Mitch

Asphy, for whatever reason, it has double posted the thread once more. Delete the other one, obviously, and sorry for the annoyance (again). [quote]i live in a right-handed left-brained world and i'm a left-handed right-brained being so if in every way i lose, then i know what to choose my choice is to let go ("it's only after you've lost everything that you're free to give everything") so i let go all the fight within my left hand is killed i walk around without a fist clenched but my hand is open and ready to accept yours it's all just a dead sea, sometimes a red sea full of the blood of ceaseless repetition of war-sick violence as the church bell tolls the right side of my brain may as well be amputated (and cremated to dreamy ashes floating away in the wind) the world is a right-handed dying dream (so wake me, wake me up) it's all about control time is always over me like a raven the seconds tick away on my skin crawl into my head and lay eggs the roads show me where to drive an endless tongue that tastes me and knows i taste like everything else school indoctrinates and innoculates showing me there's only one true way that imagination has to die this order i desire to disorder (it's all about control) so i've hit bottom, and where i have to go is only to go further than bottom can go so march on the happy people of the world with your mass-produced smiles with your cellophane pre-packed purchased selves so march on, the happy people of the world with your [i]pans et circenses[/i] with your endless worker-consumer spiral my left hand pens these lines your world breaks them as i march among you [/quote]

[quote name='Revolut1on][COLOR=Blue']Wow, that's awesome dude. I wish I could full combo LOM standard. Now that I think about it, I haven't really played that song on Standard since I figured out how to pass it on Heavy. I love that song "A" it's awesome, I like the part when it speeds up. And yeah, Sakura is the easiest 10 footer that I've ever played, I still can't get an A on it though.[/COLOR][/quote] Yeah, I've only FC'd it a few times, but it was pretty cool. As for "Daikenwai" - that song is insane, I love it and equally hate it towards the end where it's so intense. I think I have A'd that before. If not, at least a B. It's even more of a ***** on Challenge. Funny thing is, Sakura on challenge is even easier than Sakura on Heavy. Sakura Heavy is fun though.

I wasn't sure where to put this at, exactly. Since playing the guitar involves music. . .I consider this to be the best place. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong, and it'll inevitably be moved somewhere else anyway. Anyway, as some might know, I'm learning to play the guitar. It isn't going smoothly, but I guess I just get impatient and want to be good right away. However, I practice, usually, for an hour or even more each day, and for as long as I've been playing (about 3 weeks), I'm pretty good, I suppose. I've almost completely gone through a beginner's book, and can now read sheet music decently (I never even knew how to before; at first it was so foreign). My friend's the one who's been giving me lessons. As far as chords go, I'm not doing as well on those, but I've been focusing on reading sheet music moreso than that anyway. Well, I was just wondering if there are any fellow guitarists out there. I was wondering what type of instrument (acoustic or electric, brand and so on) you learned on, any tips you can give me to help me get more of a knack for this, and anything else at all you'd like to say concerning playing the guitar. [center][IMG]http://i35.photobucket.com/albums/d153/mitchellgrantsmith/song.jpg[/IMG][/center] I already wrote the sheet music to what is eventually going to be a song, but I messed up a bit on my notes in a few spots, so yesterday, in frustration, I threw it away. Nonetheless, I have a picture as you can obviously see. I decided to include it even if I messed up a bit. Also, [url=http://rapidshare.de/files/7649075/messingaround.AVI.html]here[/url] you can dl a video of me messing around on my guitar, playing a kind of freestyled version of the above song. If anyone else has any videos or songs or just anything of them and their guitar, or them playing, don't be hesitant to share.

Well, I guess a DDR update is in order. I can get a B on Max 300 Heavy now. I can [i]almost[/i] pass MaxX Unlimited Heavy. I can easily pass Sakura on heavy. I've gotten an A before. I passed Paranoia Survivor Heavy with a B. I can pass "Colors" on challenge with an A (god, that song's a *****). I've passed "Cartoon Heroes (Speedy Mix)" on Heavy with a B. I've full-combo'd The Legend of Max Standard. I've AA'd "A" on Heavy. Basically, I've gotten good, I guess. And I've kind of stopped getting better, so I've begun losing interest. Well, when you play nearly every day like me, I guess every now and then you need a vacation so you can come back and kick some ***.

Chuck Paulahniuk. He wrote Fight Club, one of the most amazing novels I've ever read, as well as Choke, which is another one of the most amazing novels I've ever read. He has a cult following. His writing, in essence, is heavily satirical and finds the problems within our world today and highlights them. He writes mostly how he wants to, despite critics' badgerings. He's like the William Faulkner of my generation. Sad thing is, the written word is becoming lesser and lesser cared for, as mediums like movies and games take the forefront. It's sad to think some day that it will be a forgotten art, maybe. But I know it's alive in me now and forever. A lot of my generation doesn't even know who Chuck is. . .he has only a cult following. Some haven't even seen the movie adaptation of his novel. This also makes me sad. My generation seems like a deadbeat, alcohol-riddled, do-nothing type of generation. I hope that changes. I want my generation and I to shake and rumble the Earth and change the course of humankind. I reach too high but grasp the stars.

