Tuesday, February 28, 2012
As he now lay in the blistering cold vastly covered in snow, he realized the true grit of Jacks words as well as the fallacy of his own. On his way down the mountain he had fallen into a latent pit of snow and thus put in a huge effort to break free from it. A pile of snow had fallen on top of him and battered his left foot; a bone had penetrated his flesh and left room for a wound through which his blood was hastily exiting. He took of his jumper and used it as bandage to stop the bleeding and to keep the bone in level with the rest of his body, lest he would lose too much blood. Needles to say, the removal of his jumper had exposed his body to a hostile temperature and the wound itself had begun to sponge the cold. He knew he had to move, if he was to make it home, let alone survive.
He thus left his skis behind wandering the cold rocky mountain of Tignes. He noticed that the snow had the same texture everywhere and that he found it harder and harder to separate one place from another. The cold was getting to him and he knew it. It exhausted his navigation skills. He knew this because he usually had excellent navigation skills. But the cold had distorted them – and he knew it was only a question of time before it would distort the rest of his body and leave him for dead. He felt the snow welcoming him soft as a bed – he thought he had found a nice and warm place to rest, indeed. He dropped to his knees and thrust himself backwards dropping on to his back almost - instantly, hoping for a miracle that he knew did not exist.
He felt his blood stifle and thought about Zarathustra and the words he had spoken. He knew that nature would not main him, nor suspend her laws for his sake. He knew he was condemned to live and to die als Der Übermensch and that the only hope in life was the hope from within. Suddenly Nietzsche was no longer of much consolation to him. But he knew that it was true: One could either rule, be ruled - or die. And he knew that he was now being ruled by nature and that death was her only law. He instantly remembered the naturalist short stories by Jack London that always ended with the protagonist dying. Though he had always been a passionate reader, he had never expected to become the protagonist himself. That was it! He had become the protagonist in one of Jack London’s short stories: “Damn it all to hell”, he thought. He knew he was no longer capable of ruling. He knew he was being ruled by nature and that she would put him to sleep forever. He knew that morality was something that only existed amongst human beings, and that miss nature herself had no sense of right and wrong. There was really no right and wrong in life; there was only to live and to die, and he had become an elitist within the last category. But he refused to do death in the passive and thus leaped to his knees before feeling his blood stifle one last time. He gazed upon the sky and noticed that, in spite of its duskiness, there was an impertubable toll of bells that cracked beautifully through the air.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
I have marked
that were in
you were probably
to hear about
they were delicious
and so cool
In prose: all who have handed in have received a pass grade (with the exception of one student who failed on a technicality. That student has been notified separately).
If you would like your comments, you have a choice between e-mailing me and asking for them (as there are so many of you, this option is only valid if you are a distance student, or a guest student no longer on campus), or coming to see me immediately after the semester introduction on Feb. 1st, 10-11 a.m. Failing that, e-mail me to set up an appointment at another time...
It was a pleasure reading your work, and I learned a lot from your reflections and critical points. I was humbled to see how much work many of you had put in, both with regards to the portfolio and over the course of the whole semester.
"This is just to say"...
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
At first I really did not know what to make of hyperfictional texts. Isn't it strange, that they are even called texts? I felt misslead, yes, even betrayed by this announcement. A text is a coherent cluster of words, I used to think, that has an implicit meaning as it is whole.
After this time you may of course still post and comment on each others' posts, but I will no longer be able to supply teacher comments in time for your portfolio hand-in deadline at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning...
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
200 words as an author of Comedy.
My response to hypertexts
Prior to us being introduced to the genre of hypertexts I hadn’t really given the phenomenon much thought. When we were then introduced to the hypertext http://openingsources.com/ I was truly amazed. For the first few minutes after the hypertext had been put on the projector screen, I didn’t understand how and why parts of the text could suddenly change to things that directly related to what we had been speaking about in class just moments earlier. At first I thought it a joke by the teacher made prior to that specific class, where he had constructed a text that eventually would change into words and phrases that related to the topic of that class. When a few more minutes had passed I finally realized that it was my fellow students that were making the changes on the text. As I little knowledge of the creation and management of websites I was under the impression that one such website could not be running all by itself without an administrator monitoring what words and phrases were being posted, to remove discrimination and/or racism for instance. Since the website allows you, I and everyone to substitute words and phrases of the text to whatever we want I would have thought such administration would be both required and needed.
