Writing Banging Your Heart

[Mitch]

We’re actors. Every one of us. The actors in Hollywood are frauds. Any one of us acts better than them. We all have our acting down to the improvising.

Walking down the hall. “Hi,” they say.

“Hello.”

“How are you?” How are you--the words come from their lips. Flutter from them and catch on the skin of the brain. The pigskin. Didn’t you know evil lives in the ************* pigskin?

“I’m fine.” Liar. Fine is far from it. But still. The words come steel cold metal from the mouth. Premeditated. There’s no stopping. The feet move and the feelings stay. No one cares. This moment was brought to you by the normal conventions of society. The each man for himself mentality. We hope you have a nice day.

Sitting in the room. Hands on the keyboard. Typing. Working and writhing. The door blows open. In comes The Man.

“You need to get a job,” says The Man, His face moving. The jaw muscles move, the circuits in His brain blink and murmur in action. His jaw muscles, steel beams of complex fleshly life, act on meticulously unflawed instrumentation from the brain, pivoting the right way to show mechanically stern resolution. His voice is emotive with flair, but deep in the metal dead eyes there’s a flickering light of something almost human. What wasn’t taken from the poor carcass of a man. “You need to get a job. So you can pay for gas in your car. So you can get money. I don’t know why you aren’t excited. Most kids are. It’s freedom. You should be excited.” I should be excited? The Man is telling me I should be excited. What if I’m not? Then what happens?

The Man careens his neck. Centers his eyes’ vision with skilled perception. “Tomorrow you need to go back to Video Action and ask the woman if she’s going to hire you.”

And ropes hang to keep us all alive.

Sitting in the back of a car. Country music blares. The station is changed. The Man didn’t like the song playing. Classic rock emanates. We drive by Gateway Mall. The movie sign is there. Passion of the Christ it reads. The Man’s Other Child speaks. “The Passion of the Christ is rated R.”

Discussion surmounts. The Man tells how he can’t believe You don’t believe in God. How could You not believe in Our Lord and Savior? You’re going to go to Hell. In The Fires of Your Hell You will realize You turned Your back on Jesus Christ. And because of this You will Live Your Afterlife In Hell. You stupid, insipid fool. How can You not believe in Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior?

Deus ex Machina. That is why. God comes from the machine. Just like you came from the machine. Just like I did. We are slaves to the machine. The machine made this God to give us Hope. Hope which doesn’t exist.

We are all actors. We have our Hopes. We have our Dreams. The Karma Police will steal them all before the end.

In the car again. The Man tells the divorce is going to happen. It’s a reality. He doesn’t seem so much like a machine in that moment. He seems vulnerable and penetrated.

I remembered. This was history repeating itself. A veritable and touchable history.

At the age of three, This Man Whose Name Does Not Matter’s Mother divorced His true Father. His true Father was by the name of Tom Smith. The name does not matter. He could care less about This Man Whose Name Does Not Matter. He would call me and ask me how was school going. How were my grades.

Then he’d ask me to get my blood taken.

To see if I was his real son.

Being the Child This Man Whose Name Doesn’t Matter was then, He didn’t understand. Now He does. But now He does.

The Stepfather This Man Whose Name Doesn’t Matter has now is more of a father than he’s ever had. Now history repeats itself.

“Who’re you going to live with,” asks The Man to This Man Whose Name Doesn’t matter. How am I supposed to answer? “Myself,” It says. The It turns and looks out the window of the truck. Pushing it away. You can’t do that forever, It.

It’s just as I thought. Love doesn’t last. Happiness doesn’t last. None of it lasts.

The Flies seek to be Maggots again once they’ve matured. The Maggots, The Children, are happy--happy because they do not know. Happy because they don’t understand. Happy because they are ignorant, stupid things. But they think they are so pretty. They’re so much Maggots they can’t see how ugly they are--how utterly stupid and servile they are. They can’t see what they‘re eating. How tied into The Machine they are.

The Maggots are born into the world to eat the Dead Decaying Tissue. From this they grow. Augment until it is time to be a Fly. Because of The Maggots turning into Flies, and spawning more Maggots, the Human Race survives--the festering amass lives on.