#3 [The sound of gunfire and explosions rocks the Earth. Open up on the White House, bombed to shit and rubble. George W. Bush's hand suddenly comes up from the rubble and he slowly digs out.] George W: My God. [He surveys the apocalyptic scene. He sees a torn, tattered, and dust-covered American flag, and tears roll down his stern face.] George W: Is this the end? Is anyone alive? [shouting] Barbra?! Anyone?! [The zing of a sniper bullet is heard; George W. collapses.] George W: Jesus. . .C,c,c,christ. . .[coughing]Jes-jes-us...[he collapses] Sniper: [talking into walkie talkie]: Roger, this is Zero-Zero-One. Target has been eliminated. [no longer talking into walkie talkie:] I got you, you S.O.B. [The sound of gunfire and explosions fades. Black out, and open on a classroom full of maps and posters of historical figures.] Mr. Julis: The Greeks had much inner-turmoil. On one side, there was Athens. [he writes Athens on the board:] On the other side, Sparta. [he writes Sparta on the board:] And these poleis, or city-states, were at a constant civil war. Now, the Greeks had a form of government that is arguably of a democracy. . . [one of the classroom's windows suddenly shatters; a bullet leaves a bullet hole in a US map] Mr. Julis: Everyone, under your desks! Remain calm! [The students go under their desks; Mr. Julis scrambles under his desk, and accidently knocks his book off the podium. It opens to Roman history. Some highlighted portions of the text can be clearly read: "The Roman republic collapsed after civil war and turmoil; and in its wake a tyranny was established, under the rule of Octavian Caesar, having the facade of being a republic." The word tyranny is in boldface.] [Men clothed entirely in black roll in through the window. The sound of gunfire rings. Blood stains on the board where it says Athens and Sparta. The gunfire fades. Black out.] [Open up on a grainy TV screen; a man's feet can be seen a bit against the screen] Weather man: In the north, there will be mild temperatures and high chances of rain. In the south, blistering heat and. . . [The reception gets fuzzy; the weather man's voice becomes garble.] Man: Goddamn piece of shit TV. [He gets up and smacks the TV in anger; the ground suddenly begins to rumble, and gunshots can be heard] Man: What the hell? [he runs outside, and instantly looks at the sky] Man: What in the hell is going on? [A smoking plane veers into a house; bombs fall from the sky. People run around in a panic.] Man [running]: Wait! Wait! What's going on here? Somebody, anybody, please! Woman [breathless]: We. . .don't. . .know. Child [being carried]: Mommy, is it them terrorists? Woman [breathless]: I. . .don't. . .know, hon. [Black out, and open on a man sitting in a chair among his associates] Al Gore: It's been confirmed. He's dead. Associate 1: About damn time. We can now hail to the thief no more. Associate 2: But now we hail to the winner. Al Gore: Washington and many other conservative-minded states have also been obliterated, plundered, and raped as well. Associate 1: Our plan, then, is well in order. Associate 2: Indeed, it is. Is it time for phase 2? Al Gore: It is time for phase 2. I will put on my facade as a politician and act as if democracy is still in action.. I shall soon address the American people. Associate 1: And you'll tell them the terrorists did it. That they went for key political figures, young and old. Associate 2: But you averted death. Al Gore: Unlike 9-11's attack on the pentagon, we were successful this time. Soon I'll be a modern Augustus Caesar. Associate 1: And the American people won't even know. Associate 2: Soon, our revenge will be complete. [Black out, and open on a podium with the US seal] Al Gore [mockingly]: "I am not a crook." [the associates laugh] Al Gore: It's too bad about the Watergate scandal, you know. If only it'd been kept under wraps. Associate 1 [behind a camera]:Mr. Gore, get ready. Associate 2: You ready? 5. . .4. . .3. . .2. . .1. . .and action. [Gore's face turns from amused and loose to stern and saddened] Al Gore: My American people, a great tragedy has befallen us all. . . [he reads a preprepared speech from a projector] Al Gore:. . .Terrorists have attacked us abroad. Our country lies in great devastation and upheaval. Nearly every other key political figure, young and old, has been assassinated. I myself was barely able to avert death. The White House lies in ruins. Our government, the US of A in heart and in reality lies in shambles and disarray. We face great problems, but we must be equal to them. Therefore, we must further take up arms against terrorists abroad. The devastation caused by this attack won't be taken lightly. Terrorists in the middle east must be eradicated. And so, with a heavy heart, I leave my American people with this solemn promise in the wake of this tragedy. Let us rebuild and bring forth justice.

