I know what you mean, Mr. ICOG. You are quite right. He always seems to be absent from April to August, much to the disappointment of I and the others of the Gentleman Thread. After all, who will prepare my tea during those months? Very distressing indeed.
But back to the topic of this excellent thread, I cannot help but sometimes confuse you, Mr. ICOG, with another Mr. I.O.T.M. at some points, being that you both have capital names (and capital names ) that have both an I and an O in them, and also that you are both fairly decent of character.
I must bid you adieu, my friend. I must retire for the evening. My dear sister has an appointment with her tutor in the morning, and she has insisted on the use of my carriage.
Goodbye and goodnight.
Edit: Blast. What is with all the ruffians performing acts of sabatoge in this thread?! If I had my way, you'd all be whipped, chained, and sentenced to two months in the mines!
I’ve watched those hipsters, golden haired, acid riddled, faces disheveled, make their way around to new lives, Watched them tumble and fall, sniveling sheepishly, slowly claw their way back up the machine, Grab hold of the driver’s seat and settle in comfortably, bringing their own with them, Thirty years older, washed and cleaned, finish their degrees in those very halls they abhorred before, recognizing that a necessity was easy for them to achieve, Brought their previously radical ideas to pass in senate seats and breaking dreams of their children over the backs of those very same wretched spawn and diseased, Watched as they stole the lives and bread from a country, tactics they learned from good old Charlie, Who sits, laughing, cozy in prison, every other sentence from his mouth an I told you so, Those golden hipsters, though dying right and right these days, still manage to screw over everyone else with their last stinking, rotten breath, Over tea trays and sacks of money, both adorned with the dollar signs they now love so much – They keep the sick in their beds with all the bills they hoard and pass, unthinkingly, or maybe deviously, in the great white halls of our dear be(un)loved nation – Irwin, I envy your death, and while I was only eight at the time, I would have sat next to your death bed and smiled As you trembled and shook, last breaths rattling from your chest, mirroring the tinkling of fine china on the tea tray I had Charlie bring in, I would have sipped on my tea, look you straight in the eye as Charlie giggled in apprehension, And told you the bad news I could see with my naïve eight year old eyes: They didn’t eat the poem of life from their own body cavities after cutting it out of themselves, Irwin, They ate our next thousand years, with caviar on melba toast and a nice Pinot Noir.
And stop coming up with awesome scenes that make me jealous and want to murder you in your sleep and steal all your ideas.
I particularly enjoyed the ending; I always enjoy when inanimate objects are given a question to say or comment to make or something to not understand. Growing up with a very active imagination as a child, it wasn't unusual for me to talk to my baseball glove or yell at my dishes for not washing themselves.
You've taken on this calm abruptness recently (and by recently, I of course mean no actual recent pieces, I'm just making this up as I go along), a cold way of telling the story and relaying the dialogue that takes all the narrative emotion out, so that it's plain and clean, and the emotions come from the scene and words themselves and not you.
Curiosity, how long did this take you? It'd take me a while to get that tone...
There's not much time... Cut and Dye your hair, grow a beard, and split town. Head for El Paso Texas. When you get there, look for a guy named Enrique. Tell him Vladimir sent you. He'll help you get to Tijuana. From there, look for a man named Ricardo. Tell him Vladimir is calling in his debt. He should give you $25,000 USD. If he doesn't, tell him you're Ivan. If that doesn't work, you may have to use force to persuade him. Go back home (if you want to) and pay off your debt.
I prefer notebooks, generally (and my favorite spot is the back corner of the library around the the way. I like being reminded of all the possible ideas that are there, especially now that I'm trying to make writing a habit instead of emotional). Computers are nice, but bulky.
I've always written poetry in notebooks and stories on the comp. Poetry is a somewhat slower thinking process than storytelling, so I don't have to rush to get the ideas down, whereas storytelling is a lot quicker than I can write and I lose sentences faster.