Be a World Child, Form a Circle Before We All Go Under.

That’s what it’s all about. Push it all aside and that’s what it’s about--Survival. And the Circle that’s made because of it.

The Flies, they seek to be Maggots again. Most do not know it, but it’s what They search for. To be Maggots again.

We cannot make ourselves happy alone. This Man Whose Name Doesn’t Matter cannot make himself happy alone. There is an inert need for other things. Other pretty things to use and abuse. To make hurt. There is a need and there is a want. There is a lust and there is a love for it. The need needs feeding. It needs flesh to chew. The teeth need to sink in.

So They make Their Walls. Two hands, two flesh-beings. They coalesce together. Come together. Become one. Form an anomalous entity. An Alien Thing with its central parts the largesse of the hearts--two hearts whose beat is One.

I have a Wall with a Child in it. You are so stupid, child. You are a Maggot. You should die Everything dies. Let it all die. There is nothing keeping You alive but yourself. Why not die now? They will kill You. They will surely kill You. Why suffer?

All The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell.

I keep this Child alone and alive because he is all I have. The Child is more alive than any thing other in this Machine. The Child can do Better Things than This Fly can. The Maggot--the weakling--is Stronger because It is Weaker. It is Weak with idioteque, and that makes It Stronger. Stronger than The Flies.

The Child is behind a Wall. The Wall is built with the intention to keep Flies out. To keep Them out. To stay away from The Machine. The Machine wants The Child’s heart. It wants to rip It from Its Chest. It wants to probe in and put an Iron Heart in once the Bleeding Heart is taken out. It wants to Maraud and Steal it all.

I will not, shall not, allow it.

The Child is in a small corner of The Wall. Beside His Corner, He sits with His head against it, hearing the noises outside. He is lulled and cannot hear much of what’s going on out there. Out there he can hear Himself--the part of him that’s a Fly--going about His day. With a crayon in hand, The Child writes on The Wall. He writes in riddles. No One understands them. He is writing this on The Wall right now. It is coming down because The Maggot has control.

This Man Whose Name Doesn’t Matter hasn’t cried for years and years. This Man has become Comfortably Numb. He used to have a feeling, his hands used to feel just like two balloons, but The Feeling is gone. This Man is slowly being assimilated into The Machine. He is sure one day The Machine shall arrive in all its glory and steal from This Chest a Heart. And when it takes This Heart it will first cradle The Heart as if It’s a baby The Machine has nourished its whole life. Then it will puncture the Vena Cava--the largest artery in This Heart.

Then This Man will take over. Change to a Fly. The Child, The Maggot, will be Dead as Leaves.

There is No Future left at all.

An Optimist is One who thinks the best is yet to come. A Pessimist is One who knows the best has already happened.

Child, do not cry. I see your Tears outside the wall. I know they thought The Berlin Wall was taken down. That the Great Wall didn’t imprison. I know. I know they were wrong. The Fear--needled in and usurping--is There. It is There--in The Great Wall. The Berlin Wall. It is there.

This Man doesn’t care. He does not care about Education. He does not care about The Future. He does not care about His Heart anymore. This Man doesn’t know how He is going to go on.

This Man sits here each day and learns. He acts like He cares about what he is learning. He Respects His teachers. He enjoys his Teachers. But He does not care about the Facts anymore. He does not care about It. There is no enjoyment in Learning. This Man wishes he could be Stupid. He wishes he could be Stupid. This man is Stupid. The Ones who are smart are The Most Stupid. Stupid because they are so Complex. Because they cannot come to Understand why things are the way they are. Stupid because they always Question. This is what This Man feels. And He is sick of Acting. He is sick of Being Part of The Machine.

This Man is Numb.

Tear down The Wall. May The Child be remembered. The Festering Crawling Maggot--the Useless Being--may He be Remembered. Soon He’s going to be Dead. And the Fly will have Control--The Insectile Slave to The Machine will have control. The Heart will be Dead. Replaced.

In the end, it’s just beating my ******* heart against some mad bugger’s wall. I guess it’s time to Climb Up the Wall. It’s time to be Climbing Up the Walls.