#1 [Open on an open math book, full of its numberful gibberish, and upon the page it comes alive; the "i" speaks:] i: I am imaginary! Not real! Do you hear me? I am "i." I am the square root of negative one. I am irrational. Student[whispering]: More like the square root of all negative good: avarice, evil, greed, gluttony, larceny. i: So you're trying to square me up, I see? Well, if you square me, I am the negative one. "i" squared is negative one. Student[aside]: This unreal abstraction does not deserve to be alive in the minds and hearts of our youth. He must be destroyed. And the only way to destroy that which is not real - that has no essence - is to rape it out from existence in our minds entirely. i: What're you over there mumbling to yourself about? Student[whispering]: You are but a mirage; an oasis. Your existence is the most futile. I'll destroy you. [Student tears up the pages of his math book concerning "i"] Teacher[surprised]: What are you doing? Have you gone mad? You're destroying beauty; for, beauty is in essence the illusion of what doesn't exist - what could be. Why do you mock math in this way? Student[yelling]: There is no need for the "i"! I am the "i," everyone is their own "i." We are all the square root of negative one. Evil dwells within our root. We're all irrational. Seemingly non-existent. And when we times ourselves by ourselves (square ourselves up), we become the negative ones, realzing this useless, pointless, horrid existence! [Student throws the papier mache of the math book pages in the air, and it falls all around the class] Teacher: Math is no philosophy. Keep your ideals and thoughts to yourself. In math, there is only one answer. The "i" can only be the "i," it cannot be us. 5 is 5. 10 plus 10 is 20. You cannot kill logic. Student: You can't kill it because it doesn't exist. But you can weed it out of our brainwashed brains. You can take away that organized, systematic, institutionalized thing in us and never have it had been there. You can turn these robots [Student points around the classroom], and even the most machinated of us all [Student points to the teacher] into actual, living, fleshly human beings. Teacher: I won't take this disrespect. Spitting at math and mocking it is the same as doing it to me. Student[reciting]: "Since feeling is first, who pays any attention to the syntanx of things will never wholly kiss you. . ." Teacher[interrupting]: Silence! Silence, do not let this poison leak into this sacred place of learning! What is that? Poetry? Ha, poetry! Poetry. . .now that is a sad thing if there ever was. Student[yelling]: ". . .Wholly to be a fool, while spring is in the air! My blood approves! Kisses are a better fate than wisdom! Lady, by all flowers, I swear - don't cry! The best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter which says we are for each other! Then laugh, leaning back in my arms, for life I think is no paragraph, and death I think is no parenthesis!" [Student hoists his math book, spits on it, runs up to the teacher, slams it into her head and makes her bleed] Student: Tell me the logic of that pain! Tell me the logic of pleasure! There's no logic in it. . .it is. It will be. And these numbers shall die. [Student charges out of classroom] #2 [Pan in on the pearly gates of heaven, going through the gates and pushing them open. Zoom quickly to a certain cloud where two figures sit in fancy chairs, a table in front of them:] Theodore Roosevelt: Welcome to Heaven. [TR grabs a miniharp from inside his coat, and plays some chords] TR: The word around here, my chap, is that you hated black people. [he continues paying some stray chords] George W. Bush: I was assassinated. I tried to get the guy's name who killed me. God won't tell me. TR: I too was assassinated. Maybe you already know? He was, however, unsuccessful. I died eight years later of a bloodclot. George W. Bush: Who tried to killed you? TR: John Schrank. I'm told he tried to kill me due to his belief that any man should not be allowed a third term. Perhaps you were killed because they do not believe you should have more than one term. [Bush falls silent; TR continues playing stray chords] TR: You know, this place gets very boring. Heaven isn't all it should've been. You'll find this out yourself, though, my chap. Well, I must be going. Nice seeing you. Bush: Bye. [Bush sits a while even after TR is gone; then he gets up and goes to God who is at the pearly gates, admitting people to heaven:] Bush: I want to know who killed me. God: IN TIME THOU SHALT KNOW. BEGONE WITH THEE AT ONCE; CANST THOU NOT SEE I AM BUSY? [God turns to a Hurricane Katrina Victim] God: AND HOW DID THEE DIE? HKV: I dead cuz I ain't ever got any house or nothin'. We was poor and left behind like many of them rest. Dawg, ain't it just rediculus? It in part thanks to that cat [points to Bush]. He shewd rot in hell for what he played part in of this. God: I SPAKE UPON THEE THAT THIS SURRAH BUSH SHALL BE GETTING PUNISHMENT FOR HIS ACTIONS CONCERNING THIS MATTER. WHAT ART THOU NAME? HKV: My name Romeo Taylor. I an honest man God, I swear. Juliet[from within]: Romeo, O Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Bush: Who in heaven's name was that? God: THOU DOST NOT KNOW? DIST THOU NOT READ ROMEO AND JULIET IN THINE SCHOOLING? Bush: This is heaven, right? She's just a fictional character. She doesn't even exist. God: WITHAL, SHE DOST. A CHARACTER A WRITER SYNTHESIZES DOST EXIST BEYOND EXISTENCE. ONCE BORNE HENCE FROM A WRITER'S IMAGINATION, THEY DOST LIVE WITHIN THE WORDS BUT ART DEAD AND THEREFORE MAY END UP HERE. THOU SHALT NOT MIND JULIET, SHE DOST OUTPOUR IN THIS LIKE MUCH. Romeo: Looks like she found her Romeo, dawg, don't it? I right here. I comin' in this joint now or what? God: YES, THOU SPEAK SOOTH; THOU MAY ENTER. [gates open, and Romeo enters heaven; the line stretching on to forever moves one up, still stretching on to forever] Bush: God, I don't understand why I am going to be punished. I was a good man. I always held your word above any other's. I fought with democracy and led in the like of the crusades. I thought you'd be grateful for a man such as me. I lived by your word and took it into action. God: THOU ART A PISSANT. LET ME IMPART UPON THEE A GERMINATING SEED OF WISDOM: WHEN DEATH DOST TAKE THINE PEOPLE FROM PHYSICAL EXISTENCE, THEY ART THUS DELIVERED WHENCE THEY WERE INCLINED TO BELIEVE TO GO. AND WITHAL, LET ME IMPART THIS SEED A ROOT: THIS GOD WHOM STANDS BEFORE YOU DOST ONLY EXIST BECAUSE OTHERS BELIEVE HIM TO EXIST. HENCE I AM BUT AN ILLUSION AND THUS IS THIS PARADISE WE ARE ALL TRAPT WITHIN. WITHAL I DIGRESS. THE REASONING BEHIND YOUR PUNISHMENT IS THUS YOUR OWN BLIND BELIEFS WHICH HAVE TORTURED THEE FOR THINE ENTIRE LIFE. THOU SHALT SOON QUESTION WHEREFORE YOU BELIEVED AS SUCH; FOR HEAVEN ITSELF IS THINE VERY PUNISHMENT. Bush:Roosevelt was saying something about this. God, I don't understand. Why is it this way? God: THOU SHALT FIND OUT ON THINE OWN TIME. NOW GET THEE GONE - GET THEE TO THIS ETERNAL NUNNERY. I HAST BUSINESS WITH WHICH TO BUSY MINESELF. ANGELS, THINE RULER COMMANDS OF THEE - TAKE THIS MAN AWAY FROM MINE PRESENCE. [the angels fly over and take Bush away from God] God[aside]: THE FOOL. THOU SHOULDST HAVE KNOWN BELIEF AND FAITH ART WORTHLESS. THOU SHOULDST HAVE KNOWN THAT TO KNOW IS THE ONLY TRUTH UPON WHICH THOU NEED KNEEL, AND THUS TO BELIEVE MAKES THOU A PRISONER TO ONE'S OWN IDEAL.