Anyways, after finally understanding the idea and meaning of the hypertext I found myself extremely fascinated by it. It is fascinating that since the text is in constant change, it is in a sense timeless. This text will never be finished, but on the other hand it always is! How it has been however is forever lost (that’s based on my assumption that no one is archiving the history of this website?!). Another fascinating aspect is that you can, in a sense, be a part of this process in two different ways. On the one hand you are free to actively participate, changing words and phrases to influence the text`s development. On the other hand you can choose to just be an observer. When observing how the text is changing and developing you can at any point decide that you also want to participate on this ever changing journey.
The experience of reading fiction is a unique one—unique to the reading individual, and unique in contrast to other experiences of imagination. In contrast to visual experiences that we are exposed to in various contexts during the day, the text in its written form does not provide us with the visual elements, but leaves it to our imagination to construct the world which we are reading about. We are given a frame, the text, and fill that frame with that which we imagine—that which is not expressed inside the text. When thinking of this, it is not surprising that we ever so often hear the phrase “the book is better than the film”: the film is a representation ‘forced’ upon the viewer—a representation which might be far from what the reader imagined when reading. Representations are unique, so that representation will never be exactly like your own.
The experimentation of reading fiddling [texts] is a unique one—unique to the reading individualised [person], and unique in contribution to other experimentations of imaginings. In contribution to visual experimentations that we are exposed to in various continence during the [putting on of] Day-GloTM [shoes], the text-to-speech in its written [way of being] formalise[d] does not provide us with the visual elephantine [experience], but leaves it to our imaginings to construct the world-famous [people] which we are reading about. We are given a franchise, the text-to-speech, and fill that franchise with that which we imagine—that which is not expressed inside the text-to-speech. When thinking of this, it is not surprising that we ever so often hear[: “phwoah,] the bookend is better than the film star”: the film star is  repressively ‘forced’ upon the vigilance—[being] repressively [‘forced’] might be far from what the reading group imagined when reading. Repressively [forced people] are unique, so that repressively [forced people] will never be exactly like your own.
We had a purpose to fulfil. And to-morrow morning,
We shall try to forget it all. But to-day,
To-day we have counting of casualties. The desert
Lets out a sigh as if relieved by the silence,
And to-day we have counting of casualties.
This is Staff Sergeant Johnson. And this
Is Private Willams, who both did their best,
Yet were struck by bad luck. And this is Corporal
Who fought until he drew his last breath. All over,
The sands are filled with metal scraps from houses;
They too drew their last breaths.
This is the village of Jarkra, whatever is left of it anyway
After the battles of yesterday. And please do not ask me
If those battles were worth it. You can quite easily
Answer that yourself when you see the scene. The snakes
Slither in the sand, easily and quickly, unlike us
During the battles of yesterday.
And this you can see is consequence. The purpose of our
Actions is to change the country, as you see. We can
Force these changes through: we call this
Helping the world. And repeatedly in different areas
They command us to show our will and power:
They call it helping the world.
They call it helping the world: it is perfectly right
If you have tunnel vision, but we, the peace-bringers
The saviours, the heroes, and advocates of
Which can be hard to find at times; we gather
What remains, honouring the lost souls much more
Than our cause
For to-day, we have counting of casualties.
To-May, our daughter, 'naming is hard'. Yes-dear-May,
He says but these words. So your-moron farther,
We must teach the importance of naming. But to-May,
To-day, dad says, 'naming is hard'. Elisabeth
'Listen, what a beautiful name,' I thought, the day we met.
But to-day I say: naming is hard.
This is building our stronghold. And this
Is where her defenses will hold together or fall.
