Writing Thread (All Forms)

[dino might]

dry by dictum, not choice..

[patrill]

a haiku about what I did on my spring break:

into beast belly

well intentioned travelers

cold seat of power

--

slip into solipsism

slide into a sleepful waking

spread secret plans while standing on cerealboxes and soapbowls

spill milk

and whisper in spanish

slowly sink

into the delightful ignorance of self-absorption.

[dino might]

"A Crooked Spine"

A crooked spine

A worried mind

Nerves of jelly

Gut full of turpentine

Looks that i stole

Heart with a hole

Slaughtered like swine

Lungs- full of resin bowls

Is the fault mine?

Is it this time?

O' where have i put my soul?

Please, have you seen my soul?

..and on a lighter note..

II’m an addict for sneakas,

Coca-Cola, flexin’ hatas,

20s of Buddha, n mah

Pockets fulla papas.

Cappuccinos with suga,

Money stacks n change,

Empty cigarette packs n

Cheeseburgas n chains

Mah defense is impregnable,

Mah techniques- incredible,

Mah tossin’ n flossin’, mah style's

Awesome, immeasurable,

Existential, monumental,

No benefits, no 401 n no dental.

Atheistic with swag

Nihilistic n lethal.

I dig

Forties with mah shortie n

Harleys n ho’s

Get mah name outcha mouth

Unless you’ passin’ that ‘dro.

Dinosaurs n space

Time travel, nectarines.

I got

Clear skin on my face

Y’all cats know what I mean?

[alexryb]

sufu has to have some decent writers with inflated egos. go.

[Joweee]

ahahaha lemme see if i can find something in my documents

[viv1984viv]

this is my blog - very much a work in progress

http://pyrrhicvictoriesagainst.blogspot.com/

Ive also started a wine blog that people are welcome to contribute to

http://oenophiliaandbacchanalia.blogspot.com/

[its swanny]

i cover high school football for one of my local papers.

does that count?

[Soulrain]

wrote this poem last year, it's gone through a few incarnations, here's its latest one. its more of a spoken word piece, i've performed it a few times at readings and such.

my first sufu post by the way, been lurking for years.

date rape

Brown bottle found ground hollow

But not hollow enough

To avoid accident knee scrape

Or southern belle Thursday evening date rape.

Because dinner date introduction

Falling into vile seduction

Hands like words;

Checking her definition;

Because it was her body that claimed

Dictionary Anglo-Saxon abnormality

And adjectives weren’t ever the

Past participle part-time turn of phrase

To describe distance of herself;

Rather only verbs, rather only subtle sexuality

Rather wooden floors with hidden creaks

She speaks:

I was once a queen but now all I clutch

Is anger; solidified existence, and with it,

The accompanying resistance.

She only finds acceptance in a flask and

Return to innocence lost is all mind grasps

but doesn’t keep.

Regret’s simple sillouette is dark and deep

But has nowhere to go

And never sleeps.

Parked cars with slashed tires dot her vision

Gold glistens like silver urine in pawn shop window

With her body, he’s winning a game of

one sided sharks and minnows.

And she is watching; mouth agape

Like second grader on first day

Or maybe this can help relate-

She is naievity in heels, on first date.

And trash rolls by like tumbleweeds

Blue plastic bags are lenses for nothing, I can see.

Angry jazz music-

Like drug-riddled Yusef Lateef

Hidden with percussion underneath

Reign down; searching for their panacea

While angry mobs scream “Free Mumiaâ€

But do they even know the truth from lies

White or black or aggrandized?

Even now daring hands have touched her twice

gone awry like best laid plans of men and mice

And even when he’s gone she’s still a mess,

Only in destruction does he find success

He only leaves her when her taste has soured

Stoic like white windowsill in witching hour

And this testament is our

Malcontent and I’ll repent

Her sins for only one dollar minus one cent

1900 salvation was always second best

For girls who never came first

And never rode pink bicycles

With glitter handlebars and obscene streamers

Who never flirted with a lonely dreamer

Instead always left the other half or left the town

With confusions and contusions

And as he sets her body down

He whispers the ritual conclusion:

She’ll search her secrets with a three-edged blade

And flaunt emotionally informed angry tirade

Until one day she’ll know of what this life is made

And like all else,

This too shall fade.

w000t.. you can bang dude

awesome!

