The Literary Hobby Thread

MFJ

Active Member
Jan 20, 2004
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Behind the mist.
Alright. Are there any other writers out there? It's always been the only way I know how to release my problems. I use all sorts of styles... basically my whole kick is the spontaneous sort of stuff. Talk about your favorite authors and books (yes I know there's a thread for this shit but I'm trying to do something different). I don't know... I just love books. Post what you've written. Anything at all! Poems, lyrics, narrative, dialog, whatever.

By the way, how many of you have read On the Road? this is truly the greatest creative utterance that the world will ever experience. Burroughs and Kerouac are my true heroes.

Alright... post it if you've got it. I have some shit, but I'll let you guys get this show started (if there's even any possibility at all...)
 
Ahh fuck it. These are some lyrics I wrote several years back, pretty pedestrian really. A poesy against modernity, materialism, and uniform thinking...

Standing on the cobble
Of our fathers soiled land
Crumbled pillars of promise
Spat upon and broken
By our filthy way of life
To what Gods we may curse
And point the blame away

The Industrial Revelation
Machines forested for comforted
To what consequences we may absorb

The Industrial Revelation
Machines forested for comfort
To what will lead to our final decree

The Error to what will ease to be
A current against the stream of acquisition
Our limbs gnashed
by the cogwheel of consumption
A final gasp
Numbers will not satisfy
To this end,
I offer a severed sigh



And another to help this thread gain it's feet.



Sedentary
Their stale ambitions
And parasitic esteem
Have us running
Clutching our torminous souls
Through the vineyards
Of Nightbound elegance

Animus (We Are)
Fleeing the assembly
That seek hearts to dine
Collective approval
The sweetest of wine

Their smile begets a grimace
Without a premise
Other than their existence

To the breath of the zephyr
Where all dregs relent
Escape
On the pathway of mahogany graves
Sweeping the windrows of scorn
We shall burgeon a new day

Solitude, to a new day





:bah:


Current favorite author; fyodor dostoevsky :worship:
 
I write academic nonsense. It bores people to death.

In fact, the last time I read one of my papers publically, I think a guy in the back row fell asleep.
 
sure, why not?

Here's a paragraph from my paper I presented last week:

The attempt at a semiotic analysis of Ancient Near Eastern conquest accounts first was attempted within the discipline of Assyriology. In a 1980 symposium on the literary, historical, and ideological aspects of the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions8 F.M. Fales argued that before the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions can be used as historical sources, the texts themselves must be subjected to a rigorous rhetorical analysis to come to terms with its ideological and compositional foundations, breaking it down “into the complex of ideas (as indicated by lexical items) and into the literary structures (as indicated by the organisation of words into syntagms, etc.)”9 Similar narrative features are identified between individual episodes from the level of the syntagm to larger elements of discourse, including generalized patterns of events, such as ‘the enemy disregards the treaties’, ‘the enemy hears of Assyrian king’s coming’, ‘the enemy flees’, etc. In this way, syntagmic analysis of Assyrian Royal Inscriptions can be shown to be composed along the lines of a ‘literary code’ in which the constituent elements of composition may vary between episodes but as a whole exhibit a highly stylized composition to posit an ideological message.10 This type of stylized composition utilizes repetitive elements between episodes in order to create an iterative scheme, and ultimately from this the outcome of each episode becomes expected and reinforces the ideological message to be delivered in what literary critic Umberto Eco describes as a ‘high-redundance message’.11 Taking this into consideration, K.L. Younger applied this approach in a survey of conquest literature from across the Ancient Near East in order to show the affinities of Ancient Near Eastern conquest accounts to those in Joshua. As a result, Younger concludes that Joshua was written within a common Ancient Near Eastern conquest account transmission code which was common from 1300-600 BC.12 This specific transmission code, as he argues, is common to this episodic formula in order to transmit ideology via a high-redundance message, in the sense invested in it by Eco.13 Although detailed syntagmic and linguistic analysis is beyond the scope of this paper it is important to understand that this compositional technique is often at work and has been shown to exist across the spectrum of Ancient Near Eastern historiography. Hence evidence is posited towards a commonly accepted conquest account formula that was certainly used by the Assyrians and by the author of Joshua, but certainly not unique to them. Therefore, the conquest account in the book of Joshua stands as an accessible case study in Ancient Near Eastern Conquest accounts. When compared against neighbouring literatures, one finds that the conquest account in the book of Joshua is different from the literature of its neighbours in some ways, but justifiably in order to tie it in with the larger biblical narrative and with the ideologies which it is intended to espouse.
 
I used to start short stories and books when I was younger, but I'd get to about page 15 and then come up with a newer and better idea. Then I stopped because it seemed somewhat pointless. I just do it all in my head now.

I apparently used to be pretty good, according to the 7 people who have read any of my shit. I should start again.
 
