|By Head_Prosthesis on Tuesday, November 20, 2001 - 05:47 pm: Edit|
The king is indeed "chock full of gayness".
See also: Teddy Bear
|By Bob_Chong on Tuesday, November 20, 2001 - 10:17 am: Edit|
they began to wail => whale => sperm (whale)
|By Head_Prosthesis on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 11:20 pm: Edit|
But the fact of the matter, is that he was a repressed homosexual with oedipal issues.
Going to a party at the county jail, oh please? How gay is that?
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 09:33 pm: Edit|
"And being OK with not being able to support every theory you let slip past your lips"
Oh hell yeah.
Where and when did this idiotic notion come from, that if you let fly an idea, you must be ready to defend it to the death?
It would be a more interesting mode if people were to trade ideas like baseball cards, and defend them just to see how they flew.
If I say "Elvis was a fag" it shouldn't have to mean thats what I *really* think. Just that I am inviting people to consider and talk about the idea of the King being light in the loafers.
|By Verawench on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 08:47 pm: Edit|
It's odd how much people dread sentiment.
Disney and Oprah killed it for us by making it common-place or the ridiculous feature of housewives and sick children and talking animals.
But I still think there's something to be said for sitting among friends or alone - regardless of how the world has reconsidered itself in the last hundred years or so - and feeling no cynicism whatsoever.
Saying things like "it's beautiful" or crying because you like a song. Not because you lack self-control but because you are not living up to anything.
And being OK with not being able to support every theory you let slip past your lips.
|By Verawench on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 10:46 pm: Edit|
I'm still curious about you, Bob. I haven't jumped to conclusion as to why a. you'd want to reinforce Head's "cheerleading" b. why you continue to explain yourself here.
What is it that YOU require, Chong?
Even though you've already stuffed me in a labeled drawer, I would much rather wait for you to say a few more things about yourself.
|By Bob_Chong on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 10:37 pm: Edit|
It's a false dichotomy, really. Calm vs. melodramatic? Hell, those aren't even two ends of a spectrum.
What I call melodramatic, I mean "adolescent histrionics."
And that ain't the same thing that you're talking about at all.
But anyway, the whole damn thing started when I piled on a "clit clapping" quip onto Head's urging of some girl-on-girl action. I upped the crass quotient, and VC got all bent out of shape. She's got self-esteem issues and requires constant validation. So I called her on it.
But that shouldn't impede you or anyone from dancing or ranting or whatnot. Do, man, do!
|By Verawench on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 09:41 pm: Edit|
Stumbling home one night after an excess of absinthe I ended up watching a few minutes of some talk show where a trembling young woman told the story being severely abused by her religious parents (her father was a preacher). And I scribbled the two paragraphs below.
I like exercises in writing short tidbits from another's point of view.
I used to call this "whorekill" - creative lying. No one can shut off the primal instinct to elaborate and exaggerate and skew. It's what used to set individuals apart around the first camp fires.
I thank you, gentlemen, but keep the above in mind.
|By Verawench on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 09:33 pm: Edit|
I was beaten with a coat hanger that month (they switched their tools every few weeks, to
Diversify their disciplinary regime) but this time it was somehow different because I started leaving the window open and every time the pain cut through my lower back, surging through my nerves like a diplomatic delegation of death itself, I looked at the moon as it thickened in the sky and I came to experience a sort of ecstasy which saved me from suspending my weak little body from a piano wire.
I lived and I lived, all by the grace of the moon, which came and went with a delirious persistence. One day I'll be grand, I said. One day I will enlighten the world with my suffering, past and present, as Christ did. I came to see Him as something other than a perverse idol, pinned on wood and bleeding. He was exquisite and noble. I fell asleep picturing tears scrolling down his cheeks as the nails slammed past his flesh and between his tendons. To be human, he must have cursed and sobbed in fear. Everytime the various implements of torment met my flesh I sang softly under my breath, quiet enough to not be heard "eli lama sabbachtani..?". I didn't believe the words, but knowing Christ had uttered them in moments of his greatest pain, with the storm clouds churning over Golgotha, I felt all the closer to him and assured myself - I, the repentant thief, sobbing for mercy.
|By Dr_Ordinaire on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 08:50 pm: Edit|
Bravo, Monsieur Le Rabid, if I were Zorba I'd be dancing to your words!
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 07:28 pm: Edit|
Chonger, your references to melodrama- fuck that.
The fashion is to take everything in life calmly, to be cool, in it's original sense.
Beauty, love, fear, death. These are all things to be taken casually, as in fact everything is. Because hey, no reason to get worked up. That wouldn't be cool.
AAAAACK! NO! LIVE your life, feel it! Fuck being calm about it!
I do weep at sunsets sometimes. And I think dying is a big fucking deal. So is love. Melodrama, you say, I call it living with passion. With gusto.
James Dean was the walking dead. I have blood in my veins, not formaldehyde. So did Wilde and Jarry, and all those others that are called 'melodramatic' by people who are either afraid to feel, much less to show any feelings, or disinterested in doing so.
Its all the same to me- a life half lived, half experienced. Screw fashion. Let's party like it's 1799!
Lay on, Wench! Lay on!
|By Verawench on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 11:22 am: Edit|
"Not so funny, Veracunt."