[16steps]

shapiros, i like it

reads like a hip hop song written by an intellect

what a somber resolution:

She’ll search her secrets with a three-edged blade

And flaunt emotionally informed angry tirade

Until one day she’ll know of what this life is made

And like all else,

This too shall fade.

[Kev07]

Short essay I wrote about fat people back in my senior year of high school, I had my teacher read this in front of the class and after the laughter died down i got a lot of looks LOL.

but generally I get positive responses from this

America’s Expanding Waistline

Let’s admit it; we have all heard the saying that the United States is a country of obesity; even I was fat a good portion of my life. However, with all these hippopotamus’ running around, we fail to realize that the American standard for “normal sized” has been thrown off pitch and we really do not realize how many people are actually fat. The ignorance is even greater for teenagers who are still in school which can likely be attributed to the healthy level of self consciousness that most schoolchildren possess which is a motivator to keep them from becoming overweight. Not until I was hired for the most tedious job ever at The Home Depot did I begin to see just how many people are fat.

Before Home Depot, I would always hear about how those four to six hour shifts at work are horrible, so my two hour day shifts should be a breeze right? Wrong. Perhaps if I had something to do more than sit at a HVAC table all day waiting for customers to inquire about air conditioning, then work would not be so dull. However, boredom can be a great eye opener, and the people of America are passing by my vision all the time. Everyday at work I will see many fat people pass me by, but I don’t think much of it; it is almost as if living in America trains your brains to think that those ten to five hundred pounds is really just the norm, after all, healthy fit Americans are rare and far apart. There is one event at work that has ripped my eyes wide open, and that is what leads me to realize just how obese America is.

It was a sunny day at Home Depot, and the traffic of cows was good; of course, at the time I did not see cows, I saw people, until I saw her. She was huge, at least two hundred and fifty pounds standing at a height of around five foot five inches I estimated.

She was drinking a Starbucks Venti Caramel Frappuchino (I could tell by the tannish streaks along the cups circumference), and eating a doughnut. Now, I see people like her all the time at work (though she is a little far on the “Needs-to-Jog” spectrum), but something about this whale really made her stand out from the rest, and that was her baby manatee walking alongside her, baby being a relative term. The manatee was huge, I estimate she weighs at least one hundred and ninety pounds at a height of barely five foot one inches (for reference, I would estimate Mr. Hanley to be five foot nine, and weighing in at around one hundred and fifty), she was also drinking her Starbucks and eating a doughnut. What really stood out about this manatee was that she was wearing a tank top that would frame her figure, and a frilly skirt, judging by her age, which I would guess to still be in the single digits, her mother whale must have dressed her up; the term “Muffin Top” cannot begin to describe the horrors that my eyes witnessed.

Let’s go over why this is wrong on many different levels:

1. Obese kid.

2. Kid dressed like she is headed to get laid (pedophilia if you’re confused).

3. Fat girl wearing tight clothing.

4. Mother whale must have the horrible mindset of BBW (Big Beautiful Women)

5. Various combinations of one through four.

This event has directly lead me to mentally note just how many of the people that pass me by are fat, though I have stopped that since it would be easier to count how many of them are in shape.

Recent mental tallies give a confirmation that America is indeed very fat, which does not really surprise me much. What does surprise me is that the percentage of women who are fat is actually higher than men, I am surprised because always viewed the female side of humanity to be more self conscious of their appearance; I was wrong. At least four out of every five women are overweight, and at least half of those four can form a new species of elephant. Men are somewhat more able to keep fit, though not by much. With numbers like those, I would not even bother worrying about Global Warming, or the war in Iraq, I’m more concerned about America’s expanding waistline. Many will call me shallow or hateful, but I simply speak truth (hopefully motivational truth!), America is an obese nation.

