#1
My notes'll be brief.
This is an expertiment in using old pieces and old thoughts pieced together in a diary format. They will certainly be a bit disjointed - some of this is for effect, some of it certainly isn't.

I won't say crit-for-crit, but, if you leave me a decent critique, I have a bad tendency of paying the favor back. Emphasis on that I'm asking for critiques, not merely comments...

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Concentricity

January 31, 2001 (12:01am):

There is no interest in striving towards happiness here.
There is only the aim that happiness will come into fruition.

But, what is happiness?
I could give you some bastard's dictionary definition, some well-enumerated series of ideas on the nature of happiness, some jackass write-up on colloquial language - written by a jackass, for a jackass. I could give you the satirical definitions of men pretending to be clever, desperately veiling the truth in some attempt to appear very much the jackasses' jackass. Men walking around in the masks of mules and pulling the stench of that nihilist cigarette ever-closer to their mouths...
I suppose, I could give you the true, Romantic definition. I could speak the covenant name of human misjudgment, and bury some poor man's oaken chest in hopes to have you believe: yes, the ark is lost. No, I've looked everywhere.

I have searched the reoccurring themes in my dreams, using a map drawn up in one hundred, eighty Anno Domini of the great Empire that existed. And, after four-twenty-one, the City may have gone to ruin with the cartographer, but the image is forever burnt into my memory.

I make a thing of the dead emperors and their dead words.
I make a thing of the laughter I save for you, my friends, and deprive myself. Be glad when the Fool opens his mouth, it is something to well be heeded. After all, what more learned man is there than the man that disembowels himself of all guises of learning - to know one knows nothing is the first step, so the Argive philosophy flutters, to learning.

Life is too quickly moving to ponder a decision, then act - no, no, the liquid nature means we must just thrust our hands into the bloody bowels and already know the augury.

February 3, 2001 (12:01am):

I wonder if I will ever read a book that ends when it claims to end. It is a promise, I have found, to which most texts are lying bastards. Just like most poets.

The majority of a poet's mind is composed of shit, because nothing else could explain the words that come out of his mouth.
The majority of a poetess's mind is composed of useless ideas, because it is improper to say that a cultured lady would ever shit

Then, we are a society of jackasses, for we all stand around and marvel at galleries of shits and meditate on their worth.

I wonder if the dancer considers her counterparts as the sum of years of defecation. I would put my doubts on that one. After all, there are no qualms about the lusty ventures of a dancer, what, with a body that is art, legs that are the brush, sweeping around the canvas of the world. And the poets? Well, we are sad individuals, huddling around the trash-pyres of our amassed rehearsals, who would have to be taught not to fuck in the absolute darkness of mid-day. Yes, the romance, the mystique of the noon hour. We never really understood the concept of this 'getting' of the point.

It is common knowledge that all humanity is a child Reason.
I pride myself on being a bastard, the son of that whorish Muse.

February 7, 2001 (12:02am):

More and more, I feel I must give into the paranoia ? I stand at the edge of my life?s circle to stare at the diameter and think, ?does it ever really end??

I don't know... I look in the mirror to find this glimpse of a great man veiled by all the slander and criticisms written by his own hand. The ideas, that glimpse in a mythological eye when the pen flickers and the wolf licks his lips ? all into degradation; all the light left to reflect off the cobwebs of self-effacement.

I have dreams of becoming a great man.
I do not linger beside one river or another, but by all - to become Artist, Teacher, Philosopher, Patron, Scientist, Servant, Father, and, chiefly, Lover.
Renaissance man. Now, there's a dream. There?s something she could have loved.

February 9, 2001 (12:03am):

Onar he ge esti to dikaion doron tei kardia.
Hama tei hemerai egeiro piptein eis ten dinen tes aities.
Akinetos kai athlios eimi... He hamartia en eme - anathema! Apolola...
Kai dedoika kai parakalo. Ta meteora paraine emoi!

My God, I?m on my knees, kissing the ground with a foreigner?s tongue just to see if you?ll pay me any more attention.

Meus animus Gothicus est; meus corpus Romae.

My God, save me from myself.

February 15, 2001 (12:05am):

She called the house phone and asked me if I wanted to get some coffee.
You know, I always smiled more whenever she was around. Something in her eyes, just the way they struck me. I always thought there was more to life than the screams of anxious neurons. With her.

Basileia!
She always was and will be.

Yeah, I know. I?m a repetitive, sad bastard ? I know, I know. But, come on?

I?m getting that feel like the time I lied to her and claimed that a Robert Frost poem I?d read her was mine. Whatever, right? Everyman?s as much as every man, and so, we all belong in the theater ? actors first, and men when no one?s looking.

I couldn?t pay attention during church. I just kept praying, and praying, and praying.
I hate the bitter sound of applause when the Act?s not yet over.

February 18, 2001 (12:08am)

She?s still a goddess ? every inch of her.