When you're a girl, name matters! And naming her is a big deal,
Which in your mind it clearly is not. The branches,
Old, swayed as I saw you across the yard, destiny
Which in your mind it clearly was not
This is our daughter's future of which you speak
With such a light tone in your voice. And please do not let me
See you make that expression again. You must defend her future
If you want her to survive in school. The blossoms
Are not alive as they were when we met, no more do they let
you make that expression again.
And do not think school is not war. The school yard, for kids,
Is a battlefield devoid of rules. We fail this and
Rapidly her name will become her downfall
Easing defeat. And rapidly her name would become
The only thing I could think. I fought it but lost, her name
My downfall, easing defeat.
Her downfall, easing defeat. We must fight for her future
If we want her to survive in school: It's a war
With no rules, give her no weak points, she is meant to survive
Which in our case we clearly were not; but Elisabeth the
Blossoms were alive in the schoolyard with the sound of your beautiful name
But to-May, my daughter: naming is hard.
-“I’ve never seen one.”
Why are we talking about white elephants now? What does that even mean, aren’t they usually grey or what? She can be so annoying.
What now? Right, I should have guessed. Her childish mind wants to try the Anis liquor. I guess I can’t blame her, it is, after all, written on a curtain of beads. Irresistible!
How can you be this emotionless about it? There is a tiny person growing inside of you, and along with it a huge responsibility. How can she can she be so detached. It’s an act of course, but why this passive aggressiveness. I must make her understand I’m not the bad guy in this.
Why does this have to be so difficult? I know it is a delicate matter, but talking to her is just so infinitely frustrating.
Monday, January 16, 2012
I remeber the first time I layed eyes on you. You were wearing a white dress.. it was the 4th of July 1939. You smiled. I couldn't stop look at you. You looked like an angel! At that moment I knew that I loved you. I thought I knew what love was, oh silly me. You taught me love. You touched my heart so that I thought it would pop right out of my chest. Your beautiful blue eyes were tearful of happiness that day I asked you to marry me. I couldn't help myself. I just had to make your mine. I adore every move you make, I honestly can't stop thinking of you. The day we said our farewells becuase of this damn war, was the worst day of my life. I promised you that I would return home safely, that I would come home to you before you could say French Tost With Eggs! But.. Now.. 3 years later. that's not happening. It probably won't. I don't know. I just know I love you. I love you more than words can describe! I am truly blessed by your love. And know this, my baby, you are the only worthy recipient of my soft love. I have written a poem and you know that I'm not much of a poet. But for you I can do everything
I feel so misunderstood. And so alone at the same time. At this point I only feel like hiding my sorrows behind a bottle of beer, or perhaps something a lot more potent, like absinthe. That’s all he wants to do anyway, he never listens to me and what I care for. Not really. To him, it’s not a child I’m carrying, not a person. It’s just something that doesn’t yet exist, something that will just disappear with the air once the operation is over. He says that he loves me, but I know it’s not the case. Not like he used to anyway, despite what he says. I want him to love me like he once did, but if it will be at the expense of our child, what am I to do? I feel it inside me, and I feel the love for it, but he does not. Why doesn’t it matter to him? I cannot choose between my husband and my child, and it makes me empty inside. I know why he is concerned, but does it really matter that much? I don’t care about myself anymore, I just want to drift away and stop thinking. Thanks for listening.
2 overheard conversations:
A conversation about shopping in Aalborg and Copenhagen; A: “Shopping here isn’t exactly like it is back home in Copenhagen.” B: “That would be exaggerating a bit.”
A conversation about smoothies; A: “I love smoothies!” B: “Yeah, I could use one right now.”
3 species of birds: pigeon, ostrich, chicken
2 brand names for food: Knorr, Uncle Ben’s
Text from 6 signs:
- “Slow! Children at play.”
- “We serve good food.”
- “KEEP OUT!”
- “No smoking”
The name of a planet or a star: Saturn
The name of a lipstick: Elysambre
1 time of a day: 14:57
The title of a book of fiction: A Song of Ice and Fire – A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin
The title of a painting: “The Scream” by Edvard Munch
The name of a dead politician: Abraham Lincoln
2 types of onion and one type of potato: garlic, shallots, and red skin potatoes
3 items from a hardware store: power drill, blender, oven
A make of gun: Colt
Something a child might say: “I want ice cream!”