Would I were a Maggot, Sucking most Sweet Divine. Oh, Would I were a Maggot, Sucking Most Sweet Divine.

The Morning Bell--I’m glad I know you’re coming.

Release me.

Release me please.

Cut the kids in half.

---

“All alone, or in two’s
The ones who really love you
Walk up and down outside the wall
Some hand-in-hand
Some gathering together in bands
The bleeding hearts and the artists
Make their stand
And when they’ve given you their all
Some stumble and fall, after all it’s not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger’s wall.”

[b]--Pink Floyd, “Outside the Wall.”[/b]

[Lady Asphyxia]

[font=Verdana][size=1]Okay. For a while, I liked it. It was a lot more...honest, and to me a lot more real than some of the other stuff you've done.[/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1][/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1]However, there were still some parts that I didn't like. First of all, the Maggot metaphor I found to be...annoying. I really liked it up till then. It had a great narrative feel and it told a story. [/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1][/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1]The Stepfather This Man Whose Name Doesn?t Matter and so on gets [i]really[/i] confusing, but you can stand it. [/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1][/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1]However, after a while, you stop telling the narrative and just fade off into ramblings, which I don't like. I think you should just stick with the narrative. If you feel you really need the rambling, make a seperate story, in my opinion. The narrative was good, but the stuff after didn't fit. [/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1][/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1]But yeah, I did really like the first bit.[/size][/font]

[Brasil]

Outrageous does not mean good writing. Writing something that rambles on and on does not mean good writing. Mitch, if you want people to respect you as a true writer, you can't write stuff like this. This doesn't respect the reader [i]at all[/i]. You're making fun of them. They will put the story down because of that. I mean, you're really insulting the reader's intelligence. That's not the sign of good writing.

That's the sign of someone that has no direction, has no purpose to writing a piece and therefore just puts down whatever.

Really, do you honestly think that people will honor you for writing this stuff? Do you honestly think people will exclaim in an outburst of joy, "Oh, praise those who have blessed us by sending us Mitch, he who writes without a second thought and he who writes from the heart!"?

Adding meaningless adjectives and prepositions does not equal good writing. Adding in meaningless adjectives and prepositions won't help at all.

Try writing realistically. Try writing a piece that is totally devoid of any ridiculously outrageous lunatic ramblings. Try writing some variation into the themes you're using. I've seen the Maggots thing in just about every piece you've posted in your MyO. It's a tired metaphor. The machine is a tired metaphor. You've used them up. You've exhausted whatever benefit they may have had.

It's time to move on. If you still fail to realize what Asphy and I are saying here, or still refuse to acknowledge that what you're doing isn't going to get you anything, then I don't know what else to say.

You're shooting yourself in the foot. When you fail in the creative writing field, you will have yourself and only yourself to blame.

It's time to wake-up, Mitch. Dreamland is coming to an end.

EDIT:

Mitch, it's very tedious to read through your posts, because you type so much but say so very little. Unless you're Herman Melville, getting paid by the word for Moby Dick, writing 8,000 words is useless in conveying anything. The longer a piece is, the more distracted from the point it will be.

[Mitch]

[size=1][color=red] I'd agree the metaphors are tired.

I'd like you to elaborate on how I "make fun" of the reader? I don't even talk about the reader in here.

In the end, this piece wasn't even for the reader. It was for me. It means something to me, and that's enough for me. The reader doesn't have to like it.

In real writing, the reader should be the forefront. But this isn't "real" writing. This is more of me just putting down thoughts. If you like it, fine. If you don't, that's fine too. I'll listen to what you say. Whatever the case, I'm sure there's others out there that like this piece. Even if it isn't "good writing." I know I like it. That's enough for me.

I didn't write this for the reader. I know that I should, but writing is more than just writing for someone else's joy. I write for myself.

