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Silent child

Posted 16 November 2002, 11.57 pm by Kateifer

The teacher babbles in the jargon of her studies. Blank faces sit staring into space. A mocking voice interrupts calling out a question. Persisting in accomplishing the goal, the teacher patiently answers. Assuming all the questions are sincere and ignoring loud yawns and quiet conversations, she pushes onward. A quiet desperation enters her voice as reality begins to sink in. “They don’t really care they they’re not going to get it,” she realizes.

A quiet student in the back seldom ventures to question. Rarely does she take note of anything at all. The drawings in her books serve as evidence of her wandering mind.

Test day arrives with the teacher harried and near to tears. Student after student puzzles over simplistic questions and handing incomplete papers in at the end of the period. The quiet girl’s paper appears within the pile. Correct answer after answer filled out in simplest style satiate her paper flooding the teacher with relief. Someone understands, but the name she does not recognize. “Who is this girl?” flies through her head as she tries to fit a face to the name.

The girl’s silent countenance fades into the background, making her invisible, rarely to be seen among the rest.

Tu Es Verbalissime!

Posted 14 November 2002, 3.27 pm by Shaggy

Nevermind the title, I just thought I'd play with Necro's joke of putting things in a different language. Though my french is horrible, I'm glad that I didn't have to put it through a translator, and thus, I managed to get the joke without the trouble of cut and paste.

At any rate, I am writing this as a break. I have just finished writing a mock essay for my exam tomorrow on Chaucer and Middle English Lyrics (and no, not the drinking song ones!).

My brain is sore.

However, I have been thinking lately (when do I stop?). Though I am in somewhat control, I feel that somehow, something important continues to slip through my fingers. You know, like Iris Murdoch used to feel, only without the benefit of her 26+ novels (I never really counted).

I am working on a novel, though for anyone who has ever watched the movie Iris, no it is not a secret. In fact, I have posted some of the earlier chapters in earlier front pages. I have about 50% of it finished, out of a total of 400+ pages. Why I decided on 400+ pages, I do not know. Simply feels right.

Nevertheless, the more I learn about literature, the less I feel like an author and the more I feel like a wordsmith. Perhaps it is simply because there is a shortage of accessible, contemporary, and intelligent novels to read. All the people I look up to are dead. Poe, Homer (hoooo boy, he must be stinky by now!), Aristophanes (ditto), Plato, Camus, Murdoch, Sartre, Nietzche, Fichte, Hegel... the list literally could go on.

Maybe that means I need to branch out into this horrible monster called "the outside world." Yet, am I not already an outsider? Do I not already live outside? Perhaps the title of Camus' novel in its original language is truer to what it details. L'etranger. Not "Outsider", but "stranger". Though everyone, no matter how individual you might feel, is a part of the human experience, and thus a part of us all, still, there are those of us who seem to either revel in or stumble upon outsider-ness.

Perhaps that is why I chose to do my significant essay in Philosophy and Literature class on The Fool and the Sophist: Innocence and Intelligence. After all, I think we discussed before on this page that stupid people are happier, and intelligent people are usually old misers. Of that, I suppose, I am sometimes guilty. Yet, does innocence = fool? Certainly, when you think of the holy fool, let's say Prince Myshkin, the line is undeniably thin. In essence of the term, innocence, it denotes an inexperience, an unjaded-ness that can only be a product of not-knowing.

My soul is a sickly daunting precipice... my feet are on the edge. Do I smile, in foolish misunderstanding, or do I run, fleeing, putting my mind to some task that will, ultimately and inexplicably, make things better?

At any rate, tu es verbalissime? ego sum verbalissime?

I must step into the precipice again. I must wonder, if I ever see escape from this cavern. I also must wonder, is it better to struggle for the top, for escape, or is it better to search for the utmost bottom? Should I blindfold myself, and simply go blindly, would it make any difference?

Particular or Universal... A or B... Paper or plastic...

My mind is an eye... and my heart a window.... and my soul a precipice.

Ook Ook

Posted 12 November 2002, 7.21 pm by firebrand

I might be crazy, but i think this is effing hilarious.

No Kin to a Monkey

those crazy fundamentalists . . .