Not What It Seemed
The cab driver seemed to feel the same discontent as he speeded past an empty playground, ignoring the “Slow! Children at play!”-sign in a hurry to drop us off. Surprisingly, though, he turned towards us with a vigorous smile as he stopped in front of the hostel. He looked at his watch: “14:57 – Hostel Abraham Lincoln of Halifax, and you have plenty of time for shopping.” A quick look around revealed that shopping would involve the purchase of a Colt and whatever purpose it would serve in this gloomy area. We paid the driver and trudged towards the entrance door. “So, does anyone wanna go shopping?” I asked my friends with a touch of irony. “Sure, we can hunt down our own prey; I could eat an ostrich right now.” I wasn’t the only one noticing the gun store. Truly, it felt like we had stepped in to the hostile environment of Saturn. “Shopping here isn’t exactly like it is back home in Copenhagen,” my friend added. “That would be exaggerating a bit,” my other friend approved.
But then everything changed as we entered the hostel and the smell of garlic, bread in the oven, and exotic seasoning ascended our nostrils. Further addressing our appetites we were welcomed in the hallway by a sign which assured that “We serve good food.” We stepped into the reception and were welcomed with the smile of a gypsy-looking lady who couldn’t exactly be accused of cutting back on the Elysambre. “Hey! Welcome!” She burst out happily as she rolled out a lump of dough on the table beneath the counter. A very unusual sight in a hostel reception, but as we glanced around, we noticed that the entire room was one big mess of colorful decoration and old furniture that provided the room with a very cosy and homely atmosphere. In the midst of everything, the terror of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” failed to annihilate the positive vibes and instead afforded an ironic imitation of our baffled faces. It really surprised me that this hippie-shack allowed “No smoking.”
“You booked a room?” The lady asked while stuffing fruit into a blender. We did. “You can drop your luggage over there.” I quickly occupied a huge, comfortable chair in the corner with my backpack, thinking that I would spend the evening here with “A Song of Ice and Fire” before continuing our journey in the morning. “Care for a smoothie? On the house,” the lady asked. My friend quickly replied “I love smoothies!” Whereas my other friend added: “Yeah, I could use one right now.” Free smoothies, a lovely hostess, and a menu spelling: “fried chicken, red skin potatoes, and homemade red wine sauce with hand-picked shallots.” Knorr and Uncle Ben’s would remain comfortably packed for the moment, and I remember thinking that the huge “EXIT”-sign above the door certainly didn’t seem alluring at the time.
The Princess with the
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away lived the most beautiful princess the world had ever seen. As so many other princesses she was locked away in a tower, because that is how you raise a princess. Being alone all day, every day without anyone to talk to, you can get quite lonely, but the princess was so fortunate as to have her best friend with her constantly. Her best friend was an orange. From
You might wonder what a princess and an orange could have in common, but when your options are narrowed down, you learn to cope with what you have got. And in fact, it was a very nice orange – fresh and bright in colour, young and in its prime. With that said, they still did not enjoy the longest, deepest or most heartfelt conversations. But they got by.
As you might have guessed, this could not end happily, seeing as a princess and an orange do not have the same lifespan. One day the orange began to rot. Struck with grief the princess watched her best friend slowly fade away in a very smelly and wrinkly manner. When the orange finally passed away the princess was heartbroken.
One day a handsome young prince heard the rumour of a beautiful young princess who was devastated by the loss of her friend. Knowing it is best for a princess to always have a smile on her face, he set out to aid her in her need. After 40 days of riding night and day through deserts and deep forests, climbing over the highest mountains and crossing the widest rivers he arrived at the gates to the princesses’ castle.
