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BY Truffle

10/01 Direct Link

I can find nothing to mock in a tale told from the heart. I find no reason to poke at words strung as a fine craftsman strings pearls - tight, knotted along strong silken cord. I love a well-wrought infusion of dialect, where, in reading, one can hear the words as though spoken. Tamarlane, born to mock the overwrought, the pompous, falls mute.

 

The risk is Tamarlane himself may be rightly targeted; he so loves himself and the magic of grand, overarching concepts, with metaphor an overstuffed sausage, ready to split.

 

Still: it's all a game.

10/02 Direct Link

The need to be seen is precisely the same thing as the need not to be ignored,  is precisely the same thing as being considered important to whatever cause is hot.  Which, then, is more appropriate when compiling words filled with import and, by their archness, attempts at seeming erudition? Is it to slide lofty words together with sly, obfuscatory references, or  rather to strive for clarity?

 

These writing exercises – for that is what they are – serve to expose a self-love that Narcissus himself would turn from in shame.

 

Yours truly is not immune.

10/03 Direct Link

Should one desire a compendium of disparate poetical phrases, one might peruse the annals contained within this forum, for truly where else might one encounter a run-on that collects "collusion," "day-dogged" and "stippled light as a fleeting kiss to posterity" (this latter so rich as to produce flatus prior to consumption) while eschewing punctuation?

 

Else the usefulness of applying Elmer’s to "hope redressed as a suicide note," leaving it carelessly atop "roudy ride on the gravel roads near nowhere" is lost.

 

One cannot help but wonder what tug the proud queen awaits as she sits.

10/04 Direct Link

Ah, the rabble rouser, the strident child born too late for granny dresses and beaded headbands, yet filled with need to signal masses.  Alarming words, the child speaks of revolution, rallies herself alone to the suggestion that a weak and foppish government must bear the brunt of her ire. Alas, her words are slack, akin to an old man’s penis, because the barbs she hoped to hone are made in Chinese factories and her aim is untrue. The target ought not be the paper tiger and its drones; look instead to the ones propping up the gilded throne.

10/05 Direct Link

A grimoire ought contain words of magic. An allusion to a grimoire ought in fact merely evoke, but not mention, a book of magic. Magic need not form the basis of the allusion at all, so "half truth" is an irrelevancy.Life’s journey for the poor may not be an upward trajectory. It can be a grim hanging-on, a simple trudging from one breath to the next. Nor need it contain a class struggle. I comprehend the disparities and anger to which you truly allude and note that logical progression of thought has slipped from your grasp.

10/06 Direct Link

Cheat the 100Word system avoiding the object of the game by objectifying systemic cheating and plopping homonyms and root-symmetrical words in crazy fetish infested gouts of blasted textuality thereby ensuring our fetid festive infected ids have embraced the complexity of its simplicity and simply scanning print causes asymmetrical diabolical befuddlement that shoves its way within the squishy gaps amid the slimy recesses of our yogurt like minds, no immunity, no remorse, mindless and meaningless, ah, but still we postulate, finding facilitation and replenishment yet no respite, nor reprieve from the spreadsheets of te latest popular god of the week.

10/07 Direct Link

Grammar is important; it provides grace, helping the reader that the writer knows his craft. 

Thus, "He must have got off the bus" flows better as "He must have gotten off the bus."  

Wordcraft is also important. Knowing the right word, knowing when to use it, and most importanly, when to avoid its use.  

"Desolation" may be too strong.  All rainy mists are "fine."  No need to say he was hungry -- the scent of the chip shop was all you needed. And the smile cannot be nonchalant since he is desolate. Consider "feigned nonchalance."  
10/08 Direct Link
Just churn, churn the words, words only loosely related and mostly without coherence, words without meaning, words without substance or form. 
 
A child could create a script to do the same. 

I have great respect for the craftsman who can generate stream of consciousness and maintain a thread, tell a tale, express something of meaning. 

This one, with his laser intense camera glare, a nod to something dark within his heart, he has no true gift, as there is no point beyond cracking the doorway, letting loose the thick fog, exposing the desolation of self.
10/09 Direct Link
God is your judge, and your last name has about it the slur of a rhyme with hunt, yet this is none of it your fault nor even under your control, assuming you are using your actual name rather than a pseudonym.

The thing to note, God Is Your Judge, is that when your written words are shorn of meaning, bereft of grammatical structure, and elusive of rational flow, they become nothing. Donning microwave ovens as garment notwithstanding, our obligation is not what is imposed by government, but rather what we impose upon the government. 
10/10 Direct Link

A sense of entitlement, that we are owed by dint of being human a time to call our own, is what drives our day-to-day dramas. When required to work during a "weekend" dashes expecations of relaxation and fun. The truth is that we are slaves to our habits. We incur expenses, thus have bills to pay, thus need a job that my require us to work when we least wish to.

But you had fun sweating at the wedding!  You danced.

Even with that lure, you took responsibility, you went to work, and you should feel pride.

10/11 Direct Link
The Religious Right has taken over the Grand Old Party, perverting it as well as perverting the religion they purport to support. 