[alexryb]

CATHOLIC

You only think you're an addict

when you are shivering

in winter, outside a bar

smoking a cigarette.

Only when

you're on the floor

hospital room

praying.

Composing regrets,

"Two bake sales for Sally's

little heart" you said

[spudeey]

I do high school journalism but all of my articles are shitty, uninteresting, and not worth posting. But I do approve of this thread

[azn8oi]

re: obesity article

Norcal schools are pretty liberal innit? I don't see that kind of short essay being read aloud by teachers down in Socal. shieeeeet

[poopslushie]

anybody want to read essays?... :\

[weirdnjfan1]

Something I started working on last night. It's still rough and needs a little work, but it's coming along.

The Strand Bookstore. During the day, hundreds of thousands of people pass through the doors and millions of books pass along with them. I like to call this place hell, because of the way that the customers treat me. Granted that my right arm is completely covered in tattoos from my shoulder to my wrist and because of this, I discover that that this was the only place that would hire me when I came east for school. Being an English major, I jumped at the chance to work here, thinking that all day I would be discussing the greatness of Joyce, Palahniuk, and even Burroughs with the customers that came in and out of the store. As it turns out I was wrong. Most of the time I’m either stocking the shelves with new trade ins that out lovely customers bring in, going through said trade ins, making sure that there’s nothing such as condom wrappers, book marks, or other various things that can be found in between the pages, and getting bitch at by the customers, mainly because they can’t find the book in the 2.5 million books that they are looking for. But it’s better than being a broke college student like most of the kids on my floor.

[dino might]

mind went wondering early the other morning..

Products of our environment

Like commodities sitting on shelves at Wal-Mart we can not help but be fashioned in the image of our creators.

Those that came before us are those who shape us,

Us, tabula rasas, clean slates, bits and pieces of space age plastic waiting to be melted and set in molds of steel.

We are thrown into our surroundings, each one into his and hers own personal universe, innocent and ignorant but if only for an evanescent glimpse until we slant this way or that or that or this and so on and so on and so on.

I have lived very few years and have seen very many things, beautiful things gruesome things, silly and straight up stupid, unfathomable things.

I am a product of a broken home but a home none the less, the son of an old racist, drunken fascist but a present father none the less, of a blind girl of faith, refusing to welcome reality, forever lost in her own utopia, but a loving mother none the less.

I have seen the blessed and chosen ones eating from silver spoons crippled by their own self-loathing, and the damned and decrepit maimed by foolish pride and perseverance in finding the abstract folklore salvations of their fairy tales.

I have seen the sharpest tacks and brightest bulbs blown by blow and parents coach their kin on things which they themselves do not know.

There is neither good nor evil, nor up nor down, nor left nor right, nor red nor blue, nor bright nor dim and so on and so on and so on.

Only stark canvases, speedily and relentlessly doused with paint, one's colors contrasting with another who's in turn compliments another and before any can bat an eyelash they all become enraged, they go to battle, leaving only marred, brown trails of sludge in their wakes for the next set of slates to be dragged through by their toenails.

We are here and now, we are multi-tasking, killing ourselves with anxiety over our future while simultaneously lamenting our past.

Is it any wonder then why we are at war? Why we are working at jobs we do not like, making money we will never see to buy things we do not need to provide for families we are not genuinely equipped to provide for?

Is it any wonder then why we senselessly choose to continue this procreation of our species, having children we do not want, living the dreams and nightmares that are not those of our own, and ascribing to dictums we know nothing about?

Is it any wonder then why we slap bumper stickers on our cars to express to the world that we are fakes? Phonies? Spurious lushes, deriving all of our fleeting confidence and convictions from our own mindless self-indulgence?

All is vanity!

All is mental,

All is social,

All is political,

All is physical masturbation!