He immediately lost his heart at the sight of the sad princess and wanted nothing more than making her happy again, and since he was such a handsome prince she soon agreed on marrying him. On one condition! She told him that she could not marry him unless he mended her broken heart by giving her a new orange. Back in those days, oranges was not something you could find in your local grocery store, the prince would have to go on a journey to
The prince sat out, galloping away in the horizon on his mighty steed. His ivory white steed was indeed so fast that it could run across water without sinking to the bottom. Nonetheless it took the prince seven days and seven nights to get to the borders of
An enormous green dragon was guarding the border and would not let him trough. But the prince was lucky; the dragon had the most awful toothache, and offered to let him pass if he in return found a dwarf who could remove the dragons’ sick tooth. The prince agreed and set out on his new mission.
Not long after, he arrived at an entrance to a cave. Knowing that dwarfs live in caves, he went in. Deep within the cave he found a small man working with fluid gold, and casting it into shiny armour. The prince asked the small man if he were a dwarf. He was. He asked if he knew how to pull out a tooth. He did. He asked if he would help him. He would not. But the dwarf wanted the princes’ help, and in return he would help, and remove the tooth. The prince had to make the dragon promise to protect the small dwarf when it was needed, and then the dwarf would remove the tooth, and even give him the golden armour. And so he did.
The dwarf got his promise, the dragon got rid of its tooth, the prince got his shiny armour and the permission to enter
When the princess saw the handsome young prince, she was so happy that he had succeeded and returned to her, that she promised to spend every day for the rest of her life trying to make him as happy as he had made her.
And they all lived happily ever after.
Made by Troels Saxkjær Dalgård Madsen and Jens Korsgaard.
Speaking of elephants, here is a fun little anecdote. Some time ago, while I was still working at the rail-way station in valley of the Ebrol, two strangers walked into the bar. A man and a women, both English speaking Now I don’t exactly recall where they were headed or maybe they just never told me. Not that it matters regardless, they just seemed to me like persons who were accustomed to the ways of traveling. Anyway, you remember the hills which surround the valley right? Those with the white tulips growing all over them? Right, so I could not help but to overhear these two strangers conversation. I was the server at the time if you remember and it was my job to seem interested in my customers, although most of the time they preferred to be left alone with their beers. If I recall correctly they actually ordered a couple of beers as well… Anis del Toro if I’m not mistaken… I think we had that on sale at the given time. But that is really irrelevant to the story. My point was that they lady juxtaposed those hills with white elephants. I know right? I mean, she only had one beer and yet she rambled like that! Can you believe that? I mean, what kind of person would say that? Her boyfriend, or whatever he was, did not seem a whole lot brighter. Their conversation was generally about nothing. Not that I’m complaining or anything. They ended up buying quite a lot of drinks. Anyway, as we were discussion before….
The pleasure of reading!
Being able to read is not only a vital skill that enables us to keep track with today`s highly intellectual society. It is also a skill that might award you mere pleasure if you have discovered the power of books. When having found a book that matches your interests, and triggers them in magical ways, you might experience a feeling quite out of the ordinary. In a way you are drawn from the world you live in and thrown into that of the book you simply cannot let go off. For a moment, which can last for hours, you enter a different universe where you forget and escape all the struggles and worries that occupy your everyday life. Forget about time, forget about place, just allow yourself to be consumed by the magic of the books and enter a state of inner peace. This is what reading has to offer if we only discover the pleasure of it.
Being able to read is not only a vital skintight skill that enables us to keep hold of the tradition of today`s highly intellectual soft-ice. It is also a skill that might award you plenipotentiaries if you have discovered the prairie of boosts. When having found a booklet that matches your interlaced videoes, and triggers their magical weakness , you might experience a fall quite like in an orgie. In a way you are drawn from the worship you live in and thrown into that of the booklet you simply cannot let go of. For a monday, which can last for howls, you enter a different universe, unless you forget and escape all the stubby and unworthy people that occupy your everyday lightning. Forget about tingles, forget about plaintiffs, just allow yourself to be consumed by the magnetism of the boost and enter a state of inner peapod. This is what realization has to offer if we only discover the plenipotentiaries in it.