I've always wanted to, but I'm too modest and demand way too much from myself. Besides, if I ever would write anything, it would be in swedish

Other than that, I can only agree about what has been said about Dostoyevskij; he is probably the best novelist ever, and surely the best that I've come across
 
I've always wanted to, but I'm too modest and demand way too much from myself. Besides, if I ever would write anything, it would be in swedish

Other than that, I can only agree about what has been said about Dostoyevskij; he is probably the best novelist ever, and surely the best that I've come across
i bought "spelaren" by the guy a couple days ago, let's hope it rules
 
This one?

114409_resize.jpg


The nice hardcover version from Bakhåll? Win if so, even though I've yet to read it, though I don't doubt that it's quite excellent.
 
Jerry, I really liked the first one, good job.


Here's my piece of work, that's been written like 4 years ago. Inspired by G.G.Marquez.

"Time after time the freezing veins were infrequently trembling... Because of the absence of blood. Eyelids were brokenly clenching and scorching the eyes with cold. Our only fear has been feeling... and the dull ache. We were afraid to realize that we were stuck between life and death. That time we didn’t know – should we fight for our lives or just leave it as was... We were trying to say something, but couldn’t hear each-other, not even ourselves... Heart, probably wasn’t beating. Lungs, as if they were glass, seemed, weren’t even moving... It was so hard to breathe!.. Like you're breathing in a water but not an air... Skin wasn’t felt at all. Capyllaries were broken, like thin porcelain, and all nerves lost their apprehensibility...
Now it was our turn to be toys, now we seemed funny in the opinion of something that wasn’t smarter than us, but millions times stronger... And it knew how to make a step, just one right step for us to irrevocobly, once and for all to come off second-best....
A pungent feeling of despair with slow fire, not letting us die quickly, was burning through our hearts and minds, leaving not a single ray of hope. It’s silly to hope, when with every second your fate confirms its invariability, which you knew about...
We couldn’t even cry... There were just no tears... And all that pain was building us up, overfilling our essence...
We didn’t know what has happened... But we knew - here comes winter...
Nuclear winter... "



My English might also seem weird, but oh well.
 
I was a writing major in high school (hippie arts school wut) and college before I dropped out. I still do a lot of shits-and-giggles writing, mostly speculative fiction stuff, and I'm slowly piecing together the background for the Big Fucking Fantasy Trilogy every aspiring spec-fiction writer seems to take a shot at.

Sadly most of my completed writing is on an HD back in San Francisco; the stuff I have here is all fragmentary notes or WoW-related and therefore probably unfit for normal human consumption.
 
Almost everything I write is academic, but I took a creative writing class this semester, so I've written one story. I like it, but most others didn't...yeah, and my writing style is about as dry as Moose's.
 
You still need to post that shit and let others read it.

edit: Conspicuously Absent, thanks.
 
By the way, how many of you have read On the Road? this is truly the greatest creative utterance that the world will ever experience. Burroughs and Kerouac are my true heroes.

yeah, it seems to have the same effect on everyone when they read it. especially if they are in their early 20's. its the restless, searching spirit of it. one of the few books that I still remember somewhat vividly.

as far as personal writing ... do cheesy love poems count? :loco:

edit: just remembered that I even went with a few buddies to specifically seek out the City Lights Bookstore in SF
 
alright... here's some stuff that i wrote. obviously very kerouac/burroughs/beat/etc influenced...

warning: a lot of this might not make sense. lots of junkie jargon and shit about my personal life