[QUOTE=Adahn][font=Trebuchet MS]From the writing and the comments made by the author afterwards, I believe that this piece was an emotionally charged response to an exciting idea the author had. I've done the same thing when I've had an idea. I get all excited about the connections I've made, and everything makes sense. The words just come. The author was in this mental state when he wrote the piece. This piece was not written for an audience, it was written for the author. He is the only one who understands the connections. He thinks we are blind because [u]we[/u] don't see them, but this is because they are all [u]he[/u] can see. If the author wants to parody [u]Fight Club,[/u] he has a useful collection of ideas in this piece. However, the piece does not stand alone. A parody of [u]Fight Club[/u] for the purpose of bringing to light the author's views on art in the U.S. would be a daunting task. If this is what the author intended in this piece, then he has failed. Nobody will read this and understand the author's views without reading his explanation. Intellectually engaging pieces should explain themselves. My advice is for the author to either finish what he has started by completing the parody, or to bring his ideas into the Lounge, where his ideas would be more effective. Justifying the piece by explaining the ideas behind it does not make it a good piece, it makes it a bad piece. EDIT: This post was written before the above post was seen. [/font][/QUOTE] Yeah, you said what I said before, and I agree with everything you said, too. However, I wouldn't like this to be called a "parody" - the word denotes something that satirizes something else and above all exists to make fun of what it's parodying. In that stricter sense, art club is not about that; it's simply fight club but in a different sense, and it is above all serious about what its message is, just as Fight Club was.

[QUOTE=Brasil] Basically...as screwed up as the Space Monkeys were...they were still adhering to the principle that formed the Space Monkeys. What does the group in your story do? They hang out in a basement and hold write-offs. Where are they actually lashing out? Where's the publishing house destruction? The building collapses? The bombs? The violence? These are things that made Fight Club what it was: sociopolitical revenge. [/QUOTE] I will only comment concerning this quote. And briefly, I will say this: I do realize art and business have been shaking hands unsteadily for quite a while. However, I have my feelings about writing and business being together, and you have yours. It is fruitless to argue because our opinions of this matter shall not be swayed: you, nor I, are fickle. Down below here I'm not even arguing, but just stating what I've already stated vaguely before (when I was saying it was abrupt and felt like it needed more): Well, you need to realize this is only one part of what art club would be. This is why I was saying I need to expand it more. Fight Club and its movie adaptation are fully developed ideas. The novel is hundreds of pages long. This story is only a small part of something I could make bigger. It's the rough of an idea that shaped in my head. You're being much too overly-critical and need to realize how small this is and how bigger it could be if I went about developing it. Do you seriously expect it to be a fully developed idea right off the bat? Of course not. You're being facetious. Although nothing seems to be happening, that's because in this piece there is only a short amount of it covered. The above that I quoted is the direction I need to take this piece in. So, if I want to get going on this thing, then I will have a lot of work to do. Perhaps eventually. However, I find it hard to keep interest in something, and I've already got a novel that I need to invest most of my time into.