We are a furious mob of 15-year-old boys with appetites for destruction coupled by raging libidos that relentlessly refuse to leave us in peace.

We are searching in vain, running circles around ourselves, looking to find and express something that is so very undeniably incredibly close to us that we cannot see it, we cannot see the forest through the trees, that is to say we cannot see ourselves.

We are used car salesmen and greasy businessmen,

We are crooked cops and corrupt judges,

We are prostitutes and dope fiends,

We are artists and physicians,

We are doctors and attorney,

We are philanthropists and hired guns,

We are crack babies, dumpster babies, trust fund babies rocking damp dirty diapers,

We are social workers and gang bangers, pedophiles, murderers and guardian angels all at once!

We are snowflakes, which once melted, swiftly sweep the slew of the new fallen snow down the mountainside, over the rocks, into the streams before eventually settling down to be laid to rest in the sewers.

We cannot fight the deluge, we can only try to perceive and make the best of each of our respective spots in the stream keeping in mind our relations to one another.

Subjectivity is the only option, for these are mine own thoughts, and in other prose the thoughts of another and another and another and another and so on and so on and so on and so on to the point that if you wish to discredit my point of view you are in fact working towards the condemnation of yourself, your own, one true personal god, for I have seen what I have seen and you what you've seen and all the while with all those seen things being seen differently by those that see, and why wouldn't they be?

For no one is omniscient, no one is omnipresent, no one can TRULY see, for this implies one capable of seeing all things, from each and every unique angle, perspective and circumstance from which they may be seen by those looking, and just as I learned at the ripe old age of 5 that Santa Claus was a lie, that no one could ever conceivably be, spread so thin and within a mere mortal night, so too, in fact, did I discover the father, the son and the unholy ghost to be lies,

and suddenly, no longer was I afraid to die, all at this, the ripe age of 5

Once more will I state it for those who have been too hesitant to listen, once more will I proclaim that not even those, those the fabled gods of churches, mosques and synagogues the world over, not even those drunken thoughts of their sheep transcribed into semblances of sober words of profits, confined to their sacred pages can show all there exists to see. After all, if nothing else do they have in common, they share in the fact that no proponents of any divine archetype will ever see completely eye to eye with one another, retreating rather into the solace, comfort and convenience of blissful ignorance while beating their chests and demanding that they, the chosen ones, are the ones who really see the true palpable pillars of pertinence, that they are the ones know just exactly what the fuck is up.

This proves the only real fact anyone can ever be truly sure of, without a shadow of a doubt, is, to many, the crushing and debilitating conclusion that

YOU. DO. NOT. KNOW. SHIT.

We are all ignorant, blank, passionately empty canvases using a measly 10% of our brainpower, thrown into an awesome brown mass of shit, floating in an incomprehensibly infinite universe of which we know nothing about.

Like bits and pieces of melted space age plastic in a steel mold.

[BRICK DOM]

One of my goals this summer is to just write for fun. Keep in mind that I wrote this all the way through, stream of consciousness style. Kind of disjointed at times.

Drown

I'd always inhale sharply when I first stepped into a cold environment. No matter how much I braced myself. A cold pool. A cold shower. I'd find myself reflexively gasping, taking in these very sharp, quick, needle-like intakes of breath. The shock of that frigid water permeating through the pores of my skin was something I could never get used to. Electric sparks would zip through my system, telling my lungs to take in that final breath of air before I became submerged. Before I went under the dense mat of water, to be pushed away from the light above. A twitch result of thousands of years of survival instincts bred and developed and hard-wired into the very core of what made a man.

Everyday items used to evoke such a vague feeling of familiarity to me. Looking at pictures that weren't even mine. I'd feel such a forlorn sense of longing, like I was looking at something that I had been a part of ... that I had experienced. It was just my brain playing tricks on me. I felt perplexed. Had I experienced these moments? Were they truly some thing I had been a part of? I don't think I'll ever be certain.