I got the rollers out, stirred the can Grandpa yelled advice from the other room, So I stirred it twice, just to be sure. He entered in an old paint-stained sweater, Grabbed a tray, filled it, And urged me to do the same.
He grabbed a ladder, and I another. We shut the door and painted the fuck out of that room. Ceiling to floor, all four walls, Moldings, window sills, crowns and all Were primed, colored, dried and admired.
I got more advice as the day passed About keeping the brushes, sealing the cans, Proper pressure, good amounts, enough cover, What to do with the money he was paying me, What to do in my life when I finally made it, That I should really know the girl I marry, And maybe, someday, fifty years after vows, I could sit and argue about Northern California rivers, Hassle with her until the map was dragged from the drawer, And not be agitated about being wrong.
Less and less we talked about painting As the fumes filled the room. (We were probably high; my head sure aches that way) And as we finished, cleaned up, Opened the windows and doors to let it all dry, Sat down, ate dinner, watched Alistair Cooke, I realized that something incredible had happened. I’d walked in to paint as a man, nothing more, And emerged something else entirely.
Yesterday I may have been a carpenter, Maybe tomorrow I’ll learn roofing, But today,
What was the thing that gave you the most inspiration to write?
Usually whatever mood I'm in, if good/bad things happen, etc. I'm a bit of an emotional writer. Unless I have a solid idea, I just write little clips of emotion. Solid ideas are few and far between, so I really have to pounce when those happen. I'm getting better at making solid ideas, though, and I'm hoping to get better at that.
It really really really helps to read as much as possible.
-I'm not quite sure why I expected you to contact me in some way on my birthday, but I'm glad you didn't. It kept an okay day from being a shitty day.
-If we're going to start this band up again (like I know we all want to), a couple of things are going to have to happen. First, you both need to grow up. You're 21 and 22 years old now, start acting like it. Second, you need to figure out when enough booze is enough. Six beers and one shot and you can't stand up? I'm not going to deal with that on a daily basis. Third, you're all going to listen to me, and listen good. We are not going to charge onto the scene again like horny stallions; that didn't work last time, it won't work this time. We're good enough to pull that off, but we need to take it slow. Last time put everyone on edge and pulled us apart. Slow and steady wins the race, yeah? Fourth and final, Jxxxx needs to go, he's wooden and boring as a guitar player. He's got great technical skills, but he lacks emotion and feeling. This is how we will be able to live off having fun, guys. Take it or leave it.
-That was disgusting. All the effort I put into you, into getting to know you and getting you to see and like me, and you go do that? You need to grow the fuck up.
Has a less punk and more folk feel to me. Get rid of "that they have," it mucks up that stanza. Intro is good but the rest lacks, probably on purpose? It'd definitely be punkier then. I can't hear it in my head, so this has no real umph for me at the moment, but good idea. Keep it up, mate.
Somewhere between myth and will lies a cure, A way to break out of your mold Shout to the skies that you're choosing to be Instead of Fate's little action figure. (don't call it a doll, Fate's just like any man with a G.I. Joe in his hand)
The myth is you are alive. The will is your death.
Every creature on the planet, At one time or another, Wishes for its death (or, like me, daily)
Why even live, right? When as soon as you are born you start to die. The slow march downward, and when you reach the dirt
that's it that's it that's it.
The cure is that one moment in your life when you can smile for no reason at all and be happy.
Second, I honestly think I should mod this forum, no? I'm here when Allen and Dan aren't, right?(Allen's in France and Dan's in... Who knows where ), I'm a pretty nice guy who sticks to the rules, I think I can do it....
Third, forgive me, I'm a little drunk (a lot), and I'm looking for ways to improve this forum, since it's become so anarchist and rude (yeah?). Anyways, I'd like to lend a more helping hand...
Fourth, I'm pretty drunk (a few Adios's and a cup with Bailey and Jameson [plus Harp's]) so ignore me if I'm out of line.