They use the name of their God, the name of their religion, the words of their Bible to push a political agenda that is pure abomination.  It is an inversion of the principles for which they pretend to stand: there is no freedom in their political platform, and there is no compassion, no love for fellow men. There is only intolerance of things they find uncomfortable.

They all need to get seriously laid.  Seriously.
10/12 Direct Link
Sometimes I really do miss the simplicity I knew in the past. I miss having friends that wanted nothing more than just to be friends -- remember just laying on the grass? Remember playing cards, smoking cigars?  I miss the whatever t-shirts, the broken-in Birkenstocks, and, oh, the cargo shorts with a hackey-sack in the pocket. Yes, there was always music blaring -- the days and nights were ours. No direction, no destination, only an abundance of ideas about how to get there.

Damned, but we had to grow up.  Well, I did.
10/13 Direct Link
What the fuck is a "fun-toaster," he wonders.  "Where does this guy get this crap? Is he smoking something? Some a that, what do you call it, 'medical maryjane?'" 

He picked at a scab on his forearm, then squinted again at the screen.  "And that subtle comment of his, promising some spoon for Suzy to lick.  Veiled reference?  Pedophile? Gawd."

Bored, he moved to the next tab.  Facebook.  Yes!  There he was, the fucker.  Time for fun.

Fingers to keys, "Next it'll be some of my best friends are Mexicans."
10/14 Direct Link
I only know a little bit and perhaps it's the not knowing, perhaps it's the unreasoning jealousy, perhaps there's something to it, but she seems to have a fragrance of a damsel in distress and I cannot help but wonder if some of the tug is the ingrained need to save. She wept.

There is a strain in my chest as I work through this. I will work through this, but the not knowing what's going on is tugging my heart down down into a dark place.

A cavernous, hollow place. A tight knot lies at its base. Hard. Alone.
10/15 Direct Link
The doors rumbled as they opened and two women boarded the elevator.  Chatting as they entered, they fell silent and faced the front, smiles fading.

The one to his right flipped her head in that automatic feminine movement. Her hair swayed out, then back to its original spot. Everything about her was round, and black, like a dalmation spot. Her hair. Her dress, all black. Round belly, round ass, big round breasts, round eyes, her mouth pursed into a little oh, and that damnable helmet hair, all round.

Had she done this deliberately, some weird statement?
10/16 Direct Link
Focus.

Focus on your breath. You draw it in. Sense its passage through your nasal passages, into your lungs, down to the bottom, beyond the bottom of your lungs. That breath fills you down at your toes, and then up your legs, abdomen, chest and still it rises, filling you all the way to the top of your skull.

You let it out again, slowly, draining it in reverse. Feel it as it leaves through your nostrils, taking with it your cares, your fears, your feelings of dread.

Focus.  Begin again, another breath. Just one breath at a time.
10/17 Direct Link

The elevator reached the bottom, the doors rattled open. The women exited first and, predictably, turned toward the garage.

Bill felt rage welling inside.  He knew how this would go. They would walk slowly, conversing, oblivious. He would be stuck behind them.  He, Bill Blue, the man, would be following two chattering women into the fucking parking garage.

"Fuck you!" He said to himself. He turned left as they turned right.

The round woman looked back at him.

He had said it aloud. He didn't realize he had said it aloud.

The black woman looked at her friend.

10/18 Direct Link
I always plan to start tomorrow. But nothing happens, or worse, I'll backslide.

It's just that I have little interest. It does no good to yell.  Shrieking at me provides no benefit. Patronising me, telling me to "consider other views" does nothing to lessen my irritation.

All fucking day they call me all manner of things. Oh, and to not believe because they feel I'm ignorant!  Truth told, I enjoy being ignorant; it's a barrier against a cruel world.

I long for the weekend -- not because it will be exciting, but simply because it will be a change.
10/19 Direct Link

Thunk.

"Gonna be a long wait," he thought as he reached into the vending machine for the candybar.  "Christ, they'll be standing around out there in the parking lot forever before they finally get moving!" 

He could leave. But not if they'd parked near him. They'd see him. 

He sat at a table in the small breakroom, staring unseeingly out the streaked windows, picking at the dried smear of mustard in front of him. 

"Damn. Should've left at quitting time. Damn. Fucked up again. Shit!" 

Whrrrr.

Behind him, the machine ate another dollar bill.

10/20 Direct Link
DB, you're boring.  Duller than the dullest of dull things on a dreary day in the grimiest, most boring place in the universe.

What are you doing?

What motivates you?

What reaches down into the pit of your drab little soul, grabs a hold of your balls, yanks them up and stuffs them into the center of your cerebral cortex and causes you to dream, to yearn, to create, to innovate? 

When, o when will you puke out something worth picking through, some gleaming gemstone with poetical majesty, lyric beauty?

When will your mindless spewage start to sing?
10/21 Direct Link
You are, without a doubt, one of the most vapid bints imaginable.

Oh, I know there are those who believe you to possess wit, to be a stimulating person. Doubtless you are chief among them. In truth, your questions are meaningless, and lead nowhere. You cloak them in gossamer, pretending an impartiality that screams "liar!" from the corners of your words.