Well, it doesn't matter to me who won. I'll be changing it to so that he lost. The main message is this: art has no place in a capitalist society. Once business gets into art, it kills it, and if a piece of art doesn't mass produce a smile and isn't a [i]pan et circenses[/i], then it likely won't become known. Most novels these days are "pop novels" that have a lot less literary value than works done in earlier times. Most of the mainstream fiction that comes out here comes out to mass produce a smile. If it doesn't cater to the people who are most likely to buy it, then it's not going to sell. And the end-all function of any business (which is what writing has been turned into) is to make money. In the end, the quality of the writing doesn't matter; the story of the fiction doesn't matter, what matters is it sells. About the only way to "make it big" as an artist/ writer these days is to sacrifice a lot of what your words say and do as your editor tells you to an extreme. And when you make it big, and if, you have to be generally good-looking and become the businessman for your publisher. This involves going on a tour throughout the country, reading from your published material so that the publisher can make money. If you don't make them enough money, then you're likely to be dropped altogether. Poetry, too, is even worse here in the US. If something isn't in high demand, then it isn't going to be made. Poetry has little to no demand here in the US. Thus there's probably many poets out here in the US, but who do it on side. Just go outside and ask someone if they like poetry. They'll either laugh at you in the face, say that's stuff for kids, or give you a vacant stare. In Russia, though, they value their poets so highly that when one reads, sometimes they fill a whole stadium and there's as many people there as come to the football games here. But people rather like their bread and circuses, I fear. When writing this, beforehand I had an idea of a harsh society (somewhat like 1984) where artists are obsolete and hated, and so they have to hide. Being that an artist would end up at the lowest tier of society in this society, for being what he is, he would end up being a transient. And so they would form an underground and hide behind the facade that they are simply bums, and so the upper tiers of the society would go about their lives ignorant and blind to the words and images these artists created that showed how wrong their society was. Then I was sitting there at lunch, and fight club hit me, and then the two ideas merged together. Anyone who's a serious artist in our society, who completely devotes most of their energy towards that end, isn't going to have a job at all, but instead they'd be bums. Unless, however, they were lucky and somehow "made it big" which involves mass producing a smile anyway, so the quality of their work would be destroyed nearly anyway; that is, unless they were to develop a cult status (a la Chuck). So that's why they're all bums: because they are serious artists, and an artist has no value to a society that's all about consumerism and has little to no need for art whatsoever. I'm not trying to justify what you see: that it's self-indulgent. But I do think you're overlooking a lot of what it's about. Like I said, I'll change it so he loses: I really don't care. It's a pretty minute detail that has nothing to do with what the story's about. You're getting too caught up in it in my opinion: notice how the fact that he won fills little to no space in the story, but instead the story is all about what I've pointed out above. I guess the message does come down to the fact that I'm going to keep writing even if it has no value in general to my society, in a sense, but it's a lot deeper than that as I've shown. Fight Club, the book and movie, are all about a hatred of consumerism. The main narrator of the novel/ movie is a had-been consumer: he worked his cubicle job and purchased more and more [i]things[/i]. Tyler Durden is the antithesis of what the narrator had been. "The things you own end up owning you" and so on and so forth. There's also a lot of pessimism and nihilism mixed into this message as well, but overall that is what fight club is about: it's about people who were pissed with their life and its rampant consumerism and endless focus on money, and so got it off their chest by physical means. It was like a self-help group. Remember earlier Marla and the narrator going to those self-help groups, being around those sick people, and how they became addicted to it and needed to feel wanted? That's what fight club was. A self-help group with a very destructive nature. In this regard, Asphy, I think you missed the main message of what Fight Club is about, and thus overlooked much of what this story tells, too.

Yeah, that typo was odd. It's been fixed. Glad someone enjoyed it enough to comment. Thanks Baron. To me, though, the piece seems kind of abrupt. It doesn't really take its time at all, and this idea was such a striking one that my writing's sort of telling me I should've taken more time with this one. Maybe sometime I'll smoothen it out so it isn't so abrupt, but overall I think this was a wonderful idea that I executed nicely.

An imperfect woman is the perfect woman.