All that is left; II

Posted 11 November 2002, 5.46 am by Acheron

That the antecedence to this article, viz. "All Taht's Left; I", was merely the disjunct and maudlin tirade of a thoroughly inebriated adolescent, fraught with corrigendums, of syntax and lexicon both, and owing to the culmination of egoism, narcissism, and angst, it is unfortunately unimpeachable. The preceding, for which I most humbly submit the following fervid apology, a verbal self-flagellation of sorts, is in no way, shape, or form a manifestation or even an approximation, rough or sharp, of my own beliefs, thoughts, actions, et cetera. The scope of the trauma I have inflicted upon individuals, nay, the community itself as a whole, through my own callous misrepresentation of myself, and through the slander to the "Front Page, Articles Core", via verbal expression that was nothing shy of atrocious; this I cannot begin to fathom. Henceforth, I am left with no choice but to offer myself, woebegone and ostracized, abandoned in my time of most dire need, to the community-at-large, apologetically, bearing in mind, however remote as they may seem, the hopes that on some day, some sanguine, blissful, cycle in the future, its sublime empyrean emblematic of my own utter rapture, that I may once again rekindle my torrid love-affair with the written word on this very expanse of webspace, itself merely a crasis of those two most fundamental of numbers, one and none; what an amazing revelation it is, tangentially, that this humblest of expositories sent clacking forth from my paws is, at its core, an inconceivably lengthy colonnade of binary code. Profound, n'est pas? But, even in the act of digression from this supremely important thesis, I am once again steeled in my resolve to resolve this issue in as efficient a manner as I can practically affect, so that our electro-Tammany's most sanctimonious political, social, and cultural ideals may germinate amongst the whole of mortality. Once again, prostrate with sincerity, I offer this most heartfelt of recantations for what was most flagrantly, almost satirically, writing of the most deplorable quality. I hope most earnestly that you will all, within your own just yet beating hearts, find my arguments cogent, and do me the utmost benefaction, and here I pay no heed to the necessary penance, such is my downcast state, of blessed absolution.

all taht's left; I

Posted 8 November 2002, 8.41 pm by Acheron

so lemme tell you about this crap day i had today. I mean i had to wake up at seven in teh goddamn morning for a rehearsal I didn't want to be at. i showed up five minutes late because i decided to shave for once this morning. something noone noticed anyways. What a pissoff. so anyways i get into this rehearsal and its string quartet; Aka stupid stupid stupid and me hammering through hopefully good music. But then we decide to slowly trash through some crap we picked up for school concerts. let me point out to you that the songs we worked on were “This old man’ and some crap german title, I dunno what it was called, Die Berlinereinfindsamkiteleider or something. And don’t think Im making up some comicly long name because the shit is that long. and man oh man does that music suck. Just a bunch of goddaMn notes on a page if you know what i mean. So then guess what happens? Well i was

Reader Submission #87198528

Posted 7 November 2002, 11.20 pm by Alexander

This is a reader submission from Mhordanis. Never heard of him.

"Unbelievable," he thought to himself as he rode his bike southward down the busy highway. "Unbe-fucking-lievable."

It's not like this was the first time he had done this, either. Just last week he had left it out in the rain at a friend's house; god, was that a fun night. He biked almost 10 miles that night only to spend an hour and a half digging on his hands and knees through his friend's yard. Maurice, who could forget Maurice, with his perfectly shaped face and over-worked body. "The man's going to die before he's thirty," he thought to himself, as he pleasantly recalled the nights he had spent in Maurice's arms.

And there was the time he was at Claire's house; so much money spent for one night, so little to show for the weeks and weeks of pay he spent on the supplies. It probably took him somewhere near three days to come off the high he got from all the acid he took. Car rides seem so much more fun when you're rolling, or tripping, or drunk, or anything besides the ordinary, average, day-to-day task of pushing your self-propelled automobile through the callous streets of the town he lived in.

"Shit. Where the fuck am I?" He suddenly looked around at the scenery he was completely oblivious to not one minute before. This wasn't the street that his friend lived on, nor was it even a recognizable distance from the house he was supposed to be venturing towards. Memories often cause lapse in... well, memories, if you delve far enough into them. He saw a house that looked absolutely the fucking same as every other house in the complex, so he figured that this was as good of a place as any to ask for directions.

Without a care in the world, he strolled up to the front door of a painfully bright white house with aqua green trim. The number on the house read "216", unbelievably premoniscient of the surprisingly different actions that were to take place in such a drab, mundane neighborhood. He hummed a song he heard at the club last night as he knocked twice on the door.

Looking back on the event in the afterlife, he sorely wished that he had been more observant when a seemingly ordinary man opened the door. If he weren't so obsessed with the memories of his past, he might have noticed he blood stains on the man's white collar shirt, or the gun held at his own head.

He looked up into the man's eyes and smiled a warm greeting. "Hey there. Sorry to bother you, was wondering if you know how to get to 9 Cloud Avenue."
The short, bald man who answered the door replied with, "Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?"
"Well, sir. I'm trying to get to 9 Cloud Avenue. I have a friend who lives there, and I guess I left my..."

The man who answered the door wished in hindsight that he had waited for the very next word out of the man's mouth before he ended any further speech with a single shotgun blast.

The short, bald man drug the body into the house and laid it on the couch, where he proceeded to rip through the pockets of the man's clothing. "It's not here. IT'S NOT FUCKING HERE," he exclaimed, obviously reaching a hurdle he had not expected. "I watched this one for WEEKS. I watched him throw it around everywhere he went. He didn't already give it to me, did he?"

The man pulled out a PDA and a stylus, and begun tapping furiously on the LCD touch-screen. A few moments later, he threw it down in a fit of rage, obviously not finding what he was expecting. "He hasn't given it to me yet. Where the fuck could it be?"

Suddenly the dead man's cell phone rang.