I've already woken up from Dreamland, and I realize this world's a waste of time. I shall be adapting, though.[/size][/color]

[Dragon Warrior]

Uhh... crap. Everyone took what I was gonna say XD But yeah, got confusing in there. It was interesting in some parts and I did finish it, after all, but it was mostly dragged out in my opinion. Just watch the rambling, I suppose. ^_^

And I've gotta watch out for you because I'm gonna be one of those actors in Hollywood soon O.o

[Brasil]

[quote name='Mitch][size=1][color=black'] I'd agree the metaphors are tired. [/quote][/color][/size]
[size=1][/size]
[size=1]Good.
[color=black] [/color]
[color=black][QUOTE][color=black]I'd like you to elaborate on how I "make fun" of the reader? I don't even talk about the reader in here.[/color][/QUOTE] [/color]

You don't have to talk about the reader to make fun of them. Hell, you don't even have to mention them to insult them. You were making fun of the reader by not respecting them enough to write a cohesive narrative. The piece was a random jumble of words which ostracizes the reader. It's almost as if you're saying, "You know what? I don't care what you like to read. I wrote this and this is all I'm trusting you with."
[color=black] [/color]
[color=black][QUOTE][color=black]In the end, this piece wasn't even for the reader. It was for me. It means something to me, and that's enough for me. The reader doesn't have to like it. [/color]
[color=black] [/color]
[color=black]In real writing, the reader should be the forefront. But this isn't "real" writing. This is more of me just putting down thoughts. If you like it, fine. If you don't, that's fine too. I'll listen to what you say. Whatever the case, I'm sure there's others out there that like this piece. Even if it isn't "good writing." I know I like it. That's enough for me. [/color]
[color=black] [/color]
[color=black]I didn't write this for the reader. I know that I should, but writing is more than just writing for someone else's joy. I write for myself.[/color][/QUOTE]
And you still don't understand what I meant by "making fun of the reader"? You're totally disregarding any audience that is reading your work. If this is your attitude, don't look to get published anywhere. Really, if that's your attitude toward the craft, you don't respect the craft at all. If that's your attitude, then nobody is going to want to read your work. OB here is a different world from reality. OB is a nurturing place that encourages and supports. If people here enjoy your work, fine. But you should know that the majority of those commenting on your work know very little when it comes to writing, and haven't experienced what is out there. If you decide to value your skill based on uneducated opinions, then you're short-changing yourself even more.[/color]
[color=black] [/color]
[color=black][quote]I've already woken up from Dreamland, and I realize this world's a waste of time. I shall be adapting, though.[/color][/size][/QUOTE]
Eh...not really, no. The world is not a waste of time, far from it. There are speedbumps along the way, but speedbumps aren't there for the entire road of life. Mitch, you haven't fully awoken from Dreamland if you think the world is a total waste of time. You've had that opinion of the world for as long as I've been on here, and I've got a feeling you've had that opinion for a while now even before I got here.

Your Nihilism is part of your Dreamworld. Watch Matrix Revolutions again. Pay very close attention to what Smith and Neo say at the end.

[Mitch]

[size=1][color=red] Well, I honestly don't care what the reader reads. I care about putting my feelings down on paper. Writing's not some tool that I tell others stories with. It's not something that communicates--it is something I say something with, but it isn't. It is something I tell stories with but it isn't. It's just something more than that to me. Writing's more personal to me than that.

If this means I do not care about the craft, then that's what it means. I'd tend to agree with you. I don't care much how the words come together. I like how they come down the first time often better than if I'd go back and edit a piece.

What you've said is all right, and you know it, and I'm not denying it. . .I haven't denied it at all. You're right: I really don't care what the reader says. Writing's like painting a picture for me. . .like creating music. It's art.

When you listen to instrumental music, is there an exact meaning to it? Do you listen to it and do you know what it's saying, other than the emotion it gives you? No you don't. All you know is the emotion it gives. The way the soft piano solo might make you feel melancholy, or the way the rocking guitar might make you feel you can take the world.

That's what writing's like. The words aren't used for the reason of communication. They're just used as a venue to express.

Sometimes I'm playing a melancholy piano when I play. The words give you the emotion, and there is some meaning there, but what the real meaning is is the emotion it gives. Music has meaning even if it doesn't use words in a way that they make sense. It's the same with writing. Some of music's words are actually the instrumentals--how the piano sounds here, the noise it makes, the way it comes to your ears, the way the instrument being played comes to your eye. All of this combines to give an overall feeling--perhaps it's a feeling of oppression. Perhaps it's a different feeling.