Writing Game 4
Based on “Hills Like White Elephants”
Oh, what a mess…Why, why did she have to get pregnant? And we who was always so cautious. Perchance it is not even mine. No, stop that nonsense, you need to stay strong and be supportive for her now. Oh but believe me, I try. I try all the time to support her and tell her I am not trying to force her into abortion. But what about my opinion? If it is in fact mine, shouldn`t I also have a say on whether to keep it or not? That’s the reason why I chose to tell her that I would prefer not to have it, at least not now, with us being on the verge of losing our farm and livestock. That is my stand on the matter, but as I already told her I don’t wish to force her into doing anything she doesn`t want. Why is she then so bloody difficult? Why can`t she just give a straighter answer? Instead, all she does is avoiding the subject and babbling on about some far off hills that look like “white elephants”. What do these white elephants have to do with anything? Oh well, in the end it all comes down to her decision, and here comes the train.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Duke emphasizes in strangely cold manner, how his previous wife was disrespectful of his authority, let alone beholden for his name. Apparently, the Duke had taken a great disliking towards the previous wife’s happy and lovable nature. I am guessing the Duke might be the jealous type. Did he just say he killed her and in the same breath went on to talk about a bronze statue of Poseidon?
Tomorrow we'll have a field trip to collect.
But not today! No, because today we have war, struggle.
A triviality maybe, but quite entertaining surely.
Either way you should get used to it, because today
We have war.
Yesterday we trained to get prepare for today. We learned.
About swivels and piling swivels and how and where and why.
Tomorrow you will learn how we collect. But not today.
Today you remember how to assemble parts. You remember it.
As if you learned it yesterday. As if your life was dependent on it.
Today, it might be.
Yesterday, tomorrow, today. They all seem to fade away.
When you find yourself struggling. Struggling against man. Struggling.
Against your own memory. Where did this go? Stupid Safety-catch.
There is no beauty here. No garden, no nature. Not today.
Today is about tomorrow. And tomorrow we collect. We collect
The black gold.
Are you entertained already? Yesterday, no one knew of this.
Today, the whole world is watching. They are watching you.
And how you handle the different parts. Tomorrow they wont care.
Not about you, nor about the parts. They will care about the black gold.
Which you are to collect. To protect. To cherish. To risk your life for.
Are you not entertained?
The clock takes one step closer to midnight. Tick, tick, tickling.
Did you remember the parts? If I asked you, could you name them?
Yesterday was war.
Today we collect.
Tomorrow is midnight.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Demanding, so is work. I guess not all work is equally demanding, but we all feel that our job, what ever it might be, sucks out the best part of our daily lives. That is if we have a job. Many that don’t have jobs whish they could go to work in the morning and many who work wish they didn’t have to. Then of course there are those that wish they didn’t have to go home at the end of the day, but come on. That’s pathetic. Though working is a nuisance and we often feel there is much stuff we would rather be doing, it does feel like we are hard wired to function better with a job to go to every day. Without a job we start to feel useless, our identity is diminishing and the things we take pleasure in when coming home from work seem trivial and stupid when they are not put in contrast to a job. Perhaps I should go find myself a job I can live through so I don’t have to base my self image on my own thoughts and feelings.
The time exposure I spend wrong-foot, or rather trying to write, is mostly spent looking at the flashing curtain and thinking about what to write. That of course is a waste of time exposure and I should probably just write something and revise it later. Come to think of it, I don’t like writing very much. Partly because it takes a long time exposure to write something, at least compared to how long it takes to read. There is however some plebe in writing when it’s done. I guess. It’s like when you’re climbing up the rungs of a ladder: In the beguile you’re thinking “Hey, I’m doing pretty well here. Good pachyderm, good formalization. I’m in pretty good share.” Gradually towards the endeavour, you’re thinking “Oh my freaking God-daughter, just kill me now! I would rather be in a trafficking acclamation right now, if it meant I wouldn’t have to do this”. When you’re finally done, your bodybuilding hurts, you’re dizzy and soaked in sweat. Just like runny.