"I am only interested in how you feel about this," you gush. "Don't tell me facts! I have offered no opinion, I just ask questions!"

Laughably, the very words you choose as you pose these "innocent" questions betray you.
10/22 Direct Link
Filled with darkness, they are.  Yawning caverns from which issue whispery spider sounds and sticky scents of bleakness, age and decrepitude are all that exist of their souls.

They peer through the webbing, no droplets of hope clustered there, and see not the golden glow of life. They miss symphony of heartbeats, the tapestry of human loves, triumphs, peace.  Instead, skeletal fragments of lost dreams murmur within their hearts.  Fear, oozing and squelching, a miasmic torpor that creeps to clutch their imaginations.

These sorts, these I will not countenance. They are undead, life-suckers.

Give me joy.
10/23 Direct Link
Death can't be bad.  It's a state of being or, possibly of non-being. It's what is. 

Like children we fear. We fear when it approaches us, and we fear as it reaches out for those we love.  Like children we respond, filling ourselves with sadness that we no longer have what we had come to rely upon.  A toy, put up on a shelf, forgotten, until one day it is no longer there on the shelf and we mourn. Then we mourn.

I will live, today.  I will accept what today brings. No fear.
10/24 Direct Link

One. Yes, that's the real deal, the real thing, the left ticket out of reach being wrong on the fly, being the forever fuckup, the raunchy, rigless, fun bag designer, the big main dick after work. Where there's a feeling, there's the following; we do it when the wills amass for something sordid to be done to the visitors when it's clear they're not going to pay their bill on time or ever again. It's the time to take the cake, do the hottest thing imaginable, and yes, sweet Charity, you can pop the balloon when we are done. Deal? 

10/25 Direct Link
She's, what? Forty-two?  Putting her birth at the end of the sixties.  She did not live them. She did not experience them even vicariously. She can only read about them.

Even now, she's not truly experiencing the Wallstreet protests, except as she sees them on Twitter, or reads people's reactions to them on Facebook and Google+.

She does not think. She merely forms an opinion, then reacts from the bucket of progressivism that occupies her skull, somehow imagining she is erudite.

Not worth the words I have expended on her, but to fill a space with 100.
10/26 Direct Link
The point of the exercise is exactly that: to make something up "off the top of my head."  Saying "something random" is also part of the exercise. It does not need to be filled with erudition. It simply needs to be something that you create. It should have form, structure, and demonstrate some writing skill.

A class does not have "fun" as its main purpose.  Its purpose is to enable you to learn, to acquire or at least be exposed to some new concept or skill. 

Consider it a job. Strive to excel. Make that become fun.
10/27 Direct Link
Oh goodness, I found one I really like!  Not only like: love! To be truthful (how else should I be?) many of them are fine. Some of them are awful. Most of these are mundane, drab, dull. No one cares, I'm sure. They're just exercises for each person. Yet, I read them, hoping to find something delightful and today, I did.

Thank you, you with your Halloween costume, the role playing, the dog's disapproval.  You crafted it beautifully and it was a true delight to read.

The rest of you: pay heed. Bobby's girl is simply fabulous!
10/28 Direct Link
You either have something you believe in and support, or you do not. What does it matter if there are those who are in opposition to you and you feel a compulsion to argue with them?  Your objection ought to be regarding your compulsion, not your ideology!

Legitimately, you can shift around in your ideology -- new information uncovered, a new understanding, circumstances in your life changing that alter your view or feelings. Ideological positions need not be absolute. There is no shame in changing.

But expressing weariness of holding them because you feel compelled to argue?

Lazy thinking, innit.
10/29 Direct Link
The need to be seen is overtaken by the need for notice, considered material to today's hottest causes, celebrated by minions of the many gathering facts appropriate to the creation of the Golem, out of respect for the fasionable few who believe in these eternals.  They need not obey so much as be warned about fanaticism, those who incredibly obey ineptitude, crashing as it does through your front door, pushing you to purchase subscriptions to the TV Guide, the US News and World Report. It's all about residuals.  Man, not Golem, come on! They make anything worth while.
10/30 Direct Link
Poetry, darling.  It's okay to throw together words that are related homophonetically and somewhat, vaguely, if you squinch your eyes just so, related thematically and hope for something artistic and toothsome.

But it's lacking in poetry.  Poetry is more than pushing words around until the result seems clever.  Poetry is about feeling the motion of the words. Letting the words paint glimmers of the thought, and letting the stuff between and beneath the words dare you to find the rest.  It's soul.

Without poetry, Dan Berkey, you are simply someone who can type; a trained monkey.
10/31 Direct Link
Droning, drowning, submerged in a buzz of boringness, a deluge of the dull.  Pounding, pulpiting, awash 'midst a river of pious porridge as the day ticks slowly past.

A wine glass brimming with whining. The loser celebrates a win never earned, drains the glass, smashes it on the hearth, smiles without understanding.

Interminable interludes where the daft are drafted, hoping to address the drought, the dearth of thought, filling the spaces with meaning. They come up dry, spinning instead fibrous fluff of nothingness. Empty thoughts, empty words, meaning meandering into the void, swallowed whole.  Gone.

Droning, drowning, dread.