Mines was not the raging, seething, boiling mass of loneliness someone typically carries with them after years of being alone. It was quiet and bashful. When you looked at it, it would cast its eyes downward and stare at the threadbare wood paneling. Nevertheless, it latched onto me like a LEGO piece fitting snugly into another. We were made for one another. The only time my loneliness would ever take a break was in those special moments she'd be next to me. She always scared it away. Made it feel far too ashamed to even put its head down. Her radiant warmth would simply melt it into a puddle. When she and I walked down a street, no one else existed. She gave me this same feeling of being in cold water. Totally submerged in it. So much so that I couldn't even begin to take that sharp breath. I was already drowning.

I loved it. It made me feel so different. It was such a jarring, dissonant reverse to the haphazard, stitched-together series of events that constituted my life. It was new, refreshing, exciting.

On some days, she walked out of my life. There weren't any signs indicative of our impending collapse. No bickering, no hurtful words thrown like daggers, set to puncture the jugular. She simply decided that she no longer wanted to be a part of my life. Before long, she'd come back though. And again, I'd be immersed in liquid, drowning, drifting downward in an elliptical spiral, tendrils of hair flowing languidly in the suspension. Eyes wide open.

One way or another she'd always find her way out of my life. And sooner or later she'd find her way back into it. Sure, she'd come back each time with a subtle change: she'd leave young and vivacious and come back older and wilting. Or she'd grow a couple inches taller or she'd get a little thicker in the waist. But she always found a way back. And that was the one constant in my life that I needed. I could not devote myself to anyone else but her. I hardly had the constitution to devote anything to myself. Having to care about someone outside of myself was insane. Suicidal even.

What was more perplexing was why she would ever come to me in the first place. I had nothing to offer her. I had nothing to even offer myself. I just wanted a soft, pliant bed to sleep on and a hazy, soft space to live in. To exist in that one spot and occupy it and to tell the world to: "get the fuck off, this is my spot, and mine alone". Times were different before when I was younger. Back when she had straight black hair, brown eyes, and a soft, girlish voice. She'd give me a different feeling then. The air would begin to shimmer and pulse around us. I felt like I was in a soft, quiet whirlwind. A loving, kind, motherly whirlwind. I inhaled those sweet torrents of air by the mouthful.

I'm a husk of whom I was. And yet, even after all these decades, here she is; red haired, green-eyed, with little tufts of hair poking out beneath her ponytail. And maybe tomorrow she'll have brown hair, gray eyes and a long nose. I don't know what they saw in me. I never did know what anyone ever saw in me or if there ever was anything in me in the first place.

Sleeping in on a weekend was never the same as sleeping in on a week day. 11 AM on a Monday was another creature in comparison 11 AM on a Saturday. They were two entirely different entities. Worlds apart. There's nothing special about sleeping in on a Saturday. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing to write home about. But if I had ever been able to get the chance to wake up at 11 AM on a Monday, it would be magical. I'd feel refreshed. There'd be a spring in my step. It was just a different sort of thing.

Sometimes, she'd come over, and I'd push myself right up against her body and we'd lay there, like a content lioness laying on her side after taking her fill of a gazelle. I'd lay there. She'd lay there. But there was something unsettling about it all to me: I had no idea what her eyes were seeing. We'd both be looking towards the same side of my blank white wall. But we'd both be seeing entirely different things. And so, even when sharing a bed with someone, I was still alone.

Then one day, she didn't come back. Nor the day after. Weeks, months, years would flit away. And I would lay on my side alone on my bed, still looking at the very same wall I'd used to look at with her. I would see all sorts of things. Reels of the past flickering iridescently through my mind's eye. She was smiling demurely across the table from me, risotto alla milanese squarely set in front of her. She'd be at the park, now more carefree and outgoing, smiling for all she's worth. She'd be next to me in bed, her look would be so searching, so piercing, it made my chest smolder ever so slowly. I still didn't know. Were these even mine? Was she ever really there? It dawned upon me, that I had lain on my side all my life, staring at the wall opposite of me. Every morning I'd wake up and I'd be in that position. Had anyone really ever been there? Was she ever there? I knew the answer to this one.