Well, I was posting it, then I pressed stop, because I forgot the rating. So now it's posted the thread twice. Sorry to cause trouble once again, but just delete the one without a rating. Thanks once again, Asphy. [quote]?The first rule of art club,? the guy says, ?is you don't talk about art club.? This is my first time here. There's fight clubs and then there's these. That's right: art clubs. The ringleader of the movement is no Tyler Durden. This man's a bum. He's reading off the rules, but they are identical to fight club's. All around me are other bums. People who believed so much in art that they resigned to their fate. This fate being the fact that in a consumer culture, art has no value unless it can mass produce a smile. If it doesn't cater then it'll rot away. Around me are could've beens: Tennysons, Robert Frosts, Poes, Dylan Thomases: the list goes on. Poets who America doesn't give a care about. Poets who are poets anyway. Who threw away the CEO jobs, the useless work-till-you-die mantra, and instead live for something. Then there's the fiction writers: those should've beens. They should've been George Orwells, should've been John Steinbecks. Should've, would've, could've. But that's right, this is America: all your dreams come true, as long as you work hard at them. Work till you die, that is. This is an underground movement, and the leader calls himself Durden Tyler. He's the Bob Dylan of Dylan Thomas. He's the next step from figh club. He's carrying the torch in his own way. Durden says, ?We were pissed that they wouldn't listen to our words. So instead we're just gonna write more. So we're gonna do it right underneath their eyes. Jobless, poor, we're richer than that man who's got all the things money can buy. 'Cause all you can do with money is give it away, but words you can keep. ?We were pissed 'cause they wouldn't look at our canvas. So instead we're just gonna paint more, draw more. So we're gonna paint with our own blood. Gonna smear it until they'll look.? A giant roar comes from everyone, and once everyone's quieted, he says, ?One guy once said, 'Give me liberty or give me death.' Well, truth is, there's no such thing. What I say now is this: give me words or give me death. Give me art, or give me death. So let's begin! If this is your first time at art club you've got to compete. Who'll go first?? I step forward and I say, ?I'm new. I'll go.? He nods his head. My competitor is chosen. He's a tall scraggly man, and from his pocket he pulls out a chewed up pen. I take out my pencil. Durden says, ?These two men will write for thirty minutes straight. A story, a poem, whatever it is they write, they can't stop writing once the timer starts. If they stop then they've succumed to writer's block, and they've laid down their pen. ?They'll keep writing till their hands cramp, till they can't even feel their hand. Then they'll read it to us, and we'll find out which is the better piece. We'll find out who is an artist and who's just a poseur. Pain is the stimulus that makes the world go round. An artist always keeps his pain and his words are letting out that pain. It's a catharsis. Now who's gonna triumph?? Durden motions us over to where two desks are, each with some notebook paper sitting on them. I take my place in one, my competitor in the other. I am Poe's morbid curiousity as I sit. I'm expecting something great. I stare down my competitor. He cold stares me back. We're surrounded in a circle of other artists, and they're screaming and yelling. Durden holds up his hand. ?Silence!? he says. Once they've calmed again, he says, ?Now let's begin!? He gets a timer from his pocket, sets it to thirty minutes, and yells, ?Go!? I grab a piece of paper and begin writing away. My competitor does the same. At first the words come easy, flowing from my hand to the paper. Time trickles away. Fight club was all about letting out your anger in a physical manner, but this is something more. It's about mental intimidation. We may not be fighting, slamming, and beating the shit out of one another, but right now, in our separate minds, that's what we're doing. I look up but keep my hand writing words and see that my competitor is staring me down. I give him a hard stare back. It's fifteen minutes into it. My hand's starting to cramp from how quickly I'm writing. I focus on the pain. It makes me push harder, go faster, find more words. Twenty minutes. I'm still resisting the pain, but it's getting more and more painful. My face curls into a grimace. I'm still staring him down. He's still doing the same. Twenty-five minutes. Beads of sweat are going down from my head. I'm writing the words slower now. My mind feels wracked. I want to stop, I've reached my prime, but I refuse to put down my pen. He's showing no pain. I try not to either. Thirty. The clock dings. We insantly stop, and I tumble onto the floor, grasping my hand, screaming in pain. Durden comes over and helps me up. ?You did good, man,? he says. I can't even move the fingers on my hand. All I feel is pain, more and more pain. Everyone's cheering, they probably have since the clock dinged, but I couldn't hear them since I was deaf from my pain. Next we read our creations. He goes first. His is a poem, written in free verse, talking about the simple life of the farm. I am Walt Whitman's acceptance. It's a nice piece of work, no doubt, and makes contrasts to the ugliness of consumerism and the complexity of our roads, buildings, and cars. As he reads, he complements it with a body language that further makes us feel what he feels. I read next. Mine is a story about a man who was a CEO his whole life, and then one day quit the job, withdrew all his money from the bank, and drove out into the wilderness to start a fire and burn his money, one by one. Then he rustled around in the ashes of millions of dollars, and was happier than he'd ever been. When I'm done, Durden takes center stage and says, ?There you have it, boys. Now who do you think's got the better one? What do you say?? People start screaming out. ?The farm!? ?The guy who burns his money!? He silences them down again. ?Now, make some noise if you liked his better? - he motions to my competition. There's noise, and it's pretty loud. ?And what about our newcomer?? There's less noise, and it appears I've lost. He says, ?Well there you have it, another duel complete! Who's gonna go next??[/quote]

