nascent_buddha

okay, kinks worked out of dialogue and attribution, action and sequence with transitions. Cinnanims and cimmilys, plot, yes.

I got problems, you got a problem, that's trouble. But, who the eff cares? Those aren't compelling enough.

Yay for outlines and formulas. Where's my hat? Ima pull some suggestions out. What's selling?

Better query, what's next? What do I want to read, what am I watching? Impossible. Unbelievable. Unlikely. I'm not 12 anymore, how are you going to get me into a theatre?

Back into the audience, this isn't entertaining. Act out.

Quite a light show. That shit was on fire. Some Woodlands psychosis, like you are an orange. Peel down.

Everytime you tell that story--wow. I can't see. Damn membrane. Later then.

Much later. Should be seeing better in a few days. Sharks with fricken lasers. Or, more tightly, an opthamologist. All hopped up on prednisolone...that's one way to regulate my am cortisol. And also, Gung huy fat choy.

"Who are you to wave your finger? You must have been out your head.
I hold deep in muddy waters, you practically raised the dead...
Who are you to wave your finger? So full of it.
Eyeballs deep in muddy waters, fucking hypocrite
Liar, lawyer, mirror show me, what's the difference?"

Omigod, get it off me...what are they?

Oooh. They like you.

Okay then. I backed up this wee tangent. Makes as much sense, with ending first beginning something and someone's not quite real all over, as Ulysseys. That and Finnegans Wake. Haven't read those 2. Otherwise, I like James Joyce. I'm staring at my books without shelves, I asked for those, but aside from impact driven, floating ones are outta the question. Love the look of apothecary cases, all glassed in and medicinal smelling. Like POP and Fish Oil. Utility shelving. Rather industrial. Imaginary monsters filed in imaginary units.

I am slowly penetrating Tom Waits and Nick Cave. Kinda antiquarian.

Complain? About what?
Did I lie? I asked. Just once. Better open your ears. The quieter the question, the more I mean it. I don't mumble. I'm not waiting for your answer either. Better figure it out pretty fucking quick.

Am I crying because your answer wasn't what I wanted to hear? No. Indeedy. Because you won't get to do that again. Afraid it's not my hand that lays you low.

This isn't a court, it's not a church or a gaol. You cannot swear to god or heaven or whatever.

I see what you've done, I know why and how many times before. Sorry means nothing, there's no merciful court or laws. You have no rights. No appeal. Make amends. You regret? You make me sick. You kill me. I feel a fool, for every truth you proclaim, no thought, nothing behind it. Just utter nonsense. Gibbering fool. Shut your monkey mouth.

And just as you've said it, amazement, wonder, could that be true?
How does one refute psychotic babbling?

Oh yes, do be quiet.

Just play along, would have to disabuse you of your delusional fantasy. You could be one of those violent madmen.

Act angry.

That's a response. Totally inappropriate. How do you keep screwing up?

Retreat. Stupid questions.
What are you listening to? Not "who". Read any interesting books lately?
Small talk. What are you memorizing?

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

There will be a test.

Trying to recall the last time I made a back-up. Also attempting to complete a list of movies/tv shows I must see. Sure, it's all shit, but it's a better class of porn.

bet you didn't know, when I get stuck, I go to the characterization. Some so complex, little is left to chance. Even putting an unexpected something, does not derail, it allows verisimilitude. You know who that is do you? Is it what you would do? Really, they would do that?

Struck a chord...because I cannot realistically create something I never knew. I'm not fantastic or whimsical.

There's no scent to a story, but your ability to immerse and anticipate. The story goes where it must. Along some well-trodden path, I have hiked many times before. Every day a little different. New growth, downed trees, birds tuned a little louder, a little stronger, with a chorus of squirrel. All a repeat of the day before. More sun, different time of year.

Evoke some time, this day, that place. And it's all too real. But fiction nonetheless. Predictable, like a horoscope. My characters have those. And I confess, I do cheat. I use their reads, sometimes cataloging them, to build those wee conflicts that reveal inner whatever. Just broad strokes ma'am. We all manage milestones like age and event, but how does emotional maturity play with something so, transient as a story? Development. But, what makes it grow and seem real?

Same as a playlist. Lyrical, coded, removed from daily drudgery, they do not just offer an alternate route, but elevation and emotion. A story is an album.

does drugs...I am slowly catching a flock. A clutch. What's a lot of snakes?

Getting our asses whipped by the 26-year-olds.

You lie.

How old am I?

This is so difficult.

That's a bit of a spell. Ears cannot hear. See but do not know. Have but cannot keep. Smell with hair no nose, stinks like a rose. And into your cauldron, pomme de terre. How do you love those apples? No sense but what I give you.

Reactions are based in the rehearsal. Blocking. But the cameras are gone, the set's still hot.

All you are, songs. Just because you can, does not mean you should.

My heartaches. There is no short-time here. And maybe, just maybe, you are afraid of me.

Even claiming that, "i am not afraid of you," makes clearer that it is possible. You should be.

You don't want to make her angry.

And the thing is, it's an act. Because I do not do that either. What are you trying to make me? I am not a dish. Or a cup. I have ... and this is where the inventory appears. Make audit, and the assets are?

Someone I once felt, sang my praise. And he can't seem to stop that. Now he's blind to the music, but it controls him still. So, forget. I have no idea who you're talking about.

I may never buy a pen again.