And from the instrument you're able to make your own sense. Maybe the piano solo sounds like there'd be a romance scene here--the woman kisses the man. Maybe the guitar's loud riffs sounds like a man punching another in the face until he's bloody.

Whatever the case, you draw images from something that's more than words. . .you're drawing it from how the person playing their instrument looks. How they stand. What techinques they use to play their piano, their guitar, their cymbals, their drums. What it sounds like.

This is what words are like for me. This is the purpose I use them for.

Writing's something more--different-- to me than what it is to you. At least from what you've said.

Hopefully, in comparison, you see what I'm saying about writing. If you don't, that is fine.

Writing's art to me. Art is expression. Sometimes, what you're feeling is nothing. That nothing's something so you decide to use it. Play it. Beat the drums. Strum the guitar. You decide to put it down as it comes, and sometimes it's amazing, sometimes it's not. But this is creation, there's no doubt.

When you love someone, Alex, is there intention to the love? Is there a reason for the love?

You love them because you need to express. You love them because you need release. You love them because they can love you back and can make you feel better. You love them because you come together to make something. You come together when you need physical release, mental release.

You love them because it's hopeless and you need something to give the hope. A fake hope that helps you out.

That's writing. A need to express.

Something that goes beyond words.

This is what I think, of course. I'm supposing some of this is over your head. I'm guessing I shouldn't even post this, since it's probably going to do nothing for you.

And, you know, when I think about it, I don't want to be published. I write for myself, so I might as well keep it for myself.

As for your thoughts on life. That is what you think and I, as always, respect you and that. Perhaps my perceptions shall turn to yours one day, but at the moment I am more of a naturalist. I sometimes brim on a realist. Sometimes I'm a romanticist. Sometimes I'm an idealist. A pragmatist. What's the difference? I go through a brim of different feelings each day. I can't label it down to one word to describe my entire life's mantra.

I just think that, in the end, life is a waste of time. It's fun when it's fun, but I tend to feel more pain than fun. But sometimes the pain is fun, too. Without the pain there wouldn't be the inert feeling of needing to survive. What a fun feeling, isn't it?

To be honest, the world doesn't care about me. If I fell off of its surface, a bruised smear, it would not remember me.[/size][/color]

[Brasil]

[QUOTE=Mitch][size=1][color=red] Well, I honestly don't care what the reader reads. I care about putting my feelings down on paper. Writing's not some tool that I tell others stories with. It's not something that communicates--it is something I say something with, but it isn't. It is something I tell stories with but it isn't. It's just something more than that to me. Writing's more personal to me than that.

If this means I do not care about the craft, then that's what it means. I'd tend to agree with you. I don't care much how the words come together. I like how they come down the first time often better than if I'd go back and edit a piece.

What you've said is all right, and you know it, and I'm not denying it. . .I haven't denied it at all. You're right: I really don't care what the reader says. Writing's like painting a picture for me. . .like creating music. It's art.

When you listen to instrumental music, is there an exact meaning to it? Do you listen to it and do you know what it's saying, other than the emotion it gives you? No you don't. All you know is the emotion it gives. The way the soft piano solo might make you feel melancholy, or the way the rocking guitar might make you feel you can take the world.

That's what writing's like. The words aren't used for the reason of communication. They're just used as a venue to express.

Sometimes I'm playing a melancholy piano when I play. The words give you the emotion, and there is some meaning there, but what the real meaning is is the emotion it gives. Music has meaning even if it doesn't use words in a way that they make sense. It's the same with writing. Some of music's words are actually the instrumentals--how the piano sounds here, the noise it makes, the way it comes to your ears, the way the instrument being played comes to your eye. All of this combines to give an overall feeling--perhaps it's a feeling of oppression. Perhaps it's a different feeling.

And from the instrument you're able to make your own sense. Maybe the piano solo sounds like there'd be a romance scene here--the woman kisses the man. Maybe the guitar's loud riffs sounds like a man punching another in the face until he's bloody.