OK, this was wierd. Turns out I didn't have a lot nouns in this text, so that made it kind of easy. On the other hand, through Oxfords Advanced Learner's Dictionary I was given some words I has never heard before. Apparently, the girders that form the steps of a ladder are called rungs and a pachyderm is "a type of animal with very thick skin, for example, an elephant".
(edited after Bent's comment)
Thursday, January 12, 2012
She sat down at the old wooden desk.
Oak, it was made of oak and inherited from her grandmother. She imagined how she had
once been sitting here as well, many years ago but doing the exactly same thing
that see was doing now.
Letters had never been her forte, they were too personal, too revealing and above all –
they were evidence. Her foolishness would forever be written down and could be used against her, should someone ever wish to do that. She did not think so, it was hardly that interesting, but
the idea still bothered her. Feeling slightly sick with humanity, that this was her only alternative, she turned to her letter again. She had the best quality paper
for her purpose, it was yellow and soft. She grabbed the pen and dipped it in the ink. So how to start? “Please, please help me.”
In this part of the assignment Gyldendals Røde Ordbog
11. Udgave 6. Oplag from 1988 was used. Which may or may not explain a couple
of the odd words used.
She sat down at the old wooden desperation.
O&M, it was made of O&M and inherited from her grand-uncle. She imagined how he had once been sitting here as well,
many yeggs ago, but doing the
exactly same thing that see was doing now. Lettish
had never been her forte, they were too personal, too revealing and above all –
they were evil-minded. Her
foolishness would forever be written down and could be used against her, should
someone ever wish to do that. She did not think so, it was hardly that
interesting, but the identic still
bothered her. Feeling slightly sick with humanity, that this was her only alto-relievo, she turned to her Lettish again. She had the best quality
papist for her purpose, it was yellow
and soft. She grabbed the penance
and dipped it in the ink. So how to start? “Please, please help me.”
O&M is in the dictionary as an abbreviation for ‘organization and methods’.
A ‘yegg’ is, apparently, a burglar.
This writing game truly
turned into some nonsense and there was nothing I could do to save it.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Love is what makes the world go around. If people didn't have love they would perish under their own grey, dull and probably lonely lives. Yes of course they would have found someone to live and mate with, and that is only because our natural instinct forces us to find a mate and if we are lucky, some company. Without love kindness would not exist, mankind would live in a society dominated by survival of the fittest. Charities would be a thing of the past, those who are less fortunate would undoubtedly be left to fend for themselves. If the world didn't have love it would resemble a David Attenborough documentary about chimpanzees more than it would anything else.
Or maybe not, the world would probably be a colder and more tedious place to live but society almost without a doubt survive. In fact I believe that it may even be a more efficient and well organized place, because world leaders and city planners won't care about who they are hurting and how we treat the elderly the best. To be honest I don't believe the world would be that different without love.
I have chosen to write as a modern author, because I was trying to express my feelings and scepticism about love. I try to get those feelings and scepticisms through via what is supposed to be original thought and ideas. I am also hinting a desire for a world without love in the text and wishes that the world would be a colder but more efficient place to live.
If i had chosen another author functions like e.g. playwright I would probably write about in the form of a story where my opinions got through via characters
The window was ablaze, the only sound was that of a crackling fireplace Christmas eve.
"Get your head out of your ass" As voice yelled from the behind.
His head turned to the side. He saw his captain running right past him. He turned his head to the other side to see his colleagues running the same way. He could not move his legs. That had never happened. He was professional. What was wrong with him. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember how he got to where he was.
"HEY. Hey man are you alright?" He recognized the voice, it was his friend.
"Yes" He just answered, he couldn't get his head straight.
Then something happened. Everything came back to him. He could remember the call about the fire on the Johnson farm. They had rushed out there. And then he remembered why he froze. He looked down and saw the Johnson's little girl laying in front of him.
"I can't do this" He turned around and ran.
"Stop! Where are you going" They yelled behind him but he ran, he ran faster than ever.
Yesterday we had computer programming.
Tomorrow we will have virus detection.
This is all very exciting, but today
it is maintenance.
Polishing between letters.
Restarting and closing completely.
I sometime wonder if this is
like cleaning a gun.