I am still doped on last nights dreams, not sleep, but active, mental, unhinged. You're not helping. I did not ask, nor do I need you to do that. I'm asking for your input, and I'm not pleased with your ideas. This notion you have, tragically unrealistic. Based on some delusional fantasy you keep having. Like I need to be woken up. Like I need to vent, to be milked. Who's the milk maid now?

Who is Santa Claus!? Who is the Easter Bunny!? Smells like baby shit again.

I'm still battling your demands, negotiating. I have got nothing like a deal here sweetheart.

That's too rich for my blood. How can you eat that?

So. Let's get purged and get past the unbelievable. I have left my cookbook. Sent as attachments. Ooh. Even has a TOC. I am finding the month end has no coverage. I'm paying for service and it keeps falling dead by mid-month. You're supposed to be protecting me from this nonsense. The thing about collecting, is I get to pick.

I've managed a trade this early. I got given some weak players, and the disabled list opened some new things. I've done enough work on the liabilities that there should be no more hand-holding boyfriend. There's still maintenance. But all supports are gone and the flights of fancy are some larger raptors, no more swallows.

Took a break from the media blackout, caught some movies, I still have some DVDs to crack. A coupla weeks until there's new programming, so more development. And back to the workout.

Do you know what that's worth? Then stop putting a price on it.

There's nothing there, and now it's an activity log. Back to the notebooks.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Gift_to_Young_Housewives

to accommodate my whims.

1 lb Butter
8 oz Brown Sugar
8 oz Whipping Cream


24 packets of sugar equals 3 oz.... :)

what are those called, those late night chats with boys who need to stay in the past? I may have lusted for you decades ago, but I got away. And you're still a mess Dwayne. Doesn't matter that no one calls you that anymore. It's who you were.

What happens when mining the past, material comes up like it's changed state. Not just country.

The difference between fantasy and a flight of imagination. Facts, recollection and probability. Reoccurance.

That was 108, and every premonition from that was simply, "how humiliating."

Don't need these wake up calls, I was there, I lived through it, try to be humble. In the face of just what? That's a defense mechanism. You keep taking. And I have NOTHING. I had less than nothing. And now I can't find an illusion to protect me from your ... I've walked that trail again, and heard the same damn words.

How is that fare? I can't eat that, that wouldn't fuel a gnat.

I don't do that's not even possible.

That's enough of that.

not just fear, will take over. Your life ends in a way so brutally embarrassing.... It is staggering the ways you imagine, mind-numbing how you can just keep on after all that.

nothing like waking to find a toothsome growl footed at your bed. And how did you knot know how to deal--because she ripped me off, raped me blind and left me with nothing but some devalued marks. Worthless paper, I kinda wish I had now.

Off by one. Two by tens and more decimal places. You've mistaken me for many others. While I can take credit for the cause, I am not responsible for the resulting work. You done good enough, now stop keeping me down, stepping upon my toes. One boot to your ass, the other one's still in yer yap.

Who is that?

I am not accepting. Your terms, your deal. I don't bring anything to this table. No trade, no deal.

Your path. That's an excellent question. Where are you going?

You don't own me.

What happened?

This is the way it goes sometimes, I need you to stop telling me what to do. This isn't one of those things. Just what are you going to do?

I can't listen to any of this, you're not helping.

I'm here to make it worse.

And my hands are black again. there was a minute when something could grow and then it got washed away. It's repeating, I've got days here that are rest, and then the first positions and nothing is working at all.

This is not helping. Hinder. You are bound.

Your own eyes. I don't do that. That's not how that works.

I'm confusing? You say one thing and your body says something quite different. That's completely inappropriate.

Some emotional direction? How you're going to play that?

I can't keep track of any of this, it's too complicated, too many characters.

Like life, no simple answers.

I can make it much worse, there's this competition, like one game's better than another. No one wins. We've all lost and don't know what.

Torrents are up and running. I'm current, kinda, and just getting onto the final lap, Moto GP and all that. Pacing myself. Slipping between skins and getting weighed down on the corners. This is dreadful.

Strung out and doped like syrup or pistachio pudding. How could I do otherwise?

Putting the dragon to sleep, more than feeding it treasure, because I have none of that. Prolly easier to slay it. Dragon steak. That's what I burnt.

check your levels, I'm going to muck around in Blakes night.

Deaths Garden--this will be nothing as poetic as last night, when sleep crept in, and sang me a story. The things there flourish upon a mound of rot and decay. How anything could grow without sunlight, like structures in the dark of the sea. Underneath the weight of tears and gasping at the weight while pushing up, against inevitability. All the shades of black become something organic and tumescent. Ferns and mosses, everything soft, velvet edged and silent. The dept of noise become impenetrable from hue and tone.

And then nothing happens. Because this is the end. Nothing next.

Dried up old hag.

if you were to take an experience and rewrite it using smells, it would always come out like Thanksgiving dinner. Not the soup kitchen kind, no the volunteer service you did for church or charity. The worst thanksgiving ever. Not some Katie Holmes cute and touching movie version worst planning ever. The one with great food, fist fights, police intervention and then later the fire department. How many emergency personnel were you planning on feeding?

And then the alarms went off again. Because Langridge knows the traditions, he just didn't get the timing right.

That's enough turkey for 120 dinners, and we seat 165. So make more. Not everyone will want the dinner. How can you get seconds?

You're right though. That's not how you remember it.

Because that never happened. What's that delusional nightmare?

Whose dreams are those? I need some facts here people.

What happened?

I don't have time for this. You're just not that important.

Can't stop for this kinda nonsense.

She wanted out? I have no idea who you were talking to.

I said nothing of the sort. Too busy?

I can make this more interesting.