number Five to chase the storm clouds away...

http://youtu.be/Lhf0ZjqzJLE


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Last edited by Loz; 07-08-2012 at 07:16 AM..
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  #2760  
Old 07-08-2012, 05:14 AM
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repost from elsewhere, new, from same thread as before, same writing about writing again

are you talking about fleamailman's posts? I was surprised to hear that you don't like them since you copy and pasted one of his posts onto another forum
the goblin's curiosity got the better of him, so he just inquired "...um, which one to where then, and was it well received too...", and with that the explained something else, saying "...when someone reposts my work, which of course they're welcome to do so whenever, the reader quickly knows that it's me by the way it is written, whereas if I were to write in the standard way that you have been requesting here, who would know that it was me at all, so now you see why the writing style is a hallmark of one's individuality that makes the copying of it easy and yet guards its authenticity at the same time..."


xxxx

Last edited by fleamailman; 07-08-2012 at 09:21 AM..
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