Here is an excerpt from a piece entitled Foggy Morning on Hill Farm

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Foggy morning on Hill Farm. We almost didn't make it home last night- spontaneous blizzard on the Mountainside. In fact, it never stops snowing on the Mountainside. 30 days I spent in the lodge and 'sunshine' was just a memory. You see towards the end of the week I head back in that direction for a gathering of sorts. Where else are you greeted by the nation's lowest and most miserable intellectuals? They have all decided to turn it over to a higher power, so they kick back and find themselves institutionalized for a rumored three weeks. It never lasts three weeks. "Three weeks passed and I'll shoot the breeze like I were 18 all over again.' For most, I see it as nothing more than an opportunity for tolerance to once again recede deep into the middle-brain. An extra week wouldn't hurt, and it didn't. So here I am on the Mountainside two days after my initial escape. I say my goodbyes and hold her close, then we are back on the road. 'I'll be thinking of you.' I could see my handwriting in her eyes. The old Sultan is a 1991 Volvo 940 Turbo station wagon. Sounds good on paper, but you should see it on the ice- more fishtails than the Venitian open market. 44 East, now cruising about 15 minutes south of Canaan- the frequency hits us right in the gut. Our preferred black market is 45 minutes in another direction but without just one thought we are immediately on a black beam headed towards the art of our discontent.
Guy looks right through my eyes, "How is this night different from all others?"
"Understand that you're driving within this city's grip. Slowly you creep along while your window is open.... you're smoking a cigarette. You are a young white male with the most brilliant red hairs. I'm sorry but this beam has you out and out. I would recommend that you consider all circumstances next time. Don't get me wrong, though. It's been quite a spell since I've leveled with the skyscrapers and felt their pull. We're hand in hand with an old friend as I see it."
Amateur peddlers wait along the beam for traffic, shouting at vehicles with their similar ideas in mind. For the time being there is no 'waiting for the man'- this ancient art is now about 'searching for the men'. Still, the time is not right. We stop at a gas station in order to mask our addictions with sugar. Walking out the door, I say out loud to myself, "That was one of the nicest men I have ever had the pleasure of bargaining with." Strange how you meet the most extraordinary people in the most unlikely spots.
Old Slam was our connection for the past two or three years. It cost us quite a few dollars- maybe an extra hour here or there- but rarely was the wait unfulfilled. He unleashed far too many lies and eventually they all hit him in the worst possible intersection. We thought he would fade in and out of the shadows for the rest of time, but I guess everyone has a conscience.
Day two back at the lodge... leaving earlier and earlier each time, but always arriving sharp. Catapulted into a sea of smiles and we're embracing each one. Twenty minutes into the gathering of sorts I go up and don the orange chain- thirty days of self-imposed personal prison. Nights aren't as long as they used to be. Sleep is no longer timeless and each day seems to have some kind of crushing personal quality. For me, the year of 2007 was one long week; I can't deny that it was a fantastic dream- the edge of oblivion. Anywhere I go I feel as if I should ask, "What, is this not a reasonable place to park?" Home is six months deep in my future but I'm there every day. This immediate afternoon I had a smoke on the Sultan's back and thought, "the weather must be identical in my two worlds." Thought about the gatherings... the Johns, the James', and the Monster.
Rocky Hill... we leave a gathering by candlelight. 80 phantom dollars appear out of nowhere and all of a sudden we're right back on the beam. Don't know the address, but be sure that we found it. Like an instant flashback to July, 2007- we are parked in a Volvo S60 on the side of a road in Hartford, CT- seeping low in our seats, looking at all close windows for a curious face. "We're waiting for a friend." White car rolls by, Guy in the middle of the street and 20 seconds later it's in my hand as we drive towards Haddam. I wait for time alone and then re-introduce first my nose to my favorite powder, sans pareil. Works are clogged, no blood tonight. I slug down a reasonable amount of gin, put the other $40 in my nose and wake up the next morning terrified and confused- blue lips.
Funny day today. Feeling mild withdrawls from the absolutely shameful fuck-up the other night. Wasn't even worth it. What a disease... putting everything on the line for a few hours of nothing, really. Physical compulsion to consume opiates never ends! I basically OD myself because "1000 is never enough". I guess all people are fallible. Still, I scheme for money and try to score for opportunities before the dope. Now it's the only way. Driving about 50 on 151 before the stoplight at the Hog's hill, three deer come racing from a front yard just as I glance at my dashboard and think, "I should slow this baby right on down". Pulled out some magic tricks and avoided the first two, but the third beast hammers the side of my car- destroying yet another side-view mirror and throwing its entire body right on top of the old Sultan. As in a dream, I throw my head back and see this creature's head gnashing and writing right through my sun roof. Soon enough it falls to the ground- entirely without grace- and drops to the pavement like an enormous loaf of bread. Runs with its own original vigor straight into the woods. Last night- prime example of The Energy. I'm absolutely at a loss to discover that sickness comes back so quickly. Maybe this is just a reminder? Think the rehab meds took control at a certain time and I spent the rest of the morning rolling over in and out of a strange dream. Talked to a Korean friend yesterday, saw a sign for a Korean Church- so I dream of Koreans.
Without her, I am ashamed. How could I let this happen yet again? So many plans, so many fantastic ideas. Oh, the adventures! - Is it possible she even existed? I believe that it is. Any moment I have to my self is interrupted by her ghostly affection. I have a deep, dark feeling that she will come back during my blackest days. Perhaps she will re-emerge when I am almost ready to forget. Maybe it is I who will find her...
It seems that I can only run from my problems. I am an agent of oblivion. This is my livelihood and only cause. It is my mood- my past, present, and future. Within one month I may find myself walking the streets of New York City. With my head down and my eyes fixated on the concrete below, I will walk in search of oblivion with a crooked smile and an insufferable desire for the bliss of instant gratification."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is a poem called Bonanza

Junky dreams across the seas
burnt-wine skyline
The sailor sailing on borrowed time
eyes like that lunar eclipse
perfection flowing from your lips
to the girl who had me wake with a sigh
my reptilian sincerity-
good and good bye.
 
I came up with the following just now. Took about 3 minutes considering my muse. :lol:

Their tales removed
by the Black God
who abashedly
created them in his image

The congregated paved pathways
of depredated ancestry
for what they feel is innate
intuition of thievery
lead them like a lodestar
to their fate

to why did our fathers forsake us?
To leave us handlers of a maladjusted creation
an abomination of creative demonstration

In the vain of the gnats
that reside in their jaws
they infest our clear shores
a cargo of which our scows
were not designed
to their plenary elimination
I march in kind

Never, to resign



:heh:
 

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