She wasn't. We never saw the same things when we looked out into the space beyond that wall in my bedroom. I never asked her outright, but I instinctively knew this answer. If only this were the million dollar question, I'd get it right. Boy, I'd knock it out of the ballpark. She was never in the same place as I was. She was somewhere else entirely. And at that moment,

The water rushed into my lungs.

[viv1984viv]

There is, unfortunately, an essential demonic entity activated within, or rather at the core of, my endologix ( centrus-demonix, or perhaps daemonumbilicus?? ). For whilst intrinsic negativism is a component of many lucrative and engaging militant dysphoria within academic realms my particular woe(s) supersedes engagement, academic interests and oblique tangents of influence. Whilst many vectors of catalism, coagulation and conflux can thrive a la sub-dysphoria habitats my specific ontology expends massive energies upon auto-querious avenues as opposed to pro-exterior, extroverted modes of psycho-mechanisations.... This auto-phagic formatting of interior questioning is essentially preceding, or substituting all further thoughts and exo-contextual analysis.

EDIT - simultaneously there is an endogenically propelled exo-pursuit to discover xeno-medicinal properties within texts. A voracious chasing of an undiscovered cure.... So whilst cerebral experience is undiminished and perhaps, questionably, growing - the belief, the ontological foundation, (sub-ontologix psychosphere) is still co-existing beneath the noumenon of auto-phagic inontologies.....

Last edited by you; 17-06-2011 at 10:55 PM. Reason: oenologix

[viv1984viv]

.....the most intrinsically negative facet of such an occurrence is the resulting infinite and negative regressions impressed upon the victims psychosphere.... the eternal diegesis the victims consciousness enters into, temporality warping, reality diminishing upon the vectors of analysis. This voracious event is a consequence of such an infliction and perhaps the evil intent of the misanthropic genesis. To sap energies, to rob another human of ones faculties, leaving them ( the unfortunate recipient ) sinking amidst a whirlpool of regressions and flagellating diegesis. The perpetrators of such crimes are vampiric predators who stalk their preys intellectual faculties, vicariously, through their ( the preys ) own cerebral tendencies and introspection - know your enemies! Namely chronosuccubi, neurosuccubi and psychosuccubi.....

[viv1984viv]

Infinite porocryptics - Xenopoetix, a constant searching for connections, contexts and truths and endless infinite realms, "black seas of infinity", "an inability of the human mind to correlate all it's contents", "The sciences, each straining in its own direction", "dissociated knowledge". Cyclonopedia and it's mechanisms are a metaphor for itself, it's production praxis and the forces that created it. Rather than imagine the tome ( its creation, components, receptions and significance ) in a Borgesian nature it's vital to attempt to psycho-animate these facets under the more dizzying paradigms of cyber-theory and the data saturated sphere we are currently existing through. As truths and fictions become one and the same narrative we see academic assertions that are re-constructed upon a neo-aesthetica.

[fade to black2]

On the Inevitable Decline of Noodle Shops After a Year or Two of Patronage

It’s no use, she said.

Sitting there, I tried to think

Of something to say.

I knew a man like your father,

Once. He would come in

At the same time I did.

Mornings, though we were

Headed in different directions.

He worked the graveyard shift.

Liked the silence, he said.

We exchanged few words,

Yet a part of me felt, strongly,

That I got where he came from.

Maybe the best thing that a man

Could say after the fact,

Might not be ‘and so it is,’

But perhaps ‘and so I wanted it.’

Maybe that’s how he saw it.

Sitting there, thinking hard,

The two of us lost in private corners,

I kept my silence,

And drank my tea.

[viv1984viv]

Flirting pareidolia, auto-question:

Should I hold true?

Such beauty..

Recalling ghosts I knew

Mirages of mind, the penumbra of introspect,

the blindspot, grey.

The curses of chasing intellect

Search for emancipation.