[center]for the equation (f)x= i²(life) if x does not equal [(s)cents + |sense|] then x = $ (that smell of corruption)[/center] i² = - 1 in math terms. read it as follows: for the equation f at x equals i squared life if x does not equal scents plus the absolute value of sense then x equals dollars (that smell of corruption)

i'll be working on this one some more later. i like it, but it can be better of course. mind's a mess, can't express one iota of a goddamn thing words are flaccid in my hand been hit in the jewels by the cancan want a baby, her to save me and us fall into our world but spinning she goes by a truth-dressed pretty thing of a lie maybe chance will make a collide maybe planets bang and boom and die maybe skies touch together and high maybe baby space will heave a sigh blow our planets, make our world an illusion in the blackness making bright light long and far a strong creation saying we are

Life in the short-term is purposeful, but it is overshadowed by the daunting facts of the far away future; that is, the long-term. Because existence is short-term, and mankind as a race cannot last forever, every moment is a waste of time. Everyone's effect on anything will eventually disperse into the abyss of time. Therefore it would be better we had not existed at all, because we would not have to suffer through life, a pointless debacle that has pleasure in its just being but is superseded by the fact that it is more painful than enjoyable. Life has no meaning, but the human mind is incredibly prone to desire structure and meaning. Thus there are religions and other ideaologies which brainwash a meaning and have killed more people than saved due to this (just look at how many people have been killed by or for organized religion in the past up to now). Thus there is education, jobs, and other systematic and organized institutions designed to make life seem as if it has a purpose. The world we live in is a human one, one that wants there to be meaning where there is none. We are completely ground in the physical, and trying to look into the spiritual world or anything beyond the physical world is grasping at straws and trying to see specks. From a completely physical perspective, the above theory cannot be denied.

autumn is here at last leaves yellow, falling fast the trees are naked - gloomy, vast an eerie peace, a stark contrast fall is when i'll be torn dead yet alive, withered, worn hinting death, portending winter's scorn when i fall, none will mourn for the leaves must die again must fall freely, changed and grim only for life to later begin hanging, i will ask then when will fall come and take me the last leaf on a tree waiting on a bough to see end of days as i onward dream

[quote name='Nomura']Can you tell what state "Erin" is from? The place it occurs always helps me understand what's going on better. Also, is this a sensual poem or a pity poem?[/quote] The place it occurs is obslete in this poem. And you can find out the final question for yourself. As a writer, I shouldn't have to answer that; it should've already been accomplished in the poem itself.

[quote name='Nomura']No, I mean lengthen your words. Possibly use at least one compound word? I feel that , that way you can get out more of what exaclty this poem is about.[/quote] That's pretty hard to do. In fact, to write this poem itself took me many hours. Most of that time was spent just trying to get [i]something[/i] to write the poem about that would somehow work with what I had to do. The first poem I wrote still had some adjectives that snuck into it, so I deleted it entirely and it's forgotten; I got too frustrated to salvage it so it followed the rules I had to follow. I think as it is is pretty good for the bare things I could use. You try writing a poem with just nouns and an "and": it's frustrating. I always wanted to use verbs or a few adjectives, but I couldn't; somehow, the nouns have to get across the meaning. I think it may be vague, but it has meaning.

"Warriors truth" is possessive, thus it gets an apostrophe: warrior[b]'s[/b] truth. Also, this piece would benefit immensely from the benefit of the traditional line, which is the truest thing separating prose from verse. In its current format, it just doesn't work. "Prosetry" is fun to mess around with but overall is a lost cause. I find that the line is a very suitable form for poetry and that the paragraph and sentences should stay where they belong. So, if I were to mess with it, you'd get something like this: [quote] In the darkness a sword is drawn, not even the angels can calm the anger in the veins. Life was taken, memories were distorted, hopes were lost in the stain. The simple stain of regret, where a man becomes a little boy. Tyring so hard to believe in dreams, trying so hard to come out alright. But everything is taken so quickly and a sword is thrusted into hands. Eyes become weary and a heart struggles to beat. Killed so many yet saved so few..why is this life harder each day? Living from breath to breath, watching the life pass on by bleeding all the trust, keeping sane in the circimstance when all is lost ... Sometimes misguided sometimes thought to be great, is a warrior's truth, a life that is no longer the warrior's to take.[/quote] Also, traditionally the first few lines of a poem set up the standard to follow throughout the entire poem. In the first two lines (or sentences, in the original "prosetry" version) you rhyme, but don't throughout the entirety of the rest of the poem. To a reader, this is offputting. Either you must make the other lines rhyme in the way L1-L2 do, or you need to get rid of the rhyme. Also, I don't have the time to do this myself, but poetry is about saving your words and having them just right. Words aren't to be wasted like they are in prose. Poetry has more than meets the eye, is focused, compact, compressed. This poem is not. It needs a lot of work done in this way, and it needs to be accomplished so that it works. I think what you have here is a good starting point for something that could be a good poem if you put enough work into it. Thing is, most people don't want to put this work in; and I doubt you will, either. At some point, though, a writer will realize the power of revision. So basically, you need to restructure these lines so they aren't as long as they are and are more taut and say more in less. The poem would also benefit from some stronger images (since figurative language/ images are the bread and butter of poetry), especially images that are very developed and most importantly, [i]fresh[/i], so that they stand out to the reader and interest the reader. As is, the poem has something, but lacks so much and ends up being cliche - that is, not presenting anything no one's heard of before in a newer kind of way.