People tell me that I'm a fine person and that some day, if I eat my Wheaties and root for the Cubbies, I'll find that person who'll make me truly, deeply happy. Doubtful. ?Contentment? is too close to ?stagnation?, for all I can make of it.
It is the optimist in me that says, "I don't think she exists"; it's the pessimist in me that thinks she's died already. No. I don't believe that I want to be happy. I want to be blissful, filled with peace, yet in that constant sort of motion - I do not want to chase and catch her, I want her to be running beside me, to use the common motion-metaphor.

The shitty metaphor. Fuck metaphor.
They all complain that I?m dwelling on the past.

?Well, no shit, Sherlock ? it?s all that depressed poetry.?

Fuck public opinion.
It?s my art. My. Art.

I suppose I should have known that, of social virtues, I am debase - Thou shall be loud and annoying - confiteor! Thou shall be without reservation or good taste - confiteor! Thou shall have no virtues above thy Social Virtues - confiteor! But do I repent?

They tell me I?ll move on. I don?t fucking want to.

February 22, 2001 (12:13am)

The mask we wear is dark, with pale lips and bags under the eyes -
It shouts and cries and we'll be damned if we ever convince ourselves not to wear it...
Antiquity - archaism - anachronism - ineptitude - revelry - and treason.

Treason.

I? I sigh like Guy Fawkes as I heave black-powder over my shoulder.
Treason. She?s happier. So, accept?
Defeat.

February 23, 2001 (12:21am)

There?s a sad son of a bastard and a bitch sitting in the corner smoking and writing verses that just scream:
Fuck you, I think it?s beautiful.

When you hear the horns of Heimdall
Rippling through the air,
And you heed the barrow?s stare
You shall find me again?
? with many joyous songs?
? with boundless laughter?
? with fewer scars to bear.

February 25, 2001 (12:34am)

I believe, now.
Not in knights and shining armor, not in muskets and barricades, not even in wavering fingers of tattered flags and the starving eyes of the revolutionary...
No. I believe, now, in the science of reconstruction. The philosophy of rebirth. The mysticism of stitching the sequences of duration together as time.
There is God, there is me - there is no intermediary.

I'm watching the clock until 12:34 and making a wish. It's stupid, trust me. I'm reading fortune cookies - again, stupid. Watching for any sign I think could be a sign. Because I want what isn't mine.

I want the divine.
Last edited by paraboetheo at Jul 19, 2006,
#2
I owe you pretty big, for your generously long critiques...but I really need to go to sleep now. So you will definitely get one tomorrow.
Can You Fill In The Blanks?
#3
I read all of them and will comment on the one i liked the best. The first one is what i see as the story of every man who has failed in trying to get a girl bc of some faggot who fits the stereotype of what is good. The references to the defintion is awesome, it is consistent yet differnet every time you use it which is definetely a step away from being clicheish. It evokes emotion is a way that is tacky yet original and i really enjoyed it. Great usage of colloquial and nihilist! Also i do not like the cubbies remark in the one bc i am a huge sox fan!

Here is mine if you have some time https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=396138
#4
I like this. Some cool turns o' phrase in there. Some glimmers of truth.

BTW this is how to bypass the swear-word censor thing properly:

fu(b)(b)(/b)(/b)ck

Except use the square brackets rather than the round ones.
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#5
Just one thing that i noticed and didnt really like about the piece. On the second 12:01 entry you talk about the never ending story of books at first and then you go into poetry then you just elaborate on the poetry and why you dont like it and bleh. But you never elaborate on the story part and it seems rather pointless that you would even mention it, insteaod just talkin about poetry. So on the surface, thats just what i found i may point out a few more things

-Mike
#6
I, like a lot of other people on here probably do, owe you a real crit.. you really helped me with my stuff, thanks again... I like this, very original... "I could give you some bastard's dictionary definition, some well-enumerated series of ideas on the nature of happiness, some jackass write-up on colloquial language - written by a jackass, for a jackass. I could give you the satirical definitions of men pretending to be clever, desperately veiling the truth in some attempt to appear very much the jackasses' jackass. Men walking around in the masks of mules and pulling the stench of that nihilist cigarette ever-closer to their mouths..." I really like this part, I like anything that questions definitions, that's how it should be...
"I wonder if I will ever read a book that ends when it claims to end. It is a promise, I have found, to which most texts are lying bastards. Just like most poets." I find this thought very interesting.. with a little thinking about it, I agree with it.

"I'm watching the clock until 12:34 and making a wish. It's stupid, trust me. I'm reading fortune cookies - again, stupid. Watching for any sign I think could be a sign. Because I want what isn't mine." I like this thought, I kinda identify with this one... it's cool.

"The mask we wear is dark, with pale lips and bags under the eyes -
It shouts and cries and we'll be damned if we ever convince ourselves not to wear it...
Antiquity - archaism - anachronism - ineptitude - revelry - and treason." I find this one interesting as well, I like how you chose to say mask. Although it's used a lot, I think what follows it really makes it good.

Those were the lines that stood out to me, I like the piece as a whole... you really have a lot of good thoughts in there... you seem like a pretty smart guy. Keep up the good work.