"Hello?" the short, bald man answered.
"Josh?" the voice on the other end of the phone replied.
"Yeah, it's me. What's up?"
"Well, you left a slip of paper on my table. Remember? You took it out before we snorted that line. I can't read the handwriting on it... looks like it's in some other language."
The short, bald man danced a tiny dance. "Thanks for finding that for me. I'd KILL to get that back. I'll be there in a bit, ok?"
He then hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.

The short, bald man put on a clean shirt, combed over his three hairs, and put on a devilish smile. He grabbed his shotgun and whistled a Led Zeppelin tune as he walked out to his cherry red Corvette, eager to gain an incredibly easy two-for-one deal this afternoon. It turned out that this just may be the day he had been waiting for.

Old people = Shit

Posted 7 November 2002, 2.59 pm by Sickan

I am currently working as a cleaning-robot. Yeah, that’s right, me – I clean people’s houses. And it is, as you probably can imagine, not the most fulfilling and interesting job out there – but it makes sure that I can pay my internet bills and get foo..(yeah right) get more PS2 games.

But even though I don’t like the job I still know how to be polite and nice to the people I clean house for. Now, most of my ‘clients’ (as the company so elegantly calls them) are elderly people who can’t run around in their fat-ass mansions and clean all the crap up that they spill. And I am serious, damn old people are so good at messing stuff up and spread their dust all over the place. Oh well.

Anyway, I had an old bi(a)tch the other day. She was the last one that day and I was looking forward to get home and do much more interesting things than run around with a vacuum cleaner. I was kinda early there and when she opened the door an old smell hit my face and I could see that there had not been people there to clean for quite some time. I politely told her who I was and why I was there and she let me in.

The place was a mess. Not alone very filthy and dusty but there were scattered papers and magazines, clothes and bed sheets all over the place – even in the kitchen. Now this is normally where I am supposed to tell the old folks that I can’t clean the place if there is messy, and that they have to get rid of all the stuff and I will come back another day – and the leave the place and stuff. But I was in a good mood and thought to myself ‘Well jolly old Sickan, you can help this poor woman out and use a little more time here and get all this fixed.’ (I was in a pretty good mood that day..) So I began in one room and started to pick up her dirty clothes and stuff. She was behind me all the time, chattering as most old people do. She told me stuff about her grandchild and her husband – ya know all these uninteresting things – I just smiled and nodded when I was supposed to. (After a while in the business you just know when to let them talk and not respond).

When I had used almost two hours and 45 min. there I was finished. She had just kept on talking even when I used the vacuum cleaner – I mean she was in the talky corner that’s for sure. Anyway I turned to her and smiled and told her the good news (that I had finished and she now had a clean nice house again). Then she stared at me and I could see something changing in her eyes. She lowered her head and looked at me with her old blue eyes. ‘Empty your pockets and take of your socks’ the sound had sounded like her voice and my eyebrows flew up in my forehead, I smiled and stepped a little bit closer to her, ‘Say again?’ she took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eyes ‘ I saw you take money from my purse, so empty your pockets and take of your socks’. I looked at her and giggled, I had no choice I mean my stomach felt like a thousand bees and my mind turned black. I blinked and she pointed her stupid little finger at me, ‘do it – I know that you have stolen from me!’

Then I realized that she was accusing me for stealing! The muscles in my back turned hard as I straightened it. There was a thousand things that I wanted to tell her – I wanted to curl her up, dribble her and throw her out the window. I just looked down at her. Her crappy face made me realize that she wanted to speak again I said, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? How dare you accuse me of that? What the hell is your problem? You have been behind me the whole fucking time I have been here!!’ She smiled and said, ‘I am going to call your firm and tell them about this!’

As I took my coat and shoes on I looked at her, that shitty old lady with nothing better to do than bug people like me. I was there to help her out – I was there to make her house look better and be a good place to be, I had listened to all her shit about her stupid grandchild and about how young people today are dumb-asses – I had spent more time at her place than I have ever done other places and I had really made an effort – all with the foolish idea that she would be glad and perhaps even happy. But she had to turn on me – she had to do this – fucking old bitch!

Now you must wonder why I am so upset about this and I can’t really explain it. But I think I just got mad at her for accusing me because that thought has never crossed in my mind, why would I want to steal from old people? She attacked my moral and made it clear that I (in her mind) is an immoral person. And that I hate.

Today when I went to work I was quite worried about this. If she had told my boss and my boss made a deal out of it there were a lot of things I should prepare myself. Like how many money would she say I had stolen from her , if my boss believed her and not me would I get fired or just put in another job. I don’t know why I worried about it but I did. When I got there my boss mentioned nothing of such matter and I hope that the old lady either died later that day (slowly and in pain) or she had forgotten all about her smart idea.

So right now old people very much = SHIT in my world!


Posted 6 November 2002, 9.22 pm by Shaggy

Yes, it is a sight. FartsDotCom . The name states all that needs to be stated.

You can post your own farts on here. Who knows, maybe someone might recognize you........

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