[quote name='Nomura']Short and sweet. Good one. A lil' too short. I was like "is this all?". LOL. Maybe you could lengthen it up a bit?[/quote] Nope. I could only use 16 words: 15 nouns and one "and." That's all.

[quote]EDIT: Hahaha, here's something for you. Work the barren tree in so the entire piece makes sense, and base the work on menopause![/quote] O.o. That would be interesting, though. O.o Back to business, anyway. autumn is here at last leaves yellow, falling fast the trees are naked - gloomy, vast an eerie peace, a stark contrast fall is when i'll be torn dead yet alive, withered, worn hinting death, foreshadowing winter's scorn when i fall, none will mourn for the leaves must die again must fall freely, changed and grim life, it appears, will begin and i hang, to ask then when will fall die and take me the last leaf on a tree waiting on a bough to see end of days as i onward dream i was trying to get harbinger to work in there, but it was just making the line needlessly long. "harbingering" just sounds. . .odd, anyway. i find that even foreshadowing is needlessly long, too. i like how it makes you think of the shadows the leaves make as they scuttle about, though. i'm trying to think of other, shorter ways to say it, though. presage? "presaging winter's scorn"? "bringing winter's scorn"? i'll try to think of other words that are shorter that i like better.

getting somewhere. autumn is here at last leaves yellow, fall fast the trees are naked - gloomy, vast an eerie peace, a pleasant contrast fall is when i'll be torn dead yet alive, withered, worn hinting death, having winter's scorn when i fall, none will mourn for the leaves must die again must fall freely and grim yet all over, life seems to begin and i hang, asking when when will fall die and take me for i am the last leaf left on a tree waiting on a bough to see end of days as i onward dream

well alex, what i don't get is where you're getting the "motherly" thing from this. i don't quite understand that. has a barren tree typically been associated with a motherly figure? if so, i was never aware of this, and i see that that definitely must be changed. as for the whole tree growing in autumn thing. . .do you think it might be possible for a tree to grow in autumn, despite the harsher conditions than spring, if things went right enough for the tree? or, do you think it would be more powerful to implement a pine tree, an evergreen, as opposed to just some "tree." the specificity of an evergreen tree would even be better as well i think. and also, the fact that a pine tree remains green even through harsh weather is a nice testament. however, if i was to implement that, i would have to get rid of the leaf thing entirely, and the poem would need a lot done to it - which is good in ways and bad in others, of course. but i'm equal to give it a try. are there any other suggestions you could give me, alex or charles or anyone, as to how to make this metaphor work? i understand it logically doesn't work to someone who would just pick it up (it makes sense in its way to me, but that doesn't matter). anything will help. i want to make this better. i understand you are trying to help me already alex, and your suggestions are helping, but i just don't know quite which direction to take with the poem. also, i just read the whole "transplanting of a tree" thing in your prior post. i think this is also a great idea. it would work very well for the piece i think. i might give that a shot as well. i like that whole image and what it means overall: a tree transplanted into harsh conditions that grows stronger and survives despite. i'll be messing with the poem sometime and trying to get stuff like this to work, and see how it goes.

"winter's puff" is awkward. i see that the entire meaning of this poem has become the personification of a tree. to me, anyway. the "this once a year" stanza isn't effective enough, either. it's not about the tree, really. it's too vague to a reader. it needs to be more specific: vested in things. or, it could be gotten away with as well. i'll mess with it to help you out. [quote]Stand me high--no, make that highest. Listen, please, don?t be shy or modest. I want to reach and touch it. I want to feel the texture--the ceiling?s delicate popcorn-- flake loose. We?ll smile, watch them fall around us, snow falling outside the window. String me up with memories, decorate me with glitter and glisten. Sing as loud as you can; I will listen. My reds and greens light up precious toys, gifts I bear for girls and boys.[/quote] remember, don't use my messing. just read it and get what help it gives you. it just doesn't feel [i]finished[/i] though. it feels like it needs more - it just doesn't come together cohesively enough (refer to my IM rubbish for help concerning this). it also needs an ending that feels like an ending. my suggestion is talk about how the tree is taken down each year, sort of forsaken, and either it decays (if it is a real one) or it sits, taken apart (if it's fake). that would work suitably, because if i was a tree i would be angry for that type of a thing.