Whatever the case, you draw images from something that's more than words. . .you're drawing it from how the person playing their instrument looks. How they stand. What techinques they use to play their piano, their guitar, their cymbals, their drums. What it sounds like.

This is what words are like for me. This is the purpose I use them for.

Writing's something more--different-- to me than what it is to you. At least from what you've said.

Hopefully, in comparison, you see what I'm saying about writing. If you don't, that is fine.

Writing's art to me. Art is expression. Sometimes, what you're feeling is nothing. That nothing's something so you decide to use it. Play it. Beat the drums. Strum the guitar. You decide to put it down as it comes, and sometimes it's amazing, sometimes it's not. But this is creation, there's no doubt.

When you love someone, Alex, is there intention to the love? Is there a reason for the love?

You love them because you need to express. You love them because you need release. You love them because they can love you back and can make you feel better. You love them because you come together to make something. You come together when you need physical release, mental release.

You love them because it's hopeless and you need something to give the hope. A fake hope that helps you out.

That's writing. A need to express.

Something that goes beyond words.

This is what I think, of course. I'm supposing some of this is over your head. I'm guessing I shouldn't even post this, since it's probably going to do nothing for you.

And, you know, when I think about it, I don't want to be published. I write for myself, so I might as well keep it for myself.

As for your thoughts on life. That is what you think and I, as always, respect you and that. Perhaps my perceptions shall turn to yours one day, but at the moment I am more of a naturalist. I sometimes brim on a realist. Sometimes I'm a romanticist. Sometimes I'm an idealist. A pragmatist. What's the difference? I go through a brim of different feelings each day. I can't label it down to one word to describe my entire life's mantra.

I just think that, in the end, life is a waste of time. It's fun when it's fun, but I tend to feel more pain than fun. But sometimes the pain is fun, too. Without the pain there wouldn't be the inert feeling of needing to survive. What a fun feeling, isn't it?

To be honest, the world doesn't care about me. If I fell off of its surface, a bruised smear, it would not remember me.[/color][/size][/QUOTE]
Then keep a diary.

[Mitch]

[size=1][color=red] That's basically what I do. It's called My O. I also have a text file I write in when I need it. But I suppose in My O it's all "rambling" to you, too. Ah well.

I think it's beautiful. You don't have to, and there's no reason for you to. You can just call it "psycho babble" like my dad does.

Cause when I ramble, that's my heart speaking. But that's rambling to you. It's stuff like that that makes me not want to write and not want to say anything, and just go about my way. Why write something when it's "rambling"? That's not what those who consider themselves "professional writers" want. Might as well write simple sentences that're boring to read, and could easily be found in textbooks, and isn't the way I like to write. . .

And if none of you noticed, there's a lot of song references in there. Specifically Pink Floyd (which should be extremly obvious by the posting of that song), and Radiohead. "Outside the Wall" is referenced. "Comfortably Numb" is referenced. "Another Brick in the Wall" is referenced. "The Trial" is referenced. I say "Idioteque" in the piece, which is a song by Radiohead from [i]Kid A[/i].. The ending of the piece is lyrics from Radiohead's "Morning Bell," from [i]Kid A[/i]. "Climbing Up the Walls" is by Radiohead as well, from [i]Ok Computer[/i]. "Evil lives in the ************* pigskin" is from System of a Down's "Soil." Good song. All of them are good songs.

Also, there's mentions to about two poems. "Bruised Smear" was a poem I wrote. The part about "Bruised Smear" isn't in this version, but I added it before I handed this in as my Journalism column today. "Would I were a maggot, sucking most sweet divine," is from a poem of mine titled, "Maggotula Rose."

There's limitless other distinctions I could find. This piece is basically me looking in myself, and that's why it probably doesn't hold together well, and doesn't make much sense, and seems "rambly."

But I think it's good. And that's enough for me, as I said. It's esoteric as it is. Perhaps I'll go about making a "reader-friendly" version of it. Who knows.

Also, then there's the major influence on this piece--[i]The Wall[/i] the movie.