As opposed to what, your brilliant wit?
|By Bob_Chong on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 06:49 am: Edit|
Are you sure you're not the Anatomist in disguise? You're as much a drama queen as he is.
Seriously, though, you're problems may be clinical. If so, I apologize. Melodramatize on, my dearie.
Insert pithy Byron allusion, Wilde quote, or quip about Jarry here,
|By Bob_Chong on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 06:42 am: Edit|
Not so funny, Veracunt.
|By Verawench on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 07:05 pm: Edit|
I wish you flew more often, Bawb.
|By Bob_Chong on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 06:54 pm: Edit|
less woe-is-me and more clit clapping.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 06:43 pm: Edit|
Don't kid yourself, boys love, girl on girl stories... Just keep typing.
|By Verawench on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 06:41 pm: Edit|
The obsessions of my best friend. What a weird girl she is. Without the slightest effort she will spill forth such surrealism to make Lynch
She's a genius.
Together we're essentially two happy drunks. I can't confide in her anymore than I can in myself. Talking to her IS like talking to myself. THat is why we both whine so extensively about the need for new acquaitance.
Our discussions of the mundane things are always awkward - polite. Everything else: politics, spirit, art, drugs, you name it, anything beyond the realm of the social and the boring, is subject for passionate discourse.
Back in high school we had a long standing dedication to David Lynch. We make "Lynch" into an adjective.
Finding a baby's shoe in the middle of a graveyard stroll was a Lynch. A freaky neon sign that says "Buddy and Wanda's - Flooring America" was a Lynch.
We drink vast amounts of absinthe. We go about staring at things.
She looks like the perfect opposite of me: bony, olive-skinned, long hair, weird exotic features. People alternately assume she's half asian, hispanic, egyptian, arabic or quarter black. She's half-Portugese, actually.
|By Verawench on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 06:34 pm: Edit|
No I'm not. I won't let it bring me down. Talking to one's self is a beginning of a lifelong romance.
And one could spend a lifetime raping Oscar Wilde quotes.
Anyway, I was thinking how this island is the source of my romance with paradoxes. Come 5PM, all those poor souls trapped upon this sliver of land flee it like rats a sinking ship. They roll off the concrete tongue of the causeway and zoom past the Texas City refinery.
There is nothing more gorgeous than the curelean shade of the ocean when the sun blankets its surface in the afternoon. Beyond it churn the languid lethal smokes of the refinery...
10 years ago I was stricken by the hideousness of the place. Now I am smitten by its monstrous beauty... asphalt, steel and endless salt water. The sight of ghettos is as amorous as pictures of Gothic ruins. Ruin is ruin... beauty in ruin.
|By Verawench on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 06:17 pm: Edit|
I'm gonna go fuck off now.
|By Verawench on Tuesday, November 13, 2001 - 09:50 pm: Edit|
Damn... that was almost 6 years ago...
|By Verawench on Tuesday, November 13, 2001 - 09:48 pm: Edit|
Tamara was 30, and married. She was shorter and frailer than me. I felt like I could crush her with my Slavic strength.
She read every piece of good poetry available from the centuries past. I got her to like Rimbaud. We loved Blake, the Rubayat, the Romantics and that cheesy movie "Gothic".
She did not speak to her husband, though she lived in the same house with him.
Her voice, coming out of a chinadoll face, sounded like my grandma's. It was eerie and world-weary, if both are possible in one.
She wrote me extensive emails about everything. We perfected the art of romanticizing the mundane.
She called me "beloved" and I eventually scared her off with hormonal teenage mood swings.
She saw in me an alterego - a tall blond manic boy named Deneveux.
God knows what she's up to now.
|By Verawench on Tuesday, November 13, 2001 - 09:41 pm: Edit|
And I'm perfectly sober, btw.
|By Verawench on Tuesday, November 13, 2001 - 09:41 pm: Edit|
Look, ma, I got me a forum... what a good place to hear the voices howl inside my head. They're distant but distinct. And I can talk back to them.
My astigmatism applies to external realities only. My contacts are my adjustment shield, my visual corset amd armor as it were. Inside my vision is frightful clear, picking up hairs on the brow of the barbarians I see lined up against the horizon.
I feel their cold stares and I wonder if the wind takes source from their lungs... their unfinished furs quiver gently...
I am convinced we are all a great pathetic womb - our output is microscopic compared to the input. Buried deep within our brain - that mass destined for maggot diner - is the impression of every face, object, smell, sound, action, sentence we've been exposed to. It goes very few places. We are landfills.
But the first woman I ever loved was furious with me when I couldn't understand the following: she claimed that love had to be easing yourself into the skin of your beloved - seeing through their eyes
It's not that I continue failing to understand her point. It's that I know it to be a complete impossibility. Time constitutes the obstacle. I cannot recover every step of a beloved's life - I cannot see beyond what they offer. I cannot bear to pick for gold through a garbage heap of the human subconscious. And that is tragic...
Inside, on the massive steppes, trimmed with gray grass, I can whisper freely and pick up all sounds and sights from miles away.
God, it feels so good to write again...
|Administrator's Control Panel -- Board Moderators Only|
Administer Page |Delete Conversation |Close Conversation |Move Conversation