A heady Malbec.

Meta-data illuminated

Swimming in sound

Overdrive, and noise.

The qwerty dance,

acceleration gushes.

Annihilation protocol: -

the late night rushes.

Deep in the abyss

mining ones mind

Mermaids?

Seek to find.

Hydrosuccubi!

Such gravity,

auto-centric whirlpools,

drowning in curiosity.

from

http://pyrrhicvictoriesagainst.blogspot.com/

[jyoni]

hydrosuccubi? haha...nice. What are they?

I'm in a haiku banter with a local fb crush. She's swaggering about seasons, nature, dual images, that shit. I think this is my best one but "parachutes" is apparently unfitting.

snow clings to needles.

flakes are fragile parachutes,

drifting leaves of ice.

[MharcI]

we should bump this thread

[MharcI]

he gentle colloquy of our bodies:

hearts murmuring soft psalms

in fragile ribcage pews –

each gasp, each sigh

the peal of a bell

rising toward the lofty limits

of my abbreviated consciousness;

Majesty sleeps in this bed we have made

of meandering limbs

and warm breath

and the textures of darkness.

My fingertips lead me into the world of you

as they explore the topography of your palms

and all of the landscapes of your person –

some tangled, like the wilderness of your silence;

others calm, like the rolling plains of your laughter

and the few, the precious

that are shocking

like your volcanic eyes

that erupt when they open

and are beacons in the blackness of the universe.

I am beside you

and I don’t know if the earth is turning;

intimacy is gravity

and you

you are the center;

be still

don’t move except to touch me;

today will have to wait.

[fishbones]

I love to freewrite, here's one of my recent ones' and probably one of my top favorites:

Ivory keys, and delicate structure. Wistfully pressing down on them, a sense of accomplishment and an aura of understanding and skill are imbued with each playing chord. Many styles, many understandings, and many personal thoughts. The beauty of unleashing one’s inner self in the music one plays is an indescribable feeling. It’s a time where one’s invulnerabilities are unsheathed for all to listen and pay attention to. As the keys were continuously struck, it was as if every note played resembled the person’s bare flesh and veins. Transcending further, as if to show someone the structure and basics of their own personal self and style.

Also, check out my blog: http://morningsky.tumblr.com for more of my free-writes and such.

[imhellag]

i'd like to share an excerpt from some creative writing i like to do, just to get some feedback, on my (what i think) unique view of my home. thanks

we have lift. we have flora and fauna. we are fawned on and fond of it. it's hawaii. the romantic destination, the honeymoon capital of the world, where the state bird is a construction crane and the roads paved with lava. driving from the capital, honolulu, to the north shore of oahu is just like driving from san francisco to oakland except it takes three times as long. we have fresh papaya and avocado. the lifestyle here is laidback, the women stuck up, and many young adults feature tattoos of various chinese and japanese characters and drive thirty to forty thousand dollar entry level luxury cars, paid for by family. we feature the nation's largest (and best) crystal meth problem. local news call it an “epidemic†and they launch a series of investigative reports detailing addicts and their toll on loved ones. for fun, everyone hangs out at starbucks and jamba juice and smokes weed in the parking lots or beaches. many responsible adults work two or three jobs to continue to pay the mortgage on the home their parents or grandparents purchased; a home that often houses three generations and relatives thereof. in terms of work - my friends and i, largely, try not to. one thing we all do as locals, however, is laugh at tourists.

for the geography student there are more than a thousand islands spread out over the central pacific that make up my dear home state. the biggest comprise the main eight islands; if you are not hawaiian, seven islands. if one is leprosy avoidant, then six islands; if not bombing things in the military, five islands. if you like civilization and that “hawaiian shit†then 3 islands; and finally, if a bustling cosmopolitan metropolis with urban buildings juxtaposed onto surreal azure, complete with bad traffic, crime, and multi-billion dollar commerce in aloha shirts is what you are looking for, then only one city matters: honolulu, on the island of oahu.