Excellent movie.

Ah, I also want to mention. The Maggot metaphor. That's sort of like an inside joke to me now. It's also my trademark. It may be old, but whenever you see it, I know you go, "Yup, that's Mitch. Same old boring metaphor." :p[/size][/color]

[Brasil]

[QUOTE=Mitch][size=1][color=black] That's basically what I do. It's called My O. I also have a text file I write in when I need it. But I suppose in My O it's all "rambling" to you, too. Ah well. [/color]
[color=black] [/color]
[color=black]I think it's beautiful. You don't have to, and there's no reason for you to. You can just call it "psycho babble" like my dad does. [/color]
[color=black] [/color]
[color=black]Cause when I ramble, that's my heart speaking. But that's rambling to you. It's stuff like that that makes me not want to write and not want to say anything, and just go about my way. Why write something when it's "rambling"? That's not what those who consider themselves "professional writers" want. Might as well write simple sentences that're boring to read, and could easily be found in textbooks, and isn't the way I like to write. . .[/color]
[color=black] [/color]
[color=black]And if none of you noticed, there's a lot of song references in there. Specifically Pink Floyd (which should be extremly obvious by the posting of that song), and Radiohead. "Outside the Wall" is referenced. "Comfortably Numb" is referenced. "Another Brick in the Wall" is referenced. "The Trial" is referenced. I say "Idioteque" in the piece, which is a song by Radiohead from [i]Kid A[/i].. The ending of the piece is lyrics from Radiohead's "Morning Bell," from [i]Kid A[/i]. "Climbing Up the Walls" is by Radiohead as well, from [i]Ok Computer[/i]. "Evil lives in the ************* pigskin" is from System of a Down's "Soil." Good song. All of them are good songs.[/color]
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[color=black]Also, there's mentions to about two poems. "Bruised Smear" was a poem I wrote. The part about "Bruised Smear" isn't in this version, but I added it before I handed this in as my Journalism column today. "Would I were a maggot, sucking most sweet divine," is from a poem of mine titled, "Maggotula Rose." [/color]
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[color=black]There's limitless other distinctions I could find. This piece is basically me looking in myself, and that's why it probably doesn't hold together well, and doesn't make much sense, and seems "rambly." [/color]
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[color=black]But I think it's good. And that's enough for me, as I said. It's esoteric as it is. Perhaps I'll go about making a "reader-friendly" version of it. Who knows.[/color]
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[color=black]Also, then there's the major influence on this piece--[i]The Wall[/i] the movie. [/color]
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[color=black]Excellent movie.[/color]
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[color=black]Ah, I also want to mention. The Maggot metaphor. That's sort of like an inside joke to me now. It's also my trademark. It may be old, but whenever you see it, I know you go, "Yup, that's Mitch. Same old boring metaphor." :p[/color][/size][color=black][/QUOTE][/color]

1) I created psycho-babble here. Don't talk to me about it.

2) If you don't see the importance of what I'm telling you, then go talk to professional writers.

3) Remove yourself from Pink Floyd. Good band, nice message, but you're taking it too far. Floyd's message was "don't be a slave to the system." You're twisting that message into something like, "the system will destroy you and you must fight it." It's cool that you worship a band like that, but you're worshipping them for something they never implied.

Really, you should form your own philosophy, because I have a feeling that all of this displeasure of the world isn't really you. I'm thinking that most of that is from your infatuation with a misinterpretation of Pink Floyd.

4) You know, maybe cause I'm just very exhausted right now, or maybe cause it's the time of year that I can turn my fan on without fear of freezing my butt off, but I really don't care about you. Mitch, you're in for a rude awakening...a very rude awakening. Just don't crash too hard.

[Lady Asphyxia]

[font=Verdana][size=1]Okay, guys. Both of you have had your say. You've both stated your points and your opinions, and I can't honestly see this thread going anywhere but in circles if it were to continue. [/size][/font]
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[font=Verdana][size=1]If you really feel the need to continue this discussion, PM each other, heh. [/size][/font]
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[font=Verdana][size=1]Thread closed.[/size][/font]