| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
|---|
It's probably not so, really, and besides, it's not the sentence he wanted to write anyway. He's writing in pen and got to "while gone" not knowing how to go on. So, to complete the sentence without scratching out too much, he fit something in which sounded good at the time. Maybe something better would have been, "He writes in the hope that his emotions, now fresh and strong, flowing through him like some mountain of warm air, will somehow be preserved on that page to live again. He wishes that the woman had chosen to remain with him, to share his company, long enough to feel this warmth, this improbable and inexplicable love he has for her. But now he fears that the love he feels was for a phantom, for a woman that never actually was. And she, he suspects, is afraid of a man he never was, caught up in her own fears so much that she never actually saw him in those brief times they were together. So he mourns the dance of phantoms, of his love and her fear, of his beliefs about her, and her beliefs about him. (Or, at least, what he believes are her beliefs.) So, maybe that's why he writes in the third person, enclosed in quotes, of a narrative he should have written, but didn't" |
Just wait, he thinks. It will return. The urge tell someone, here in the present and not in the indefinable future of his journal, is too strong. On this board, among the lives and souls of people he'll never meet, at least he knows where he stands. Here, he can dance with phantoms, and not mourn as much. |
|
|
But sooner or later,that loosing boogy man will sneak up on you. Its all about risk,and happiness. I believe with all my heart,you cant't reach that highest level of happiness,unless you risk total annihilation. But the down side of that,is,that, occasionally,you will be annihilated. But in the wee wee hours,when nobody's around,we can admit to ourselves: I'm not that strong,I'm not that brave.Sometimes I think,that I won't make another day. Since you've been gone,all I ever seem to do is cry. Oh,yes I cry,I'm not ashamed,sometimes it only takes the mention of your name,to set me off,to wondering if my eyes will ever dry. Here comes the dawn again,no sleep last night again.I cried from midnight straight through to daylight.Here comes the dawn again. B.Vera "Here Comes The Dawn Again" I'm sorry,'Tiggy.I know what it feels like. |
WAHOOO!!! they'll probably loose, speaking of loses. they've been sucky these days...the kings that is. |
|
|
thats even more nice. |
|
sorry antigone, please continue.... |
|
and if my banter messes with anyone's flow, perhaps im being given more credit than im due. i dont have much regard these days, theres nothing anyone can say that can really bring me any lower...so ill step for a bit before i piss anyone else off. continue your flow 'tigster |
Patrick,you are very important to all of us.We've all been able to tell,from your recent posts,that things aren't going well for you right now. We have room for everyone's problems here.If you want to share with us,we'll all listen,and some/most of us will even have advice to offer.At the very least,we will be supportive of you,and your troubles. :) |
|
It come and it go. See, I needs to be sufferin' so that it causes me to blow. But now the feelin's too slow. I just gotta wallow. And, that's all right, patrick, yo. I know you's a ho. |
Wheres the humanity? |
with ho tendencies Hoes are your friends Hoes are your enemies With ho energy to do what you do blew what you blew screw what you screw ... ho-tel e'rybody even the mayor reach up in the sky to the ho-zone layer ... 'cuz you's a hooooooooooo you's a hooooooooo you's a hoooooooo I said that you'z a hooo Name that song! |
|
|
|
|
Although I'm not quite sure about this bulbasaur person, just does have the flair of our faithfull Chupacabra. |
I went to a poetry reading at my favorite coffee bar (Insomnia's in Deep Ellum here in Dallas) and read the first two posts on this thread. Then I did a little extemporaneous bit about why I wrote it, who I was talking to when I did, and what I thought about poetry. Part one (the first post) I called "in the moment." Part two (the second post) I called "posted to a chat board." Part three I called "right now" and went kinda like this: "I thought of coming there and reading because, a few months before, me and the young lady from the first part had stumbled on the poetry group here, and stayed to listen. Afterwards I recited her a poem I'd written about mountains in the desert, fractals, living shadows, stuff like that. While I was speaking it, I realized that all poetry I'd ever written, no matter what it was about, it was really about love: love of words, love of life, love of experiencing and describing. So, what was this love I had described? And why did it still feel incomplete? Apart from the obvious, I realized that the piece wasn't just about what it was about. It was incomplete because it's audience was incomplete. In the first part I'd written to someone I knew, but in an indefinable future, like all of my journal entries. The second part I'd written to people I knew but hadn't met in the flesh. [...a little dramatic license, there. :P ] So here I am, talking to people I've met, but don't know for shit! Each audience I talk to has something missing, but they're all related. And each part talks about the ones before, because the writing was part of the living. And now the writing is the living, because I'm making this up as I go along. I'm also nervous as hell! And I'm not sure how to end this, but it has to be something self referential, so I guess this is it." It was probably a tad more incoherant, but that was what I remember. :) |