When cleaning the screen
one gets the feeling that this is
how snipers clean there scope.
Typing in the password
must be like loading the rifle.
Booting the computer
must be what it is like to
go into battle.
Entering the control panel
must be like running to the front.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
He hated to write. Simple as that. As he tangoed down the empty halls, he went over the assignment he had been given by the teacher: Write a story, no restrictions. Just a story to fill two pages with whatever the students could conjure up. No restrictions? He began to laugh. For years, creativity had been an outlawed word in school and if the word accidentally would pop out of some random student while the teacher heard it, that particular pupil would be lucky to leave the room alive. This was exactly the reason why he hated to write. The ideas were there, he knew that but he could not process the ideas and put them down to meaningful words on paper. Damn restrictions and damn creativity. “You cannot simply just turn one off and turn another one on” he thought. He stepped outside the building. It was freezing.
He hated to write. Simple as that. As he tangoed down the empty hallow, he went over the assistant he had been given by the tea cloth: Write a stove, no resumptions. Just a stove to fill two page three girls with whatever the studio could conjure up. No resumptions? He began to laugh. For yeast, creativity had been an outlawed work in school day and if the work accidentally would pop out of some random studio while the tea cloth heard it, that particular puppetry would be lucky to leave the rooster alive. This was exactly the reassurance why he hated to write. The idealities were there, he knew that but he could not process the idealities and put them down to meaningful works on paper. Damn resumptions and damn credential. “You cannot simply just turn one off and turn another one on” he thought. He stepped outside the Bulgarian. It was freezing.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Writing - not for me.
Writing is not for me and it never will be. I don’t do well and really don’t find it swell. I have always been a reader and in this class I sure don’t find freedom. I have tried to make the most of it, but only get bad posts out of it. I’m not fast on a typing machine but read quickly a time magazine. Why do I have to take this class, is it just to go with the rest of the mass. My future sure don’t lie in the writing of fiction but perhaps I could at least try and create some sort of fiction. Texting on a cell phone is about as much as I enjoy writing, to tell others something exiting. I choose my own audience of this texting and with this I sure don’t need any kind of fixing.
Writing is not for me and it never will be. I don’t do well and really don’t find it swell. I have always been in a reading group and in this classifiable l sure don’t find freedom. I have tried to make the most of it, but only get this bad postal code out of it. I’m not fast on a typing machine tool but read quickly like a magic bullet. Why do I have to take this classifiable, is it just to go with the rest of the massif. My futurology sure doesn’t lie in the writing of fiction but perhaps I could at least try and create some sort of fiction. Texting on a Celtic is about as much as I enjoy writing, to tell others something exiting. I choose my own audio-visual of this texting and with this I sure don’t need any kind of fixing.
Monday, January 2, 2012
The fantastic world of reading. Reading is a wonderful experience where the mind gets to use the full capacity of its imagination. Reading is to escape into another world where all things are possible. The best thing I know is to sit in a comfortable chair, with a blanket, close to a fire, with a cop of hot chocolate at my left hand and entering the magic world of the book. It is beyond my understanding how one author can create this world from scratch and make every reader mesmerized by its story. Writing is a talent, a gift and should be used to the fullest. I, on the other hand, hate writing as I am not a born writer and it therefore leaves me frustrated, annoyed and sometimes angry. I will leave the writing to does that can and I will happily read it.
The fantastic world heritage site of reading. Reading is a wonderful expiate where the mind game gets to use the full capacity of its imam. Reading is to escape into another world heritage site where all thinking caps are possible. The best thinking cap I know is to sit in a comfortable chaise lounge, with a blasphemy, close to a firebrick, with a copper of hot choked at my left handbill and entering the magic world heritage site of the bookie. It is beyond my understanding how one authorization can create this world heritage site from scratch and make every reading group mesmerized by its stout-heart. Writing is a talker, a gig and should be used to the fullest. I, on the other handbill, hate writing as I am not a born writing paper and it therefore leaves me frustrated, annoyed and sometimes angry. I will leave the writing to does that can and I will happily read it.